‘Come out,’ repeated Geralt. ‘I won’t hurt you.’
‘Not one hair on your head will fall,’ Zoltan assured in a sweet voice, but with a bloodthirsty look in his eyes, as he reached over his shoulder to grab Sihil. ‘There is nothing to worry about.’
Geralt shook his head and with a determined gesture order him back. From the hole below the dolmen, came the sound of scratching again and the strong sent of herbs and roots. After a minute they saw grey-streaked hair followed by a noble face with an impressively crooked nose, which did not belong to a ghoul, but a thin middle-aged man. Percival was not mistaken. The man did in fact look like a tax collector.
‘I can go without fear?’ He asked, lifting his black eyes under shaggy greying eyebrows to Geralt.
‘You can.’
The man scrambled out
