On the dolphin’s back, in the stone circle of the dried-up fountain where a dainty girl in a white dress had sat just a moment ago, an enormous black bat flattened its glossy body, opening its long, narrow jaws wide, revealing rows of needle-like white teeth. The membranous wings spread and flapped silently, and the creature charged at the witcher like an arrow fired from a crossbow.
Geralt, with the metallic taste of blood in his mouth, shouted a spell and threw his hand, fingers spread in the Sign of Quen, out in front of him. The bat, hissing, turned abruptly, then chuckled and veered up into the air before diving down vertically, straight at the nape of the witcher’s neck. Geralt jumped aside, slashed, and missed. The bat, smoothly, gracefully drew in a wing, circled around him and attacked anew, opening its eyeless, toothed snout wide. Geralt waited, sword held with both hands, always pointed in the creature’s direction. At the last moment, he jumped—not to the side but forward, dealing a swinging cut which made the air howl.
He missed. It was so unexpected that he lost his rhythm and dodged a fraction of a second too late. He felt the beast’s talons tear his cheek, and a damp velvety wing slapped against his neck. He curled up on the spot, transferred the weight of his body to his right leg and slashed backward sharply, missing the amazingly agile creature again.
The bat beat its wings, soared up and glided toward the fountain. As the crooked claws scraped against the stone casing, the monstrous, slobbering snout was already blurring, morphing, disappearing, although the pale little lips which were taking its place couldn’t quite hide the murderous fangs.
The bruxa howled piercingly, modulating her voice into a macabre tune, glared at the witcher with eyes full of hatred, and screamed again.
The sound wave was so powerful it broke through the Sign. Black and red circles spun in Geralt’s eyes; his temples and the crown of his head throbbed. Through the pain drilling in his ears, he began to hear voices wailing and moaning, the sound of flute and oboe, the rustle of a gale. The skin on his face grew numb and cold. He fell to one knee and shook his head.
The black bat floated toward him silently, opening its toothy jaws. Geralt, still stunned by the scream, reacted instinctively. He jumped up and, in a flash, matching the tempo of his movements to the speed of the monster’s flight, took three steps forward, dodged, turned a semi-circle and then, quick as a thought, delivered a two-handed blow. The blade met with no resistance… almost no resistance. He heard a scream, but this time it was a scream of pain, caused by the touch of silver.
The wailing bruxa was morphing on the dolphin’s back. On her white dress, slightly above her left breast, a red stain was visible beneath a slash no longer than a little finger. The witcher ground his teeth—the cut, which should have sundered the beast in two, had been nothing but a scratch.
“Shout, vampire,” he growled, wiping the blood from his cheek. “Scream your guts out. Lose your strength. And then I’ll slash your pretty little head off!”
You. You will be the first to grow weak, Sorcerer. I will kill you.
The bruxa’s lips didn’t move, but the witcher heard the words clearly; they resounded in his mind, echoing and reverberating as if underwater.
“We shall see,” he muttered through his teeth as he walked, bent over, in the direction of the fountain.
I will kill you. I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you.
“We shall see.”
Andrzej Sapkowski, Blood of Elves
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