“I have too,” said Rusty. “It’s a witcher. A mutant. That would explain why he lived so long… Was he your comrade-at-arms, men? Or did you bring him here by chance?” “He was our comrade, Mr. Medic,” confirmed another volunteer gloomily, a beanpole with a bandaged head. “From our squadron, a volunteer like us. Eh, he was a master with a sword. They called him Coën.” “And he was a witcher?”
