Falwick and Tailles, accompanied by a company of the duke's guards bar Geralt's way as he rides into town. Geralt is going to have to duel Tailles, like it or not.
The witcher sincerely doubts that. For one, he's perfectly capable of slaughtering every guard present. More to the point, the guards damned well know this, and will run the moment he draws steel, with Falwick and Tailles heading the retreat.
Dennis Cranmer, the dwarven captain of the guard, would beg to differ.
Whether or not anyone else present will run from an armed witcher, he's been given a task by the duke, and isn't in the habit of fleeing.
Fine. Geralt will face Tailles, armed with a borrowed, heavy blade. Oh, and if he dares lay a finger on a knight of the White Rose, he will be arrested and handed over to the order for punishment. Falwick advises the witcher to take his maiming and be glad if that's as far as matters go.
After a few dodges that make Tailles lose his rhythm, Geralt simply slams his blade against Tailles' just as the knight's sword is held against his own face.
(The story doesn't mention Geralt wearing a blindfold, but illustrators apparently think the Hexer series is actually a good source of inspiration).
Tailles is left with a scar across the entirety of his face.
Falwick orders the guards forward, but Cranmer stops them. After all, Geralt never actually struck the esteemed knight. (Parenthetically, the White Rose knights might try being a bit less racist when they need the cooperation of a non-human).
'Cranmer!' roared Falwick, tearing his sword from the ground, 'you'll be sorry for this, I swear!'
The dwarf turned around, slowly pulled the axe from his belt, coughed and spat into his palm. 'Oh, Count, sir,' he rasped. 'Don't perjure yourself. I can't stand perjurers and Prince Hereward has given me the right to punish them. I'll turn a deaf ear to your stupid words. But don't repeat them, if you please.'
'Witcher,' Falwick, puffing with rage, turned to Geralt. 'Get yourself out of Ellander. Immediately. Without a moment's delay!'
'I rarely agree with him,' muttered Dennis, approaching the witcher and returning his sword, 'but in this case he's right. I'd ride out pretty quick.'
'We'll do as you advise.' Geralt slung the belt across his back. 'But before that I have words for the count. Falwick!'
The Knight of the White Rose blinked nervously and wiped his palms on his coat.
'Let's just go back to your Chapter's code for a minute,' continued the witcher, trying not to smile. 'One thing really interests me. If I, let us say, felt disgusted and insulted by your attitude in this whole affair, if I challenged you to a fight on this very spot, what would you do? Would you consider me sufficiently worthy to cross blades with? Or would you refuse, even though you knew that by doing so I would take you to be unworthy even to be spat on, punched in the face and kicked in the arse under the eyes of the foot soldiers? Count Falwick, be so gracious as to satisfy my curiosity.'
Falwick grew pale, took a step back, looked around. The soldiers avoided his eyes. Dennis Cranmer grimaced, stuck his tongue out and sent a jet of saliva a fair distance.
'Even though you're not saying anything,' continued Geralt, 'I can hear the voice of reason in your silence, Falwick, sir. You've satisfied my curiosity, now I'll satisfy yours. If the Order bothers Mother Nenneke or the priestesses in any way, or unduly intrudes upon Captain Cranmer, then may you know, Count, that I'll find you and, not caring about any code, will bleed you like a pig.'
Geralt and Dandelion say goodbye to Nenneke before leaving with some alacrity. Iola fetches his elixirs and healing supplies. As she hands them over, their hands briefly touch, and they get a shared vision of the future. A vision of Geralt's (?) death, in terrible agony.
He's seen it before. There's no point in looking over his shoulder as he rides away.
A plot thread that's really more relevant to the first game, where the knights of the White Flaming Rose play a greater part.
All things considered, it rather seems like most witchers meet an ugly and violent demise, so seers really should have learned that by now.