“Because he enjoyed it.” The renegade scowled. “But in general, he wanted the suspicion to fall on others. Or to make people afraid that an unclean power was killing the merchantmen. Once, in 1425, after the Feast of Our Lady of the Snow, Grellenort commanded us to kill the master of the leathermakers’ guild in Nysa—I forget his name—then ride swiftly to Świdnica and kill the merchant Neumarkt. At the same time, he, Grellenort, killed a certain Pfefferkorn by his own hand in the vestibule of the church in Niemodlin, and soon after the knight Albrecht Bart, near Strzelin. Well, and the common folk believed it was the Evil One’s doing or that he was in league with the Devil. And that was the point.”

“Grellenort brought ten Riders to the Battle of Stary Wielisław,” said Horn. “Apart from you, who fled like a coward, none survived that battle. How many are left at Sensenberg?”

“I didn’t flee and I’m not a coward,” said Bruno Schilling, unexpectedly reacting angrily. “I abandoned Grellenort because I’d been planning to do so for a long time and was waiting for my chance. For I’ve had enough of all those crimes. For I feared divine retribution. For Grellenort made us call out ‘Adsumus’ and ‘Veni ad nos.’ And we did. We cried as we killed: ‘In nomine Tuo!’ And when the ganja wore off fear would seize me. Fear of God’s retribution for blasphemy. And I decided to leave him… Leave him and atone… I am not absolutely evil to my core…”

He’s lying, thought Reynevan and his mind’s eye was suddenly filled with visions, clear and brutally vivid visions. A stifled scream, blood, the glow of fire reflected in a blade, Schilling’s contorted face reflected in polished steel, his cruel laugh. Blood again, gushing in streams onto the stirrups and the pointed iron sabatons set in them, fire again, laughter again, foul curses, swords slashing the hands of people clinging to a window belching heat and flames.

He’s lying. Reynevan shuddered. Lying. He is utterly and completely evil. Only men like that are attracted by Sensenberg and Grellenort’s spells.

“You’re lying, Schilling,” Horn said unemotionally. “But I wasn’t asking about that. How many Riders are left in Sensenberg?”

“Ten at most. But Grellenort will soon have as many as he needs at his disposal. If he doesn’t already. He has ways and means.”

“What are they?”

The renegade opened his mouth, intending to say something, but stammered. He glanced at Reynevan and then his eyes darted away.

“He draws people, m’Lord Horn. He attracts them to himself… Lures them, like… Aye… Like…”

“Like a moth to a flame?”

“Exactly.”