The renegade seized the jerkin of the rider who was leading him and dragged him to ground. The mercenary, a huge fellow, resisted, pushed Schilling away and lunged at him with a knife. Schilling avoided the thrust with a slight twist of his torso, then with a sudden movement of his shoulder bent the soldier’s arm and pushed his shoulder forwards, shoving the attacker’s knife into his own throat. He quickly cut the cords binding his wrists on the blade of a battleaxe hanging from the saddle, mounted the horse and spurred it to a gallop.

And would have escaped had it not been for the hunting crossbow with the German lever, made in Nuremberg, exported to Krakow and taken to Odry in Moravia where Scharley bought it from a Polish arms smuggler for the quite reasonable sum of four Hungarian ducats. Reynevan rested the stock against the fence, calmly aimed and fired. Pierced in the rump, the horse squealed and kicked wildly, Schilling flew from the saddle as though from a slingshot and into a pile of wet sawdust. Reynevan was on him with a knife drawn from his bootleg. The renegade leaped up like a cat and flashed his own blade. They came together in a series of cuts, thrusts and blows.

Schilling unexpectedly lunged, jumped forward and jabbed Reynevan in the eyes with stiffly splayed fingers. Reynevan saved his sight by twisting his head and dodged a wide, sweeping cut. He parried the next slash, sparks spraying around. Schilling kicked him, at the same time making to stab from above. Reynevan managed to shield himself, but it was a feint. The renegade turned his knife around in his hand and slashed him in the thigh. The sharp stab of pain befuddled Reynevan for a moment. Which was enough for Schilling. He spun around smoothly and slashed Reynevan’s arm.

“You escaped with your life in February because I was indisposed,” he hissed, bent forwards. “But I recovered.”

“You’ll soon be indisposed again.”

“Back then I only nicked your ear. This time I’ll bleed you like a pig. As I did your brother.”

They fell on each other, cutting and thrusting. Reynevan parried a nasty thrust, elbowed Schilling in the face, punched him again from a half-turn, kicked him in the shin, twisted his knife around and stabbed from above with all his might. There was a crunching sound and the blade plunged in up to the cross guard. The renegade struggled and jumped clear. He looked down at the hilt stuck in beside his collar bone. He seized it and pulled it out of the wound with one fluid movement. And tossed it over his shoulder.

“It didn’t hurt a bit, ha ha,” he said cheerfully. “And now I’ll filet you. I’ll pull out your guts and wrap them around your neck. And leave you like that.”