“Baszom az anyat! I fuck your mother! I fuck your world! I fuck your mother, the fucking whore!”

“Dammit,” said Urban Horn, hunching over in the saddle. “I’m bleeding. My stitches have burst from all this exertion.”

“Mine have, too,” said Reynevan, feeling his thigh and looking back. “I’ll sort it out, I have instruments and medicines with me. But first of all, let’s get away.”

“Let’s get away,” agreed Horn. “As far away as possible. Farewell, town of Odry. What will become of us, comrade? Will you ride with me to Sovinec?”

“No. I’m returning to Silesia. Have you forgotten? My damsel, Guinevere, is in distress.”

“Then rescue her, Lancelot. And the evil kidnapper, Maleagant, ought to get his just desserts. To horse.”

“To horse, Horn.”

They galloped away.

Chapter Twelve

In which the woman smelling of rosemary offers to help and cooperate with Reynevan, as a result of which matters take a sudden turn for the worse. The situation is saved by a legend which—like a Deus ex machina—suddenly emerges from a wall.

Not far from the school, opposite the building of the Knights Hospitaller commandery, a fellow in a black mantle, with long, straggly shoulder-length hair, was standing on a low wall in order to be higher than the crowd gathered in front of him.

“Brothers!” he shouted, gesticulating energetically. “The Antichrist has manifested himself! Accompanied by signs and false miracles! He is the prophesied killer of saints, who sits like a tyrant in the city of seven hills! Satan’s representative and leader of Satan’s minions governs in Rome, defiling the Holy See! Indeed, do I tell you: the Roman Pope is the Antichrist! An abomination sent by Hell!”

The small crowd of listeners grew and closed in. The faces of the listeners were grim; grim was their silence, evil, weighty: like the grave. This was strange, since this type of performance—quite commonplace in recent times—was usually accompanied by laughter, cheers and cries of approval, along with whistles and insults.

“What are the Roman Church and the damned clergy today?” called the long-haired man in excitement. “They are a conspiracy of apostates and swindlers, driven only by avarice. A gang of malefactors rolling around in filth and debauchery, satiated on wealth, power, honours, attired in a semblance of sanctity and a mask of religion, making an outrageous tool of the holy name of God, an instrument for its misrule. It is the Whore of Babylon attired in crimson, drunk on the blood of martyrs!”

“Well, well,” said an alto voice as soft as satin behind Reynevan. “A gang of malefactors. A drunken whore. Who’d have thought that things would come to this. Truly, a time of great changes has dawned.”