After some time, they put the last village behind them—the last sign of human existence—and found themselves in a wilderness, in a Silesia Parsifal didn’t know. Convinced of the absolute triumph of civilisation, he was astonished to see an ancient forest that an axe had never touched. A rocky, barren moor criss-crossed with ravines which for many years no man had set foot on.

And then they saw it. A steep, jagged cliff. And a peak towering above it. On the peak the ruins of a castle, a miniature of a knightly castle from the Holy Land, serrated with battlements.

A winding gorge led to the castle. At its entrance, they were greeted by the sight of what remained of their predecessors. Egbert of Kassel’s scowling face grew white and the battle-hardened armigers also paled. The foot soldiers crossed themselves and some even began to pray out loud. Parsifal closed his eyes. In spite of that he saw it. The sight was etched into his consciousness.

The entrance to the ravine was almost completely blocked by a huge pile of bones. By no means lying pell-mell.

Someone had taken the trouble to compose a welcoming gateway, something like a triumphal arch, out of skulls, pelvises, femurs and shinbones intertwined with ribs. A sickening odour testified to the fact that the construction was constantly being extended; some elements had been added recently.

The horses resisted, beginning to snort, struggle and stamp their hooves. There was no choice; they had to leave them. The dismounted unit set off through the ravine. Lord Kassel ordered four soldiers to guard the four tethered horses. Under the command of the esquire. And Parsifal of Rachenau.

In this way, Parsifal of Rachenau, formally an active participant in the capture of Sensenberg, didn’t see any of the actual capture. In particular, he missed the sight of the gruesome death of three soldiers bespattered by Greek fire from a magical booby trap in the castle gate. He didn’t see Horn’s mercenaries massacring four Black Riders in the courtyard after a heavy fight. Or the Inquisitor’s men, who forced their way into the alchemic laboratory, being attacked by a monstrous dwarf, gnome or other fiend, hurling flasks of caustic acid at them. Or the beast itself being burned alive in turn when flaming brands were tossed at it.

Parsifal didn’t see the fierce battle that the last five Riders waged with Kassel and the Kopaniec armigers, fighting a rearguard action in the knightly hall. He didn’t see them finally slaughtered, literally hacked to pieces. He didn’t see the blood splashing the walls and the frescos on them: Jesus, falling for the second time under the cross, Moses with the stone tablets, Roland in his battle against the Saracens, Godfrey de Bouillon riding into Jerusalem. And Percival, kneeling before the Holy Grail.