Hooves thudded on the Žitava highway as a mounted messenger flashed past beside a wagon, throwing up a large cloud of dust. But the woodcutter Hunsruck managed to see the rider’s face twisted in fear for a split second. He knew at once what was happening.

“Jorg!” he shouted to his son. “Fly home through the trees! Tell mother to pack our belongings! We’re fleeing! The Czechs are coming!”

The bells in the Churches of the Holy Cross and Saints Peter and Paul sounded the alarm. Boots thudded, iron clanked, captains shouted. The town was preparing its defence.

“The patrols are coming first,” reported Sir Anzelm of Redern after returning from his reconnaissance. “Behind them is a mounted detachment of at least three hundred horse. Following the cavalry marches a great force of around six, seven thousand, with more than two hundred wagons. There are no siege engines.”

“And thus they won’t strike the town,” said Lutpold Uechteritz, the Starosta of Žitava in relief. “Zgorzelec and its walls may also sleep soundly, I believe. But towns, castle settlements and villages will take a pounding. Some for a second time.”

“In Ostritz,” said Venantius Pack, the Franciscans’ abbot, wringing his hands, “they have only just begun laying shingles on the fresh rafters… The Cistercian convent is still in ruins… Bernstadt still has not risen from its ashes…”

“Will we permit it?” called young Kaspar Gersdorf, heatedly. “Won’t we leave the walls to fight? Meet them in the field?”

Ulrik of Biberstein, Lord of Frydland and Żary, merely snorted contemptuously. Starosta Uechteritz looked the youngster in the eyes.

“There’s seven thousand of them,” he said coldly. “With what will you face them in the field, laddie?”

“With the name of God on my lips! By God, I’ll take my men!”

“I’m not stopping you.”

“If you permit, I will also leave Žitava. With my men.”

Lutpold Uechteritz looked back. And swallowed.

It was Birkart Grellenort, the Bishop of Wrocław’s emissary. Tall, slim, black-haired and dressed in black. Avian eyes, an evil smile. And the look of a devil.

“Go,” he said, nodding in assent. “Go, M’Lord Grellenort.”

Far away, he added in his thoughts. And don’t come back. Neither you or nor your hellish horsemen.

Reynevan detected magic. He was able to sense it. It turned out he hadn’t lost that useful skill.