“We’ll pause here,” he said, panting, “and stand still. To avoid attracting attention. They’re like predatory animals. They react to movement. And the smell of fear. If we don’t move, they won’t even notice us.”

So they stood. Unmoving. Like statues. In the midst of Hell.

The town hall fell, the defence was breached, a yelling horde of attackers forced its way inside.

Amid the hellish wailing, people began to be thrown out of the windows, into the street, right in front of the waiting clubs and axes. Pike blades pinned to the wall a dozen living and half-dead people who had been dragged out. The dying were trampled underfoot and torn to pieces. Blood flowed in rivers, foaming in the gutters.

The streets were as bright as day from the fire. The town hall was aflame and the carved Death in the tympanum seemed to come alive in the flickering glow, grinning, snapping its jaws and brandishing its scythe. The houses on the town square’s eastern frontage were ablaze, the shambles behind the town hall was on fire, the cloth hall was burning, an inferno was consuming the workshops of Walloon weavers and the wealthy stalls on Mary Street. Flames danced on the façade and roof of Saint Blaise’s Hospital, devouring the beams, joists and roof timbers. Outside the hospital, the pile of corpses grew as more and more bodies were tossed onto it. Blood-soaked bodies. Lacerated bodies. Mutilated beyond recognition. The corpses were dragged through the town square by ropes tied around their necks and limbs. They were dragged towards the wells. The wells were already full to overflowing. Legs protruded from them. And arms. With fingers outspread, raised, as though calling for vengeance for the crime.

“Yea…” said Elencza, moving her numb lips with difficulty. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death… For Thou art with me.”

She was still squeezing Reynevan’s hand and felt his hand clenching into a fist. She glanced at his face. And swiftly looked away.

Drunk with fury and murder, the mob danced, sang, leaped and shook spears with heads stuck on their blades. They kicked heads around the street, tossed them around like balls. Laid them down as homage, as an offering before a group of horsemen standing in the town square. The horses, smelling blood, snorted, stamped and jangled their horseshoes.

“You will have to absolve me, Bishop,” said one of the horsemen grimly, a long-haired man in a cloak, flashing gold and silver embroidery. “I guaranteed the Czechs safety with my ducal word of honour. I promised them sanctuary. Gave my oath.”