“I must… I have to confess something to you… To you and Samson… Something has happened…”

Scharley grew serious at once and looked around.

“Come with me.”

They listened to him in their quarters, chewing roast turnip, a large store of which they had gathered. After he finished, they said nothing for a long while. Samson sighed several times, spreading his arms in a gesture of resignation. But without saying a word. Scharley was thinking hard.

“Well,” he said finally, his mouth full of turnip. “I understand you, Reinmar, for in your shoes I’d have done the same. The thing with life is that blood is thicker than water. I praise your choice. You did what was right in the given situation. What was right.”

Samson sighed and shook his head. It didn’t bother the penitent. He swallowed some turnip.

“You did right,” he repeated. “And they will probably hang you for it, for that is usually the fate of people who do right.”

A moment later, he added, “There are two ways of getting out of this predicament. But since you don’t want to run away, only one remains. We must become heroes. I even know where, when and how.”

Dawn was breaking over the Mulda, which was murky with fog. The swollen waters churned in whirlpools; waves broke over the banks. A haze rose from the water.

From the foggy wetlands emerged a unit of soldiers, at least three hundred horse. It was being led by Jan Zmrzlík of Svojšín, Lord of Orlík Castle, wearing full armour covered in a short tunic decorated with his well-known and celebrated coat of arms, three red bars on a silver field. He was followed on his right by Předbor of Pohořílek, a Moravian, and on his left by Fritzold of Warte, a Helvetian mercenary from the canton of Thurgau.

Jan Zmrzlík reined his horse around, turned to face his army and for a while appeared to be about to exhort them with a speech. But all that needed to be said had already been said. About God. About the cause. About sacrifice. About the mission. And about what was riding on the unit. On them.

The fate of the entire army and the entire operation depended on them, on the unit. They were to cross the Mulda, reconnoitre the left bank, march swiftly to Kössern and capture the ford. And hold it. Protect the crossing. At all costs.

“Keep close to me and Samson in the river,” said Scharley, nudging Reynevan with his knee. “That water looks vile.”

“Time to begin,” said Jan Zmrzlík, beckoning. “May God be with us, brothers!”