They reached the ford. A signal was given with a pennant and in no time an answer arrived from the right bank. A short while later, the forest on the far bank was teeming with men leading wagons and horses to the ford. And then the final scout returned, the one sent furthest away. Scharley cleared his throat pointedly, looking Reynevan up and down. Samson sighed. Zmrzlík also knew—before the report was given.

“They’re coming! They’re coming, Brother Zmrzlík! A great force!”

“And so it is treachery!” said Předbor of Pohořílek grimly. “We’ve been betrayed!”

“So it would appear,” confirmed Zmrzlík dispassionately, standing up in the stirrups. “Form up!”

“Can we defend the crossing? There are fewer than three hundred of us!”

“It must suffice,” said Zmrzlík, looking down at him. “Battle array!”

They lay in wait, hidden in a pine grove. Only whispers could be heard. Muttered prayers.

“Reynevan?”

“Yes, Scharley?”

“Don’t go looking for death. We’re supposed to be heroes. But not dead ones. Is that clear?”

Reynevan didn’t answer; he was biting his lip.

The fog hanging over the wetlands muffled the sounds; the soft ground deadened the thudding of hooves. First, they heard the neighing of a single horse. Then the clanking of iron. And then at once they saw.

“Four hundred horse at most,” said Zmrzlík in hushed tones. “Fear makes cowards of us all. And they’re marching slowly, sluggishly. As if not to battle…”

“There’s an eagle’s wing in the emblem on the banner,” said Předbor of Pohořílek. “The arms of Sir Hanusz Polenz, Landvogt of Lusatia. Why are there Lusatians here? And why but four hundred of them?”

“It’s the vanguard,” said Zmrzlík. “The Elector of Saxony and all his men must be marching just behind him. When they arrive, they’ll crush Prokop at the ford. We must stop them. Warn them! Sound the trumpet!”

A trumpet blared and along with its first tone a hundred handgonnes and harquebuses rang out. Hidden behind wattle fences and cottages, the marksmen, now dismounted, rained a hail of balls and bolts on the column, wreaking havoc among the Lusatian array. Zmrzlík’s hundred horse fell on the bewildered enemy from the right flank, while another hundred, under Fritzold of Warte, struck from the rear. The marksmen, once again mounted, penetrated the left flank. Mighty cries and clanging filled the field.