Reynevan flew out in front of all the others, was the first to attack the Lusatians, the first to knock a foe from the saddle. He cut into their ranks, wielding his sword like a madman. Scharley was fighting right beside him, smiting with his falchion, with Samson on the other side, striking with his goedendag, knocking over riders and their mounts. The Tábor cavalry, although more lightly armoured and smaller in number, had the advantage of momentum and surprise. And ferocity. Blows rained down on the stunned Lusatians as the deafening boom of armour being hewn rose above the battle cries and the screams of the wounded.

Sir Jan Zmrzlík, the Lord of Orlík, outdid all his subordinates in his bravado and warcraft. He forced his way into the Lusatian ranks and raged terribly, though methodically, hacking to the right and left with a battleaxe. Breastplates and shields cracked like clay pots beneath his precisely aimed blows, spaulders were dented, rerebraces riven, and split sallets and bloodied hounskulls flew yards up in the air. The Lusatians began to retreat and flee before the terrible warrior and on seeing it, others also began to run away. Particularly since battle cries were now resounding from the ford as the first Taborites to cross came rushing to their aid.

But no one came to help the Lusatians. This didn’t escape Zmrzlík’s attention.

“Have at them!” he roared. “Kill them, kill them! Don’t let them flee!”

His voice, although loud, was lost among the clanging and uproar. But they fell on the Lusatians in any case. Until the latter began to retreat in large numbers. Finally, to start running away in panic. Some of the Hussites gave chase, the rest killed off those who remained and were crammed into small, tight groups, defending themselves desperately. The fiercest and most effective resistance was being put up by one group, commanded by a knight in full armour on a barded horse.

“Heretics, curs!” howled the knight from under his sallet’s raised visor, brandishing a large sword to the left and right. “Here! Come on! I challenge you to single combat, one against one! Who will meet me? Come here, one of you!”

Scharley rode over to Reynevan and pushed into his fist the “treacherous” hand cannon, fuse glowing.

“Go on,” he panted out, “since he’s asking.”

Reynevan wiped blood and sweat from his eyes. He trotted over, raised the harquebus and shot the knight straight in the face. That sufficed.

“Have mercy!” said the Lusatians, laying down their weapons one after the other. “Mercy! We surrender!”

“Don’t kill any high-ranking officers!” yelled Předbor of Pohořílek, wounded and swaying in the saddle. “Bind them! Remember the ransom—”

He choked, unable to utter anything else.