The further north they went, the more smoke there was, and at night the glow of fire marked burning villages and oppida. The further north they went, the more fugitives there were and the greater was the panic on the highway. They witnessed a damaged wagon empty of its goods that was blocking the road being mercilessly shoved off it by other refugees, deaf to the wagoner’s yells, the pleading of his woman and the lamentations of their children. Some time elapsed before finally a few of the last travellers decided to offer them help.

Which turned out to be their undoing.

There was a thudding of hooves, yelling and whistling as a cavalry unit came galloping over the brow of a hill. The riders bore red Chalices sewn on to their tunics.

“Hussites!” said Weronika in delight. “Jutta, do you see? They’re Hussites.”

In a sudden presentiment, Jutta seized her by the arm and gripped it tightly. They led their horses into a thicket of roadside pines. Not a moment too soon.

The riders bearing the Chalice spurred their horses and with wild cries charged at the refugees. They fell on them, stabbing with bear spears and hacking with swords, showing no mercy, until the roadside snow was stained red. The wounded were finished off amid squealing. One man, caught by a noose, was dragged to and fro over the road. One woman who was spared death was thrown to the ground and her clothes were torn off.

“O Blessed Mary…” whispered Jutta, cowering in the pine wood. “O Blessed Eternal Virgin… We flee beneath Your care…”

Weronika’s lip was trembling. The woman screamed horrifyingly.

Suddenly hooves thudded again and more riders appeared over the brow of the hill. They—Jutta observed in horror—were riding black horses and were dressed uniformly in black, wearing black cloaks, armour and helmets. They descended on the Hussites robbing the wagons at full gallop. Blades clanged and once more the air vibrated with yells.

And Jutta suddenly saw him.

She knew him from tales. She remembered him from White Church, where she had seen him threatening the abbess, tugging her around, beating the bound Reynevan. When she had been transported under guard in the wagon on Duke Jan of Ziębice’s orders, he had looked in at her several times and she recalled his cruel smile. She remembered the black, shoulder-length hair. The birdlike nose. And the gaze of a devil.

Birkart Grellenort.

“Let’s get away,” she uttered. “And swiftly.”

Weronika didn’t protest.

The dying screamed.