“There’s a town up ahead,” said Weronika, pointing. “The refugees say it’s Plauen. Most of them are fleeing there. They say the only safe place is within its walls. What do you think, Jutta? You don’t want to head north and meet the Hussites any longer, do you? We aren’t trying to make contact with them now. Perhaps it’s for the best. I’ve seen for myself how contact with them ends.”

“I won’t travel north for anything,” said Jutta, shuddering at the recollection. “Grellenort is there. Anything but him. I want to stay away from him. As far away as possible.”

“Isn’t Plauen far enough away? Aren’t we going to stay here?”

“No,” said Jutta, shuddering at a sudden vague foreboding. “Not here, Weronika. Please.”

“As you wish, it’s your decision. We’ll see if it’s the right one.”

There had once been a village on the snow-covered terrain; the remains of clay chimneys stuck up and black squares of scorched ground indicated where the cottages and sheds had once stood. At the edge of the burned-out village sat several ragged peasants of various ages and both sexes. They sat motionless like dolls, like roadside carvings of saints. Their eyes were unseeing and vacant.

“It’s a hideous thing,” said Rixa in the silence. “A hideous thing, war in the wintertime. Der böse Krieg, they call it. If they burn your cottage down in the summer at least the forest can feed you, leaves give some protection against the cold and you can gather food from the fields. But in winter you’re doomed. Waging war in the winter ought to be banned.”

“I’m with you there,” said Scharley, nodding. “I hate taking a shit in a frost.”

“Look there!” called Weronika. “What’s that?”

“Where?”

Weronika rode up to the roadside shrine and tore off a slip of paper nailed to it.

“Take a look.”

“‘Fratres et sorores in fide, blah, blah, blah,’” read Jutta. “‘Do not believe the loathsome priests or your masters… Recant your obedience to your King Sigismund, for he is no king but a scoundrel and desolator Christi fidelium, non exstirpator heresum, sed spoliator ecclesiarum omnium, non consolator, sed depredator monachorum et virginum, non protector, sed oppressor viduarum et orphanorum omnium…’ It’s a Hussite pamphlet; I’ve seen them before. It’s aimed at the literate, which is why it’s in Latin.”

“Hussite emissaries are clearly abroad,” said Weronika, with emphasis. “If we happen upon them…”

“Of course,” Jutta guessed. “The emissary must know Reynevan, must have heard of him, at least. If we ask him, he’ll take us to the Hussite commanders, protect us from marauders… But where can we search for him?”

“Where there are people. In a town.”