Two Riders grabbed Jutta by the hands and arms and lifted her up so that she was suspended, her toes barely touching the ground. Douce of Pack tore open her jerkin and blouse, uncovered her neck and seized her by the hair behind her neck. The Wallcreeper approached and took from his cloak a flat, elongated box. Jutta was close to fainting from fear and was unable to utter a sound, her throat tight with dread. But when she saw what the Wallcreeper was taking from the box she screamed. She screamed hysterically and struggled in the hands gripping her.

The object he took from the box was a desiccated hand. It was small, like a child’s, but with inhumanly long fingers ending in hooked claws. The hand’s dry skin was covered in small holes, resembling tiny molehills. They were left by the maggots that had hatched in the rotting tissue and completely devoured it, leaving the bones covered in withered skin and criss-crossed with tendons. Although it was mummified, the hand still stank repulsively of rotting flesh.

The Wallcreeper approached. Jutta felt the overwhelming desire to faint. But could not. She looked on, hypnotised.

“Per nomen Baal-Zevuv, dominus scatophagum,” intoned the Wallcreeper, raising the hand and bringing it close to her face. “Per nomen Kuthulu, Tsadogua et Azzabue! Per effusionem sanguinis!”

He scratched her neck with a dry claw. Drawing blood. She tried to scream but only managed to croak. He scratched her again. And again.

“Iä! Azif!”

A strange, hissing murmur, a susurration and a chirrup resounded, like hundreds of insects rustling their wings. The horror made even some of the Black Riders step back. The Wallcreeper brought the hand close to Jutta’s face.

“Adiungat Yersinia tibi pestilentiam!”

He gave a sign for her to be released. She fell softly, quite limp. And a moment later contorted in a fit of vomiting.

He looked down at her for a while. Then beckoned to his men.

“It is done,” he said. “Let us go… What is happening?”

“Hussites!” One of the Riders galloped over from the wattle fences. “A large troop! They’re close!”

“Hide,” shouted the Wallcreeper, pointing at the barn and the sheds. “We’ll sit it out. Make sure the horses don’t neigh.”

The wind blew, the windmill on the hillock creaked, its sails revolving.

Children, let us sing to God,

Honour Him and sing His praises

A cavalry unit, two hundred and fifty armed men with the Chalice on their breastplates, rode by in a column along the road near the deserted village. At the head was Jan Zmrzlík of Svojšín, Lord of Orlík Castle, wearing full armour and a tunic decorated with his coat of arms: three red bands on a silver field.

“A village,” said Fritzold of Warte, a mercenary, a Helvetian from the canton of Thurgau, pointing. “And a windmill on a hillock. Shall we burn it down?”