He rode out of the forests straight into a large expanse which was a single, huge battlefield. The ground was covered with hundreds of corpses—of both men and horses—and the stench of muck, black powder, blood and sickly decay. Reynevan had seen plenty of battlefields and reconstructed the course of events with ease. Around four days earlier, the knighthood of Racibórz, Karniów and Pszczyna had tried to stop the Tábor, striking the marching column from the flank. Familiar with that tactic, the Hussites shielded themselves with pavises, drew their wagons into a wall and decimated the attackers with a hail of balls and bolts, and then attacked themselves, from both flanks, clenching the Racibórz men in an iron pincer movement. And then dealt with any survivors of the clash. Reynevan saw at the edge of the battleground a pile of mutilated bodies, saw bodies hanging from trees on the boundary of the field.

Local peasants roamed the churned-up earth, stripping the corpses, their stooped posture and nervous movements calling to mind animals. Or flesh-eating demons fearful of the light.

Reynevan spurred on his horse. He wanted to join the Tábor army before dusk.

He wasn’t afraid of getting lost. Smoke from fires showed him the way.

His meeting with the leaders of the punitive expedition turned out to be onerous. Reynevan was accustomed to it, because he had experienced it many times over the previous few months. He had experienced the pitying looks, the faltering words, the sympathetic nods. Had experienced the comradely embraces and slaps on the back. He had heard many exhortations to bear up and not buckle under. Which made him feel both weak and want to buckle up, although a moment before he had—it appeared—felt perfectly all right.

Things were no different now. Jakub Kroměšín, the expedition commander, sent him a sympathetic look. Hejtman Jan Pardus nodded and shook his hand in friendship. Dobko Puchała slapped him on the shoulder, hard and warmly, restraining himself, fortunately, from exhortations. Duke Sigismund Korybut behaved haughtily, barely allowing himself a reaction. Bedřich of Strážnice acted naturally.

“I’m glad you’re better,” he announced, leading Reynevan to the edge of the camp, towards the line of sentry posts. “I’m glad you’ve recovered. In February I didn’t know what had knocked you off your feet: illness or misfortune. I was afraid that it might break you, destroy you or cast you into apathy, drive you away from life and reality. But here you are and that’s all that matters. We’re creating history here, changing the fate of Europe and the world. You’ve been through too much with us for you to leave us now.”