Ondřej Keřský and his cavalry attacked them. They were stabbed with lances and swept away; the light Taborite cavalry wasn’t able to stop the iron-clad cavalry. Jan Čapek dashed to help, wielding his sword and calling the infantry. Reynevan also joined battle. He saw in front of him the bared teeth of horses, breastplates and sallets; he saw a forest of fixed lances, certain he was going to his death. A lance pierced a horseman and threw him from the saddle, but before the lancer could release the shaft, Reynevan had ridden over to him and slashed him with his sword, once and twice, and blood gushed from under the mangled spaulder. Another cavalryman struck him with his horse, made a broad sweep of his sword, and Reynevan saved his life by ducking down behind the horse’s neck. The Rožmberk man didn’t have time to slash again as Taborite infantrymen caught him with the hooks of their gisarmes and yanked him from the saddle. A third bounded forwards with a battleaxe, and Reynevan, seeing that he had no chance against him, yelled, jerked the reins and spurred his horse hard. The horse reared up, swung its forehooves, the horseshoes fell onto a cuisse and a plackart, buckling the armour, and the Rožmberk man screamed and fell to the ground. A savage fight was raging all around, sheet armour grating and bones crunching under horses’ hooves.

Before Reynevan’s very eyes the Rožmberk armoured cavalry tossed hooked chains onto the wagons of the fort, reined their horses around and pulled. The wagons were overturned, crushing gunners and crossbowmen. Into the breach charged the Calixtinistic cavalry, a river of horsemen forcing its way inside, stabbing, hacking and trampling. The broken wagon fort suddenly turned into a trap with no escape.

“It is the end!” yelled Jan Čapek of Sány, hacking left and right with his sword. “Defeat! We are done for! Every man for himself! Reynevan! To me!”

“To me!” bellowed Ondřej Keřský. “To me, brethren! Every man for himself!”

Reynevan reined his horse around. He hesitated for a moment, a short moment, a moment determining life or death. He saw the heavy horse cut down the Slány flailmen and the spearmen from Kutná Hora, saw the Orphans from Český Brod marching to their deaths. Saw Zikmund of Vranov tumble from the saddle. Saw Prokop the Shaven, fighting atop a wagon, fall, stabbed with lances and slashed by swords. Saw Little Prokop drop a monstrance and fall, mortally wounded. Saw the battle turn into a massacre.

And fear gripped him. Horrible, gut-wrenching fear.

He pressed his face to the horse’s mane and dashed after Čapek. Through a gap in the wagons, under a hail of balls and bolts. Downhill, downhill, along a ravine, along a mountainside. To get away.

As far away from Lipany as possible.