He was playing to perfection the role of an insignificant and none-too-bright emissary. With gaze lowered, he mumbled something to Eberwin in hushed tones and bowed towards Gebhard Ungerath.

“You’ve seen what you wanted to see,” Eberwin said to him, “so go back to your own. Know that we have kept our word and aren’t plotting any treachery, just an honest exchange. Come on, march,” he commanded the prisoners, watching Urban Horn cross the bridge and disappear into the trees. “Help that sick man!”

“Did you see?” whispered Kochłowski. “That was—”

“I know.”

“What does all this—”

“I don’t know. Be quiet.”

A small Hussite light cavalry unit bearing red Chalices on their tunics was approaching from the other side of the river. Both parties reached the bridge at the same time. A moment later, the Hussites let two men onto the bridge. Seeing that, Ungerath’s mercenaries urged their prisoners onto the bridge. The two groups began to walk towards each other. Gilbert Ungerath must have been one of the two men approaching from the left-hand bank, although neither of them was stocky or gnome-like. One of them was tall, with reddish hair; the other had a cherubic face and matching golden curls. Reynevan thought he recognised the latter. But he was busy helping Kochłowski to hold up the sick man. Whose fever had subsided and who could now walk unaided.

“Miserere nobis…” he suddenly said quite lucidly. A shudder passed through Reynevan. And a wave of fear. Justified fear, as it turned out.

From the trees on the left bank of the Olza emerged a good-sized cavalry unit, with bowmen, lancers and men in full armour. Spreading out into a semicircle, the new arrivals cut off the Hussites’ escape route, forcing them to fall back towards the bridge. Jan Kuropatwa swore and turned around. But Silesian mercenaries were already making for the bridge from the right bank. They were cut off. Cornered.

“Fuck it, I see we have Syriam ab oriente…” Kochłowski murmured a biblical quote, “et Philisthim ab occidente…”

“Then we’re in the shit…” groaned Hlas.

Gebhard Ungerath embraced his brother, who turned out to be the red-haired man. Then he cast a look at the prisoners and the Hussites. A look dripping with hatred. His face contorted like a real gnome’s.

“Thought you’d get away with it, heretics?” he said scathingly. “That you’d save your skins? That you’d be able to strike a deal? Oh, no, not a chance, there’ll be no parleying with you, whoresons, no deals. For you, only what you deserve, you blackguards: the noose, the axe and the stake. And you’ll be hanged, beheaded or burned, for you’ll be delivered back to where you came from.”

The recently arrived lancers and heavily armed cavalrymen had effectively blocked the entry to the bridge on the left bank. The knight commanding them bore crossed battleaxes on his shield.