“Perhaps, then,” said Samson, grimacing like a moron, blowing his nose into his hand and wiping the snot onto his sleeve. He took out a cup and dice and placed them on the table. “Perhaps then you prefer to gamble? Shall we? This young man here against these thirty ducats. All on one throw. I shall begin.”

The dice rolled across the table.

“A two and a one,” said Samson, appearing to be worried. “That makes three. Oh dear… Oh my… I think I’ve lost; I surely have. What a fool I am. Your turn. Roll them, please.”

Zahradil’s face lit up and he held his hand out for the dice, but Houžvička slapped his hand away.

“Fucking leave it!” he roared, looking fierce. “And you, sirs, begone! And take your ducats with you! The Devil sent you here! So go to hell!”

“Lean over here,” Scharley drawled, “I have something to tell you.”

No one with any sense at all would have. But Houžvička did. He leaned over. Scharley’s fist struck him in the jaw and sent him flying off the bench.

At the same moment, Samson Honeypot extended his powerful arms, seized the two Sovinec men by the hair and slammed their faces down onto the table, making it bounce and overturning the dishes and mugs. Smeták, demonstrating quick reflexes, whipped a large lindenwood bowl from the table and smashed it hard into the giant’s forehead. The bowl broke in two. Samson blinked.

“Congratulations, good fellow,” he said. “You’ve pissed me off.”

And punched Smeták. With devastating results.

Meanwhile, Scharley felled Zahradil with a beautiful right hook, dealt out several powerful kicks among the soldiers trying to stand up, unerringly finding their crotches, bellies and necks. Reynevan leaped onto Houžvička, who was scrambling up from the floor, but he fought back and elbowed Reynevan hard in his wounded ear. Pain and fury clouded Reynevan’s eyes. He punched Houžvička once, and then a second, third and fourth time. Houžvička fell face down onto the floor. Zahradil and the other two soldiers crawled behind the bench, indicating by their raised hands that they’d had enough.

From behind the stove came the sounds of punches and the dry thuds of a skull hitting a wall. It was Scharley and Samson hitting Smeták, whom they had trapped in the corner. Smeták was screaming horribly.

“Have mercy, masters! Don’t hit me! Stop it! Very well, take the lad, if you wish. I’ll give him to you!”

Scharley tried the bolts one more time to check they were securely fastened, stood up and brushed the dust off his knees. The innkeeper, face flushed with distress and excitement, observed his every move, his eyes moving around nervously.