“While you are well disposed?” Pluh cried sneeringly, standing with arms akimbo. “Well disposed? And what will you do to us, maid? You’ve fired a blank from a cannon! And now what? You’ll rend your frock and stick your arse out at us?”

In unison, the women on the wagons attached the hooks of their firearms to the sides. And Alžběta Donotková, alias the Fury Tisiphone, whipped the tarpaulin from the machine beside which she was standing. Jan Pluh involuntarily took a step back. And with him the entire mob. With a murmur of horror.

Reynevan had never seen that infamous weapon; had only heard about it. The crowd’s reaction didn’t surprise him. A strange construction stood on the wagon beside Alžběta Donotková. A dozen bronze barrels were attached, one beside the other, on an oaken frame and an intricate revolving mounting. It resembled a church organ and the weapon’s name reflected that. Reynevan had heard tell of the “Organ of Death,” capable of firing two hundred pounds of lead in the time taken to recite a Pater noster. In the form of sharp shot.

Alžběta Donotková raised a fuse and blew on it, making the smoking end of it glow brightly. At the sight of it, the Orphans stepped back several more paces, several tripped, several fell over, some began to withdraw for good and creep away stealthily.

“Begone, O Czechs!” Alžběta Donotková said in a loud voice. “M’Lord Reynevan, a saddled horse awaits! Don’t waste any time.”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

He didn’t spare his mount. He thundered along a valley at full speed, in a drawn-out ventre à terre so fast that pebbles struck by horseshoes sprayed out to the side. The horse was flecked with foam and had begun to wheeze, but Reynevan didn’t slow down. He was under no illusions. He knew the Orphans would give chase.

They did. It wasn’t long before he heard shouts far behind him. Not wanting them to follow him by sight in an open valley, he turned among the wickers and osiers and galloped on, splashing mud, not sparing his mount his spurs.

He rushed out onto the highway and stood up in the stirrups. He hadn’t managed to confuse his pursuers, since yells and whoops were coming through the bushes. Reynevan bent forwards in the saddle and galloped. The horse wheezed, shedding flakes of foam.

He galloped past cottages and shepherds’ huts, recognising the place and knowing he was close to Hanušovice. But also that his pursuers were close. A thunderous yell from many throats told him that the Orphans could now see him. A moment later he saw them. At least twenty horsemen. He jabbed his spurs into the horse and the animal, though it appeared impossible, found fresh energy. He rode onto a small bridge over a stream with a dull thud.

Two horsemen were riding like the wind from the village. One, of immense size, was whirling a heavy Flemish goedendag as though it were a hazel switch. The other, on a beautiful black horse, was armed with a curved falchion.