“Insolent woman!” yelled the goateed preacher. “O Jezebel, rabid in vain pride! You shall burn in the fire with the Philistine! But first you will taste the horsewhip!”

“Begone, all of you!” continued Alžběta Donotková, not paying any attention to him, either. “Begone, Christians, Orphans, good Czechs. Kneel, look to Heaven, pray to God, to our Lord Jesus and his holy Mother. Examine your souls. Think about Judgement Day, which is nigh. Beat your breasts, you who know not the way of peace, who have taken crooked paths. I have watched for five years as you destroyed the good inside you, as you laid in the grave what was human, as you turned this land into a charnel house. I have watched as you killed your own consciences. I have had enough; I shall not allow it any longer. In the hope that you have not killed everything inside yourselves. That perhaps a whit has remained, a tiny bit of something that is worth rescuing from destruction. For that reason, begone. While I am well disposed.”

“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.