Reynevan shook his head. The sounds coming from a ravine disappearing into the forest in no way resembled any of the popular goliard songs. Nor did the voices he could hear resemble those of the goliards who had recently overtaken them on the road…

He groped for the hilt of his short sword, another of the gifts received in Świdnica, and then bent forward in the saddle and spurred his horse on. Into a trot. And then a gallop.

“Where are you going?” roared Scharley behind him. “Stop! Stop, damn you! You’ll get us into trouble, you fool!”

Reynevan ignored him and rode into the ravine. In a glade beyond the ravine, a battle was raging around a wagon covered with a black, tarred tarpaulin and drawn by two stocky horses. Beside the wagon, at least a dozen foot soldiers in brigantines, mail hoods and kettle hats, armed with pole weapons, were attacking two knights as fiercely as dogs. The knights were defending themselves equally fiercely, like wild boars at bay.

One knight, on horseback, was covered in plate armour from head to toe. Lance and glaive blades were glancing off his breastplate, clattering impotently on the tassets and cuisses. Unable to reach the horseman, the assailants were taking their anger out on the horse. They weren’t trying to cut it—horses were very expensive, after all—but they were poking it with their pikestaffs, hoping the frenzied horse would throw the knight. The horse really was frantic, shaking its head, snorting and biting its mouthpiece. Evidently specially trained for this kind of fighting, it was kicking out, hampering access to itself and its rider. The knight was swaying so precariously in the saddle, it was a wonder he was still in it.

The foot soldiers had managed to pull down the other knight, also in full plate, who was now defending himself resolutely, his back to the black wagon. His helmet had been knocked from his head and his long, fair, blood-spattered hair was flowing freely, his teeth flashing under a similarly fair moustache. He was driving back his attackers with blows of a two-handed sword, which, though long and heavy, was whirling in the knight’s hands as though it were a small ceremonial sword. The weapon didn’t just look dangerous—the attackers’ access was already impeded by three men lying wounded on the ground, howling in pain and trying to crawl away. The remaining assailants were being wary now, trying to stab the knight from a safe distance. But even if their thrusts weren’t deflected by the two-handed sword’s heavy blade, the swords slid off the armour.

Reynevan took in the scene in a heartbeat: two knights in peril, being attacked by a horde of thugs. He yelled, drew his short sword from its scabbard, spurred his horse and charged to their aid, utterly heedless of Scharley’s warning cries and curses.