“You are right.” Czirne reined his horse around. “We will not stay here. Give the sign, let the wagons roll. And regarding the Devil, fear not. The demon that has recently been prowling around Silesia customarily strikes from a bright sky at high noon. Verily, as the priests say, daemonium meridianum, the demon that strikes at noon. But all around us, see for yourself: darkness.”

The merchant spurred his horse and caught up with the Raubritter’s black.

“In that demon’s shoes,” he said a moment later, “I’d change my customs, because it has become too familiar and predictable. And that psalm also mentions the darkness. Do you not remember? Negotio perambulans in tenebris…”

“Had I known you were in such fright,” there was amusement in Czirne’s dour voice, “I’d have raised my fee to at least a hundred and fifty guilders.”

“I’ll pay it,” said Throst so quietly that Reynevan barely heard him. “One hundred and fifty guilders, cash in hand, Lord Czirne. On safe arrival. For it is true that I am afeared. An alchemist in Racibórz wrote me a horoscope, foretold from chicken’s entrails… It revealed that death lurks above me…”

“Do you believe in such things?”

“Until recently—no.”

“And now?”

“And now,” the merchant said firmly, “I’m taking my leave of Silesia. A word to the wise is sufficient; I don’t want to end up like Pfefferkorn and Neumarkt. I’m going to Bohemia; no demon will get his hands on me there.”

“Indeed.” Hayn of Czirne nodded. “Not there. Even demons are afraid of the Hussites.”

“I’m heading for Bohemia,” Throst repeated. “And it is your task to deliver me there safely.”

Czirne didn’t reply. The wagons rattled, the axles and hubs creaking on ruts.

They left the trees for open space, where it became even colder and foggier. Reynevan heard the swoosh of water over stones.

“The River Węża.” Czirne pointed. “Less than a mile to the pass. Huzza! Drive on, driiive on!”

Pebbles clattered and grated beneath the horseshoes and wheel rims, and soon the water was splashing and foaming around the horses’ feet. The little river was shallow but rapid.

Hayn of Czirne suddenly stopped in the middle of the ford, motionless in the saddle. Vitelozzo Gaetani reined his horse around.

“What is it?”

“Quiet. Not a word.”

They saw before they heard anything. What they saw was white foam splashing up from the hooves of two horses charging at them along the bed of the Węża. Only later did they see the silhouettes of two riders with cloaks billowing out like ghastly wings.

“To arms!” yelled Czirne, jerking out his sword. “To arms! Crossbows!”

They were struck by a wind, a sudden, elemental, howling gale, lashing their faces. And then they were struck by a deranged cry.

“Adsumus! Adsuuumuuuus!”