The bowstrings of crossbows clanged; bolts sang. Someone screamed. And a moment later, the horsemen were splashing upon them, falling on them like a hurricane, smiting with swords, felling and trampling them. Everything swirled and seethed, the night torn apart by cries, yells, thuds and the clank of iron, the squealing and neighing of horses. Fryczko of Nostitz tumbled into the river along with his struggling steed and an esquire splashed into the water, felled by a sword blow. One of the bowmen howled and the howl turned into a wheeze.

“Adsuuumuuuus!”

As Hanusz Throst fled, he turned around in the saddle and screamed to see behind him a grinning horse’s face, and behind it a black shape in a hood. It was the last thing he saw on this Earth. A slender sword blade stabbed him in the face between eye and nose, crunching into his skull. The merchant went rigid, his arms flapped and he tumbled onto the stones.

“Adsumus!” the black horseman yelled triumphantly. “In nomine Tuo!”

The black-clothed horsemen spurred their horses and galloped into the darkness. Hayn of Czirne gave chase, flung himself from his saddle and seized one of them. They fell into the water and leaped to their feet at once, their swords whistling and clanging together. They fought ferociously, standing knee-deep in the foaming river, streams of sparks shooting from their blades.

The black knight stumbled. Czirne, the old fox, couldn’t let a chance like that go by. He swung and struck him in the head, his heavy Passau blade slicing through the hood, cleaving and lifting up the helmet. Czirne saw in front of him a visage covered in blood, as white as death, grimacing ghoulishly, and knew at once he would never forget that sight. The wounded man roared and charged, refusing to fall down, although he should have. Czirne swore, grabbed his sword in both hands and slashed once again with a powerful twist of the hips, slicing flatly into his neck. Black blood gushed out as the man’s head fell onto his shoulder and lolled there, probably only held on by a scrap of skin. And the headless knight walked on, brandishing his sword and splashing gore around.

One of the bowmen screamed in terror and two others bolted in panic. Hayn of Czirne did not retreat. He swore terribly and impiously, steadied himself on his feet and smote again, this time severing the head completely and hacking off almost the entire arm. The black knight tumbled over into the shallow water by the bank, his limbs flailing, thrashing and kicking convulsively. It was a long time before he stopped moving.

Panting heavily, Hayn of Czirne pushed away from his knees the corpse of a crossbowmen in a brigantine turning in the current.

“What was that?” he finally asked. “What by Lucifer was that?”

“May Jesus be merciful,” mumbled Fryczko of Nostitz next to Czirne. “May Jesus be merciful…”