The Węża River burbled melodiously over the stones.

Meanwhile, Reynevan was fleeing, and he rode as though he’d done nothing his entire life except gallop in shackles. And he was galloping wonderfully, his bound wrists hooked firmly over the pommel, his head buried in the mane, his knees gripping the horse’s sides with all his might, pounding so hard the earth trembled and the air howled in his ears. The horse—dear creature—appeared to know what was afoot, stretched out its neck and gave its all, proving that for the last five or six years it hadn’t been fed on oats for nothing. Horseshoes struck the hardened ground, bushes and high grass parting while branches lashed against him. Pity Dzierżka of Wirsing can’t see this, thought Reynevan, although he knew his equestrian skills at that moment were rather limited to managing to stay in the saddle. But, he thought at once, that’s still plenty.

That thought came to him perhaps a little too soon, because at that moment, the horse decided to clear a fallen tree. And it jumped quite gracefully, except for that fact that there was a hollow beyond the tree trunk. The impact weakened Reynevan’s grip and he flew into a patch of burdock which was fortunately so abundant and tall that it at least partly broke his fall. But the collision with the ground winded him and he curled up in a ball, groaning.

He had no time to uncurl himself. Vitelozzo Gaetani, who had been chasing him, dismounted.

“Trying to flee?” he wheezed. “From me? You worm!”

He aimed a kick at him but didn’t complete it. Scharley appeared as if from nowhere, pushed him in the chest and treated him to his favourite kick below the knee. The Italian only staggered, then drew his sword and gave a mighty backhand swing. The penitent nimbly dodged the blade and unsheathed his own weapon, a curved sabre. He swung it diagonally, the sabre whistling in his hand like a lightning bolt and hissing like a viper.

Gaetani wasn’t frightened by Scharley’s fencing skills and jumped at the penitent, wielding his sword and yelling savagely. Their weapons clanged together. Three times. The fourth time, the Italian wasn’t quick enough to parry the blow from the much quicker sabre. The blade nicked his cheek and blood splashed on him. It was a small wound, and perhaps he would have fought on, but Scharley didn’t give him a chance. He jumped forward and slammed him between the eyes with the pommel of his sword. Gaetani tumbled among the burdock, howling as he fell.

“Figlio di puttana!”

“Apparently,” said Scharley, wiping his blade on a leaf. “But what to do—you can’t choose your mother.”