Riders, previously concealed, charged out at them from the thicket from all directions. There were some twenty men, half of whom were wearing full suits of white armour. Kyrie-eleison and company had no chance whatsoever, but they put up fierce resistance, notwithstanding. Aulock was the first to fall from his horse, head cleaved open by a battleaxe. Walter of Barby tumbled beneath the horses’ hooves, run through by a huge knight with the Polish Ogończyk on his shield. Stork was hit over the head with a mace. Sybek of Kobylagłowa was hacked to pieces. Blood splashed over Reynevan, who was cowering in the saddle.

“You’re free, Comrade.”

Reynevan blinked. His head was swimming. Everything had happened much too quickly for his liking.

“Thanks, Bolko… I apologise… I mean Your Grace—”

“Never mind, never mind,” interrupted Bolko Wołoszek, heir to the Duke of Opole and Prudnik, Lord of Głogówek, cutting Reynevan’s bonds with a cutlass. “Don’t stand on ceremony. In Prague, you were Reynevan to me and I was Bolko to you, whether drinking or brawling. Or when we shared a whore at a brothel in the Old Town to save money. Have you forgotten?”

“I have not.”

“Neither have I. As you see. One doesn’t leave a college pal in the lurch. And Jan of Ziębice can kiss my arse. In any case, I’m happy to say we weren’t slaughtering Ziębice men. Fortunately, we’ve avoided a diplomatic incident, because I must confess that as we lay in wait on the Stolz road, we were rather expecting an escort from Ziębice. And then this surprise. Reynevan, please meet my vice-starosta, Sir Krzych of Kościelec. Well then, Sir Krzych? Identified any of them? Any still alive?”

“It’s Kunz Aulock and his company,” said the giant with the Ogończyk on his shield. “But only one of them is still breathing—Stork of Gorgowice.”

“Well, well!” The Lord of Głogówek frowned and pursed his lips. “Stork. And alive? Lead me to him.”

Wołoszek walked his horse where Sir Krzych led, looking down at the dead as he went.

“Sybek of Kobylagłowa,” he said. “He cheated the noose more than once, but, as they say, it was only a matter of time. And this is Kunz Aulock. Dammit, he came from such a decent family. Walter of Barby. But if you live by the sword… And who do we have here? Sir Stork?”

“Mercy,” mumbled Stork of Gorgowice, his bloodied face grimacing. “Pardon… For the love of God, sire—”

“No, Sir Stork,” Bolko Wołoszek replied coldly. “Opole will soon be my new demesne, my duchy. The rape of an Opole townswoman is thus a very serious crime in my eyes. Too serious for a swift death. Pity we have such little time.”

The young duke stood up in the stirrups and looked around.

“Tie the scoundrel up,” he ordered. “And drown him.”