“Don’t bother,” interrupted the penitent. “I understand. You are indebted and infatuated, ergo we’ll have to stick our necks out once again, and Hungary’s a long way off. Too bad. I’d just ask you to do one thing: think before you act. Can you promise me that?”

“Scharley… I—”

“Beware, quiet. They’re watching us. And spur your horse on or the current will take you!”

Towards the evening, they reached the foot of Reichenstein in the Golden Mountains, the north-west end of the border chain of Rychleby and Jeseníky. They planned to rest and refresh themselves in a settlement lying by the small River Bystra that flowed down from the mountains, but the peasants there proved to be inhospitable—by not allowing the Raubritters to steal from them. Arrows showered at the Raubritters from the palisade defending the entrance, and the determined faces of free peasants armed with pitchforks and bardiches, didn’t invite them to demand hospitality from them. Who knows what would have happened in an ordinary situation, but now the injuries and fatigue were making themselves felt. Tassilo of Tresckow was the first to rein his horse around, followed by the usually quick-tempered Rymbaba, and Notker of Weyrach turned back without even tossing a coarse oath at the village.

“Damned churls,” Buko of Krossig said, catching them up. “One ought, as my father did, to demolish their shacks and burn everything down to the ground at least once every five years. Otherwise they put on airs. Prosperity makes them conceited. And proud.”

It had become overcast. Smoke drifted over from the village. Dogs barked.

“The Black Forest’s ahead of us,” Buko warned from the head of the line. “Stay close together! Don’t fall behind. Keep watch on the horses.”

The warning was treated seriously, because the Black Forest—a dense, wet complex of beeches, yews, alders and hornbeams—looked very grim. So grim it sent shivers down their spines. They felt at once an evil, slumbering somewhere in the thicket.

The horses snorted and tossed their heads.

And a bleached skeleton lying just at the side of the road didn’t look at all out of place.

Samson muttered softly.

Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita

mi ritrovai per una selva oscura

ché la diritta via era smarrita…

“I can’t get it out of my head, that Dante,” he explained, seeing Reynevan’s look.

“It’s extremely apt,” said Scharley with a shudder. “A lovely wood, goes without saying… To ride here alone… After dark…”

“I advise against it,” said Huon of Sagar, riding over. “I strongly advise against it.”

They rode up an ever-steeper hillside. The Black Forest ended, the beechwoods thinned out, limestone and gneiss grated under hooves, basalt clattered. Rocks with fantastic shapes grew out of the sides of the ravines. As dusk fell, it quickly grew dark as black clouds approached from the north in wave after wave.