Whatever had set upon the thugs was not, of course, a demon. It was a huge pitch-black mastiff with a spiked collar around its neck. The dog rushed the thugs like a bolt of black lightning, attacking like a wolf rather than a mastiff. It bit deeply and repeatedly. On the calves. On the thighs. On the crotch. And when the men fell over, on their arms and faces. The men’s cries became horribly high-pitched. Spine-chilling.

A piercing, modulating whistle rang out. The black mastiff immediately sprang away from the thugs and sat motionless, ears pricked up, like a figure made of anthracite.

A horseman appeared on the bridge. He was wearing a short grey cloak fastened with a silver clasp, a tight doublet and a chaperon with a long liripipe draped over one shoulder.

“When the sun appears above that spruce,” said the stranger in a powerful voice, straightening his modest frame in the saddle atop a black stallion, “I shall set Beelzebub on you, you blackguards. Since time is short and Beelzebub swift, I suggest speed. And advise against rest breaks.”

The rogues didn’t need to be told twice. They fled into the forest, limping, groaning and glancing back fearfully. Beelzebub, appearing to know how to scare them even more, didn’t look at them, but at the sun and the top of the spruce.

The horseman gently urged on his mount, and from the height of his saddle examined Hiram ben Eliezer, Dorota Faber and Reynevan, who was getting to his feet, feeling his ribs and wiping blood from his nose. The horseman scrutinised Reynevan particularly closely—which didn’t escape the lad’s notice.

“Well, well,” their rescuer finally said. “A classic situation, straight from a fairy tale—a bog, a bridge, a wheel and a problem, and help arrives right on cue. You didn’t summon me, did you? Aren’t you afraid I’ll take out a devilish pact and make you sign it?”

“No,” said the rabbi. “It’s not that particular fairy tale.”

The horseman snorted.

“I am Urban Horn,” he announced, looking straight at Reynevan. “Whom have my Beelzebub and I helped?”

“Rabbi Hiram ben Eliezer from Brzeg.”

“Dorota Faber.”

“The Knight of the Cart.” Reynevan, in spite of everything, didn’t trust him.

Urban Horn snorted again and shrugged.

“I expect you’re heading towards Strzelin. I overtook another traveller on the road heading there. I suggest you beg a lift from him rather than hang around over a broken wheel till nightfall. It would be better. And safer.”

Rabbi Hiram ben Eliezer gave his conveyance a last, lingering look, but nodded in agreement.

“And now farewell.” The stranger’s gaze shifted to the forest and the top of the spruce. “Duty calls.”

“I thought,” Reynevan offered, “it was only to frighten them…”

The horseman looked him in the eyes, and his eyes were cold. Icy.

“It was,” he admitted. “But I, Lancelot, never make idle threats.”