And for seven years no one had used the name ‘Birka’. People said ‘Flaming Jealousy’, or for short; simply ‘Jealousy’.

The Rats rode down the main street. It was a chill, overcast, gloomy morning.

People fled into their homes, hid in their sheds or their wattle-and-daub shacks. Those who had shutters slammed them closed, those who had doors bolted them. Whoever still had vodka drank it to give them courage. The Rats rode at a walk, ostentatiously slowly, stirrup against stirrup. An indifferent contempt was painted on their faces, but their narrowed eyes closely observed the windows, porches and alleyways.

‘One bolt from a crossbow!’ Giselher warned, loudly. ‘One clang of a bowstring, and there’ll be a bloodbath here!’

‘And the red flame will be let slip!’ Iskra added in her high, melodious soprano. ‘Only earth and water will remain!’

Some of the villagers certainly had crossbows, but no one wanted to find out if the Rats’ words were empty.

The Rats dismounted. They covered the final furlong separating them from The Chimera’s Head on foot, side by side, their spurs, adornments and jewellery rhythmically jangling and clinking.

At the sight of them, three Jealousy residents, soothing the previous day’s hangover with beer, bolted from the steps of the inn.

‘Hope he’s still here,’ Kayleigh muttered. ‘We’ve taken our time. There was no need for that rest, we should have come right away, even travelled at night…’

‘Fool.’ Iskra bared her little teeth. ‘If we want bards to sing songs about this, it can’t be done at night, in the darkness. People must see it! Morning is best, when everybody’s still sober, right, Giselher?’

Giselher did not reply. He picked up a stone, swung and hurled it against the door of the inn.

‘Come out, Bonhart!’

‘Come out, Bonhart!’ the Rats called in unison. ‘Come out, Bonhart!’

Footsteps could be heard inside. Slow and heavy ones. Mistle felt a shiver crawling over the nape of her neck and her shoulders. Bonhart stood in the doorway.

The Rats involuntarily took a step back. The heels of their high boots dug into the ground and their hands shot to their sword hilts. The bounty hunter held his sword under one arm. That way he had his hands free; in one he held a peeled boiled egg and in the other a hunk of bread.

He slowly walked to the balustrade and looked down on them, from high up. He stood in the porch, and was huge. Immense, though he was as gaunt as a ghoul.

He looked at them, sweeping his watery eyes over each in turn. Then he bit off a morsel of egg and after it a piece of bread.

‘Where’s Falka?’ he asked indistinctly. Bits of yolk fell from his moustache and lips.

‘Run, Kelpie! Run, my beauty! Fast as you can!’