Then suddenly fire and lead spurted from cannons and trestle guns; hook guns rattled, handgonnes roared and a thick hail of bolts rained from crossbows into the throng compressed and crowded in the breach, straight into the faces of the riders and horses. Riders crashed from their saddles, horses tumbled over, men with them. As the cavalry teemed and swarmed, another salvo exploded into the mass with even deadlier effect. Only a handful of cavalrymen rode into the smoke-filled inner square and they were immediately felled with halberds and flails. At once, the Czechs flooded out from behind the wagons with savage cries, catching the Germans by surprise with a sudden counter-attack and driving them from the breach in an instant. The breach was immediately barricaded with wagons, to be manned by crossbowmen and flailmen. Cannons roared again and hook-gun barrels belched smoke. A monstrance raised above the wall of wagons flashed bright gold and a standard bearing the Chalice gleamed white.

Who are the Warriors of God

and His law!

Help right from God

And Trust in Him

The singing rose about the wagenburg, growing louder, more powerful and triumphant. Dust settled behind the retreating cavalry.

Rohač of Dube, knowing it was the moment, turned towards the mounted Hussites waiting in formation and raised his mace. A moment later, Dobko Puchała gestured likewise towards the Polish cavalry. A sign from Jan Tovačovský set the mounted Moravians at battle readiness. Hynek of Kolštejn slammed his visor shut.

From the battlefield, the cries of the Saxon commanders ordering their knights to begin another charge could be heard. But the cavalry were falling back, turning their horses around.

“They’re running awaaay! The Germans are running awaaay!”

“After them!”

Prokop the Shaven breathed out and raised his head.

“Now…” he said, panting heavily. “Now their arses are ours.”

Reynevan abandoned the company of the Poles and Radim Tvrdík quite unexpectedly—he simply stood up abruptly, said goodbye and left. A short, meaningful glance at Tvrdík signalled his intentions. The sorcerer winked. And understood.

The stink of blood was all around again. Surely, thought Reynevan, it’s coming from the nearby shambles, from Kotce Street and the Meat Market. But perhaps it isn’t? Perhaps it’s different blood?

Perhaps it was the blood that foamed in these gutters here in September 1422, when Ironmongers Street and the streets around it were witness to fratricidal fighting, when the antagonism between the Old Town and the Tábor once again led to bloodshed. Much Czech blood had flowed in Ironmongers Street then. Enough for it to still stink.