They walked along ravines, through forests following tracks between shady spruce, among groves of sycamore, ash and elm. They passed slender, autumnal roadside birches, as beautiful as queens attired in cloth of gold. A sight indeed to please the eye and fill the heart with joy. But there was no pleasure. And no joy.

The sun had already tracked a long way across the sky when men shouted and horses neighed at the head of the column. Reynevan’s heart leaped in his breast at the sight of soldiers in kettle hats, pointed hoods and cherry tunics. Which made the sight of Pimple-Face shaking the hand of the corporal commanding the soldiers in an effusive greeting all the more unpleasant and painful.

The meeting of obvious comrades took place at a crossroads from which the now enlarged escort drove the column towards the south. The forest soon ended, the trees thinned out and the sandy track began to wind among fantastically shaped rocks. The sun, high in the sky, shone behind fluffy clouds gliding across the blue.

Suddenly, their destination came into view. Clearly visible. Leaving no doubt.

“Is that…” groaned Reynevan, trying to move the edge of the yoke away from his chafed neck. “Is that…?”

“Aye…” confirmed the journeyman carpenter. “Aye, indeed it is…”

“Trosky…” groaned someone behind them. “Trosky Castle… God, have mercy on us…”

A lone, bizarre, two-horned rock, like a devil’s head, like the protruding ears of a crouching wolfhound, stuck up from a sparsely tree-covered hill. The rock—Reynevan didn’t know and couldn’t have known—was made of hardened magma, an exposed outpouring of volcanic basalt. The magnificent rock towering over the surrounding area had, not unsurprisingly, appealed to somebody as the obvious foundation for a stronghold. That person—as Reynevan knew, since he had acquired some information before the expedition—was the celebrated Čeněk of Vartenberk, the Burgrave of Prague during the reign of King Wenceslaus. The builders employed by Čeněk took advantage of the volcanic formation: they set the castle in the saddle between the basalt horns and built towers on the actual horns. The taller of the two, built on the eastern horn, slenderer and four-sided, bore the name of the Maiden. The western, lower, squat and five-sided one was called the Old Woman.

In 1424—when the castle’s lord was Otto of Bergow, the sworn enemy and cruel tormentor of adherents to the Chalice—the castle was besieged by furious Taborites. A lengthy assault by catapults and bombards achieved nothing, however, with the storm ending in failure and the Warriors of God having to withdraw. From then on, Trosky was considered unassailable. Thus, Lord Bergow felt invincible and went on tormenting the neighbouring Hussites with iron, fire and the noose.

“Get a move on there!” yelled Pimple-Face from the front. “The castle is before us! Drive those swine uphill, it’s about time they moved their legs!”

Whips whistled. Blows and curses rained down.