It might have been the stream Rupilius had mentioned. They had been walking underground, he calculated, for well over an hour and must have been a considerable distance from Trosky Castle, at least a quarter of a mile, perhaps even more.

“I believe I can feel a breeze on my face…” he said, suddenly stopping. “Cover the lantern. Perhaps we’ll see light?”

“We won’t. It’s still dark outside.”

The tunnel was becoming narrower and narrower. They couldn’t even walk in single file now but had to shuffle sideways, step by step. Reynevan kept scraping his belly against the rock, scratching the buttons of his jerkin. For someone much bulkier like Samson Honeypot, the cramped conditions of the passage must have been sheer hell. Reynevan could hear the giant moaning and cursing.

“Samson?”

“Go on, go on… I’m behind you…”

“Will you get through?”

“I will… Somehow… You go on… Find the exit… Let me know… When you’re close…”

The cold current of air on Reynevan’s face became so tangible he thought he could also smell the scent of a forest, fir needles and pine cones. He began pushing his way through more quickly, making more and more vigorous movements. Suddenly, the passage widened and he saw stars. He felt he was barely a step from the exit.

“It’s the cave mouth!” he yelled. “Samson! I made it! I got thr—Aaaagh!”

He lost his footing and tumbled downwards with a cry. Fortunately, he only fell a short distance onto stony scree. Pebbles worn smooth by water shot out from under him. He carried a landslide down the steep slope with him, tumbled off a precipice, banged against a boulder as he fell and finally landed on some moss with both hands in the foaming and icy water of a stream.

And realised at once that he wasn’t alone.

He understood before he even heard the wheezing of a horse and the clatter of a horseshoe against stone. And a voice.

“Reinmar of Bielawa. Welcome. How glad I am to see you.”

He recognised the voice. The moon emerging into a gap between the clouds gave enough light for Reynevan to be able to see a black horse with a gleaming coat and the silhouette of a man holding the reins, his pale, birdlike face shining in the darkness and his shoulder-length hair. Reynevan had seen that man and heard that voice before. And Jan Smiřický of Smiřice had disclosed his name. It was Birkart Grellenort, the bishop’s confidant and thug. The man who had killed Peterlin. Reynevan grew anxious.

“Does it surprise you?” asked the Wallcreeper, grinning. “That I’m waiting here? I’ve known of this passage for years, you poor fool. I knew you’d try to escape this way. And I was informed that you were at Trosky. I have ears and eyes everywhere. And I have caught you, Bielawa. I’ve finally caught you—”