They stopped for the first night in an abandoned colliers’ settlement, where ore was extracted and smelted in the summer. For the second stop, soon after fording a river which Gwido Buschbach called the Mumlava, he chose for them a small, godforsaken mountain village, remote and hidden in a deep ravine, called Mumlavský Důl. Reynevan had heard and noted the settlement’s name from Schaff’s conversation with the headman, who had a shock of shaggy, grey hair, like a wolverine. He was clearly scared, in such a panic that Schaff took pity on him. Rather than yelling and punching him in the usual knightly manner, he decided to play the role of the benevolent and generous lord. Having been given a small handful of pennies, the Wolverine cheered up and an almost frightening smile split his unshaven face in half. He immediately invited the knight to his farmyard, stammering out an explanation on the way as to why he was so anxious and the whole village terrified. Some hrozne, very hrozne gentlemen had passed by that way several times, he explained, very mounted and very well armed and God-’elp-us and mercy-me. It took some time to determine when those awful cavalcades occurred, but finally it was established that it was two nights ago and the early morning after that. But describing what the horsemen looked like and what they were wearing apparently went well beyond the peasant’s abilities.

Schaff’s face clouded over and he bit his moustache, but his mood suddenly improved. And not only his. For from the Wolverine’s farmyard wafted something extraordinarily pleasant, something divine and blissfully inviting, something tenderly and lovingly home-made, something wistfully and touchingly motherly. A marvellous, familiar aroma, deeply etched in the subconscious, called forth everything that was pleasant, good and joyous, making one want to sit down and weep with contentment. To restate it more concisely: the fragrance of onions and meat fried in melted lard drifted from the cottage. Tears began flowing from the eyes of Schaff, his brawlers and Reynevan, and saliva dripped from their mouths with the force of a mountain waterfall.

“We butchered a hog,” explained Wolverine. “It being the season, see, m’lord—”

The Lord of Chojnik didn’t let him finish. And reached into his pouch. At the sight of the pennies in his fist, the fellow staggered, opened his mouth and for a moment appeared about to howl. But he quickly calmed down.

“Come in…” he panted, stowing the money into his jacket. “For a little something…”

“The men who are said to have ridden through,” said Janko Schaff, shooing a hen from the table, “might have been the Black Riders, the Company of Death. But it might also have been Biberstein’s men. Or Bergow’s from Trosky… The Devil take them! I hadn’t counted on them being so determined to get their hands on you, Bielawa.”