In the courtyard, they were greeted by cold air and a snowstorm. And darkness. They almost groped their way behind the barn.

“Beware,” warned Moser from the front. “There’s a plough here somewhere…”

He stumbled and fell over. When he raised himself onto his hands and knees, swearing vehemently, Reynevan was already swinging the weight towards him, intending to slam the poor wretch in the back of the head. At that moment, swift shadows flashed against a snow-covered manure heap, a dull clatter resounded and Moser grunted and fell flat on the ground. The next moment, a hundred candles flared up before Reynevan’s eyes and a hundred thunderclaps boomed in his head. The courtyard, the cottage, the barn and the manure heap spun around and turned a somersault, and the earth and sky changed places several times.

He didn’t fall, for he was being held up by several pairs of strong arms. A coarse sack was pulled over his head. His arms were bound. He was dragged. He was tossed onto the saddle of a snorting, stamping horse. The horse set off immediately at a gallop, hooves striking the stones. Reynevan’s teeth snapped and rang under the sack and he was afraid he would bite his tongue off.

“On we go!” commanded somebody with a hoarse, hideously evil voice. “Ride, ride! Gallop!”

The gale howled and whistled.

Chapter Twelve

In which Reynevan returns to Silesia. Facing the perspective of a life as long as a mayfly’s but armed with more reason for revenge.

When the sack was violently tugged from his head, Reynevan cowered and cringed, screwed up his eyes and grimaced as the sparkling whiteness of the snow painfully and completely blinded him. He smelled smoke and horses’ sweat, heard their stamping, snorting and neighing, the clank of tackle and murmuring, and understood that he was in the midst of a large group of men.

“Congratulations,” he heard, before he began to see. “Congratulations on a successful bag, Master Dachs. Difficult job?”

“Seen worse,” replied from behind his shoulder a familiar voice, the evil and hoarse one, now with a note of obsequiousness. “I’ve known worse, honourable Sir Ulrik.”

“Were any of Schaff’s men injured? Did they come to any harm?”

“Nothing a dab of ointment won’t put right.”

Reynevan cautiously opened his eyes.

They were in a large village; a church tower rose up above the thatched roofs of cottages, barns and granaries. The streets were full of horsemen, at least forty of them. Among them were mounted knights in white plate armour. There were pennants, including a golden one with a single red stag’s antler. Indeed, before he even saw the crest, Reynevan had already guessed who had caught him this time.

“Head up!”

Ulrik of Biberstein, Lord of Frydland and Żary, the uncle of Nicolette, loomed over him on a war horse.

Rather than being frightened, he was relieved. Not to see Birkart Grellenort.