Keuschburg’s pale face flushed as red as a sliced beetroot and it looked as though he would charge Biberstein with his bare hands. Foltsch grabbed him by the shoulder and the knight addressed as Warnsdorf seized his horse by the bridle. But the rest of the Zgorzelec soldiers were spoiling for a fight. There was a shout, then another, and swords and battleaxes flashed. Spurred horses neighed and blades flashed in the hands of Biberstein’s men. Mikuláš Dachs grasped and raised the two-handed sword.

“Stop!” roared Hans Foltsch. “Stop, dammit! Put away your weapons!”

The men of Roimund and Zgorzelec obeyed him. Reluctantly. Horses snorted, trampling the snow into mud.

“Be on your way,” Ulrik Biberstein said ominously. “Be on your way, Master Foltsch. Right now. Before anything evil happens.”

The snow thawed in no time when a little sunshine came through the clouds. The wind dropped. It became warmer.

Autumn had returned.

Szklarska Poręba—Reynevan now knew the name of the village with the church—emptied somewhat after Foltsch and Warnsdorf’s detachment disappeared into a ravine leading towards Jakub’s Pass, which he had heard separated the Karkonosze from the Izera Mountains. For some time, Mikuláš Dachs watched gloomily as they went and said something to Biberstein, pointing by turns at the men riding away and at Reynevan. Biberstein pouted, eyed the prisoner up and down evilly and nodded. Then issued orders. Dachs bowed.

“Lord Liebenthal!” he called, approaching. “Lord Stročil, Lord Priedlanz, Lord Kuhn! If you would.”

Four knights stepped out from the gathering and walked over, clearly interested but haughtily reluctant. Which didn’t bother Dachs in the slightest.

“The Honourable Sir Ulrik of Biberstein has ordered this rascal delivered to Silesia, to Stolz Castle,” he said, pointing at Reynevan, “and turned over to Sir Jan Biberstein, the brother of the Honourable Ulrik. The prisoner is to arrive there no later than five days’ time, on Monday, for today is Thursday. He is to be delivered alive, healthy and undamaged. Lord Biberstein has entrusted Lord Liebenthal with command of the escort, but all of you will answer for the carrying out of the order with your lives. Do you understand, gentlemen? Lord Liebenthal?”

“Why us?” Liebenthal asked brusquely, rubbing his very well-defined, stubbly black chin. “And why only we four?”

“Because that is what Sir Ulrik ordered. And because I advised him to do so.”

“We thank you warmly,” sneered another of the four, dressed in a beaver hat worn at a rakish angle. “You mean we are to deliver him to Stolz hale and hearty. And if we don’t, we lose our heads. Splendid.”

“And if he tries to flee?” A third man, a beanpole with a fair moustache, gloomily eyed Reynevan up and down. “May we at least lame him?”

“You’d then risk the Lord of Stolz having you lamed, too.”