“Then what?” the moustachioed man continued. “Are we to bind him and deliver him in a sack? Or maybe shove him into an iron barrel like the one Konrad of Głogów kept Henry the Fat in? Or perhaps—”

“Enough!” Dachs cut him off. “The captive is to arrive at Stolz, hale and hearty, in five days. It’s up to you to do it and that’s that. I’ll add that he’d have to be insane to try to escape. Plenty of parties are after him and if caught by any of them he can expect death. And by no means a swift nor an easy one.”

“And what will they do at Stolz? Cover him in blossom, will they?”

“None of my business what they cover him in.” Dachs shrugged. “But I know what awaits him in Zgorzelec, Žitava or Bautzen: torture and the stake. If Bergow or Schaff seize him again, he will surely suffer a nasty death. Thus, I don’t imagine that he’ll try—”

“I shall not try,” announced Reynevan, tired of being silent. “I can give you my word. Swear on the cross and all that is sacred!”

The knights roared with unrestrained and hearty laughter. Tears were running down Dachs’ face.

“Ooh, Lord Bielawa,” he said, wiping the tears from his cheeks. “You’ve amused me splendidly. You’ll swear, you say? Feel free! But in the meantime, we’ll bind you with a length of stout rope. And we’ll put you on a peasant’s bow-legged nag so you won’t start thinking about galloping. All just to be on the safe side. Nothing personal.”

They set off soon after. In accordance with Dachs’ promise, Reynevan’s arms were tied up, without excessive cruelty but firmly and tightly. In accordance with the promise, he was put on a horse, or rather a hideous, lumbering nag with crooked hind legs, a horse in name only, which was clearly incapable not only of galloping but even trotting. Naturally, there was no point thinking about escaping on such a steed—it wouldn’t have been possible even to overtake a pair of yoked oxen on it.

They rode east. Towards Jelenia Góra. Towards the road linking Zgorzelec with Świdnica, Nysa and Racibórz.

I’m going to Silesia, thought Reynevan, rubbing his itching nose against the fur collar of his cloak. I’m returning to Silesia, as I promised. As I vowed. To myself and others.

If Flutek knew, he’d surely be glad. It’s the beginning of November, a mere four days after All Souls’ Day. It’s a long time until Christmas, and I’m already in Silesia.

They rode east. Towards Jelenia Góra. Towards the Sudety highway, which linked Zgorzelec with Świdnica, Nysa and Racibórz. Which passed through Frankenstein on its way. And the area of Stolz Castle.