His luck ended once it became totally dark. As he rode across a bridge over a stream, the thud of hooves echoed on the timbers, drowning out the thudding of other hooves. A rider, dressed in black and invisible in the gloom, emerged from the darkness like a phantom. Before Reynevan could react, he was pulled from the saddle. He fought back but the black rider had literally superhuman strength. He lifted him up and cast him down onto the rocky ground.

There was a flash, pain, paralysis. Then the hard ground appeared to melt beneath him, sucking him into a billowing silence. Into a bottomless abyss of soft oblivion.

He regained consciousness in a semi-supine position. And in fetters. His wrists were tied on his lap, his legs bound at the ankles. During the course of the last ten days, he thought, it’s the fifth time someone has seized me, the fifth time I’ve been somebody’s prisoner. It must be a record.

That was his first thought. Which preceded a more sensible one, considering the situation: Who actually caught me this time?

His back was resting against something that was probably a wall, for it was hard and gave off the smell of old lime plaster. There was also a crumbling wall beside him, shielding a blazing bonfire from the wind. The wind was blowing fiercely, stronger gusts howling. Fir trees soughed and creaked. Reynevan had a strong impression that he was somewhere high, at the top of a mountain or hill.

“You’re awake?”

The powerful man who had seized and bound him was wearing a coarse, black woollen cloak. He also sported armour. And a knightly belt. He didn’t resemble Birkart Grellenort or any of his Black Riders. Reynevan’s astonishment was even greater than his sense of relief; he had thought it was Grellenort who had caught him. Then why had this strongman in armour kidnapped him and who was he? For it couldn’t be the Rübezahl, the spirit of the Karkonosze, could it? Reynevan swallowed. He didn’t believe in the existence of the Rübezahl. On the other hand, during the course of the last two years, he had encountered and seen plenty of things the existence of which he didn’t believe in.

“Are you Reinmar of Bielawa? Confirm it. I wouldn’t like to make an error.”

“I am Reinmar of Bielawa. Who are you?”

“Who am I?” The voice of the knight in the black cloak changed a little, and not encouragingly. “Let’s say I’m a consequence.”

“A consequence of what?”

“Your past deeds. And misdeeds.”

“Oh. An avenging angel? An emissary of doom? The relentless long arm of the law?”

Reynevan himself was surprised by how easily he assumed an easy tone. Routine, he thought. I’m quite simply good at it now.