“You can be among the victors or among the vanquished, Duke,” said Horn. “Woe always betides the vanquished, as the classicists tell us. While the victors… To the victors the spoils. For the world also takes on a new form on maps.”

“Eh?”

“Sapienti sat dictum est. Border posts, Your Lordship, are shifted to the advantage of the victors. And they who support them.”

“Do I understand that to be a proposal?” A flash appeared in the young duke’s eye. “An offer?”

“Sapienti sat.”

“Ha.” The flash was still there. “And I shall benefit, you say. And how, exactly?”

Horn smiled imperiously and glanced at his bonds. At a gesture from Wołoszek, they were immediately cut. Seeing that, the Falkenhayn growled again and the Knight Hospitaller slapped his sword hilt. And the priest jumped up.

“My lord!” he yelled. “Don’t listen to devilish prodding! These Hussite vipers are dripping venom into your ears! Remember the faith of your forebears! Remember—”

“Shut your trap, damned priest.”

The priest jumped even higher. “Is this your true nature?” he yelled even louder, waving his arms in front of the duke’s nose. “They recognise you! O apostate! O turncoat! You fraternise with heretics! Knights—have at him, whoever believes in God! I curse you! May you be accursed at home and abroad, may you be accursed at your slumbers, rising, walking—”

Bolko Wołoszek struck him in the temple with a powerful reverse blow. The six-flanged iron head of the mace crushed the bone with an audible crunch. The priest slumped, jerking and trembling. The duke turned around, his furiously contorted mouth about to issue an order. His look was enough and the Poles anticipated their master’s intentions. With a powerful blow of a battleaxe, Krzych of Kościelec smashed the skull of the Knight Hospitaller who was pointing a sword at him, the Prawdzic stabbed the Falkenhayn in the throat with a misericorde, while the Silesian Nieczuja plunged a blade into his back. Bodies were falling onto the dirt floor; blood was forming puddles.

The servants and pages looked on open-mouthed.

“There.” The Ogończyk grinned. “What a happy day. It’s been ages since I last killed a Teutonic Knight.”

“To our soldiers!” cried the duke. “To our folk! Calm them! Particularly the Germans! If anyone offers resistance, take him down! And prepare to move out!”

“To Nysa?”

“No. To Krapkowice and Opole. That’s an order!”

“Yes, sire!”

Bolko Wołoszek turned around and fixed his blazing eyes on Reynevan and Horn. He was breathing rapidly, loudly and irregularly. His hands were shaking.