“Sapienti sat,” he uttered hoarsely. “Did you hear what I ordered? I’m withdrawing my men to avoid contact with your troops. I’m not going to Nysa; I won’t support the bishop. Prokop should treat it as an act of alliance. You, in return, will spare my lands. Głogówek… But that’s not all. Not all, by God’s wounds! Tell Prokop…” The young duke raised his head proudly. “Tell him an alliance with me will warrant substantial changes to maps. To be specific…”

“Specifically,” Horn repeated, “Wołoszek demanded a permanent fiefdom of Hukvaldy, Příbor, Ostrava and Frenštát. I promised them to him as we had agreed. But that wasn’t enough for him—he also demanded Namysłów, Kluczbork, Gryżów, Rybnik, Pszczyna and Bytom. I promised them to him, Brother Prokop, also pledging them in your name. Was I too hasty?”

Prokop the Shaven didn’t answer at once. He was eating while standing with his back to a combat wagon, scooping up dumplings with a lindenwood spoon and raising them to his mouth. Milk was drying on his moustache.

Behind the wagon and Prokop, a great fire raged and roared, the town of Głuchołazy aflame. The wooden parish church blazed like a torch. As fire consumed the roof and thatch, smoke billowed in black clouds up into the sky. The screams of people being killed didn’t let up for a moment.

“No, Brother, you weren’t.” Prokop the Shaven licked the spoon. “You acted correctly, promising them in my name. We’ll give him everything we’ve pledged. Bolko deserves to be compensated for the damage, for it somehow occurred that Zmrzlík and Puchała, when putting Biała and Prudnik to the torch, also burned down his beloved Głogówek in their haste. We shall compensate him for that offence. In truth, most of the towns he is demanding still have to be captured. We shall see in the capturing what kind of ally Duke Bolko is and reward him aptly for his service to the cause.”

“And service to God,” interjected the preacher Markolt, with his mouth full. “The heir of Opole must receive the sacrament from the Chalice and swear on the Four Articles.”

“There will be time for that, too.” Prokop put down his bowl. “Finish your food.”

The milk and dumplings were drying on Prokop’s moustaches. Behind Prokop, the town of Głuchołazy was turning to ash. The townspeople were wailing at various pitches as they were killed.

“Prepare to move out! On to Nysa, Warriors of God! On to Nysa!”

Chapter Eighteen