Five horses rode away in the morning. Carrying Reynevan, Scharley, Samson, Bisclavret and Rzehors. Samson had the Flemish goedendag fastened to his pommel, while Scharley was armed with a dangerous-looking weapon called a falchion, a scimitar with a curved blade, widening to the point. Weapons like that, in spite of their Saracen appearance, were forged throughout Europe and were particularly popular in Italy. It was lighter than a traditional sword and considerably handier in combat, particularly in close combat.

They crossed onto the left bank of the Nysa near the smoking ruins of Otmuchów and headed towards the Rychleby range. They travelled along the route that a few days earlier the Hussite units had marched down. Everywhere, as far as the eye could see, were visible tracks of their passing and evidence of the noble aims and ideas upheld by the Tábor. Smouldering embers were all that remained of churches where the Roman Antichrist was venerated. Here and there, a prelate who had been bought by Rome was hanging from a bare branch. Ravens, crows, wolves and wild dogs were feeding on the corpses. Actually, one ought to have assumed that they were all the bodies of Germans and the enemies of the Chalice greedy for Slavic blood, ought to have believed that among the dead there were no completely innocent or chance individuals. One might have believed that. But no one did.

They passed the bishop’s town of Javorník and headed for the mountains and the Krutvald Pass. And there, in the spring, winter descended on them.

It began harmlessly, becoming overcast, with a somewhat harsher and colder wind and a few little snowflakes. Without warning, in an instant, the few snowflakes turned into a dense, white blizzard. The snow, falling in large flakes, instantly covered the road, painted the spruce white and filled the ruts. It stuck to the travellers’ faces and filled their eyes with water as it melted on their eyelashes. The higher towards the pass they climbed, the worse it became—the ferociously howling gale intensified the blizzard, and they couldn’t see anything apart from the manes of their horses, white from snow. Having blinded them, the blizzard toyed with their other senses—you would have sworn you’d heard wild laughter, giggles, cries and howling in the snow. None of the company was especially superstitious, but all at once they began to huddle and cower in the saddle, and without being urged at all, the horses trotted more briskly, giving only the occasional anxious snort.

Fortunately, the road led them into a basin, additionally protected by a beech forest. And then they smelled smoke and saw a small light. It was quiet. In weather like that not even the dogs felt like barking.