“Oh well, that’s life.” He shrugged. “In any case, I’ve always thought that Prokop and Flutek hold an inflated opinion of you, Reynevan of Bielawa. You are simply overrated. On top of that, forgive me, you reek.”

“I fled Kłodzko through the sewers.”

Královec was still composed. “So the town shat you out. How symbolic. Now go and get washed and tidied up. A sizeable job and a serious task await us here. We have to capture that town ourselves, without outside help.”

“In my opinion,” Reynevan blurted out, “Kłodzko ought to be avoided. The defence is extremely strong, the commanders valiant, the morale of the garrison high… Wouldn’t it be better to go straight to Kamieniec? And the Cistercian monastery? It’s very wealthy.”

Jíra of Řečice snorted and Kolda shook his head. Královec said nothing, but he sneered and looked at Reynevan long and unwaveringly.

“When I want your opinion in military matters,” he finally said, “I’ll let you know. Dismissed.”

Grey smoke trailed over the monastery garden and there was a smell of burned weed. The old monk chronicler dipped his quill in the inkwell.

Anno Domini MCCCCXXVIII feria IV ante palmarum Viclefiste de secta Orphanorum cum pixidibus et machinis castrum dictum Cladzco circumvallaverunt, in quo castro erant capitanei dominus Puotha de Czastolowicz et Nicolaus dictus Mosco, et ibi dictis pixidibus et machinis sagittantes et per sturm et aliis diversis modis ipsum castrum conabantur aquirere et lucrare; ipsi vero se viriliter defenderunt…

The quill scratched. There was a smell of ink.

“Onwards!” yelled Jan Kolda of Žampach, shouting over the bangs and shouts. “Onwards, Warriors of God! Up the walls! Up the walls!”

A stone—probably shot from either a catapult or a mounted crossbow—slammed into the barricade with such force it would have knocked it down, along with Reynevan and the rest of the garrison hiding behind it, had Samson not been with them. The giant staggered under the impact but remained on his feet, holding on to the barricade’s support. That was fortunate, because missiles were showering ceaselessly down from the walls. In front of Reynevan’s eyes, a bowman leaning out from the next pavise was hit straight in the forehead, the ball smashing his skull into pieces.

A wild yell resounded from the Czech Gate—the Orphans had managed to put ladders and branched boughs against it and were now climbing up them and being decimated by the fire from above. Boiling water and molten pitch were poured on them, along with a hail of rocks and spiked timbers. The companies of Jíra of Řečice attacking the section between the Green Gate and the Bathing Gate were faring no better. Twice they had put up ladders and twice been repelled.