Tauler and Samson pushed the barricade forward again. Rzehors cursed as he fought with the jammed lever of a crossbow. Scharley and Bisclavret, having loaded a harquebus, poked the barrel out from cover and fired at the same moment as a wagon-mounted twelve-pound cannon was fired from behind the next barricade. Smoke enveloped everything and Reynevan was deafened for a few seconds. He couldn’t hear anything, not bangs, not shouts, not blasphemous oaths or the howling of the wounded. Before he was struck in the arm by the handle of a scourge, he hadn’t even heard Hejtman Jan Královec, who had ridden up on horseback, showing crazy disregard for the bolts whistling around him.

“…’s sake!” Reynevan finally heard. “Can’t you fucking hear? You were forbidden from joining the attack! I forbade you from playing at war! We need you for other matters! Away, to the rear! Everybody to the rear! We’re falling back!”

Kolda’s soldiers at the wall couldn’t hear Královec’s order, but they didn’t need to. Casting down the ladders, they retreated. Some retreated in orderly fashion, in array, hiding behind pavises and harrying the defenders on the battlements with heavy fire from handgonnes. But others simply fled, flying in panic, just to get away from the walls and the death raining down on them. From outside the Green Gate, Reynevan saw the Orphans of Jíra of Řečice also retreating towards Zarzecze and Neulende. The defenders on the walls yelled triumphantly, brandished their weapons and waved pennants, ignoring the incendiary missiles, balls, bolts and round shot that the attackers were unremittingly shooting at them from below. From the gate tower, the white and blue pennant of Půta of Častolovice and a large processional crucifix were raised and the people roared and sang, crowing in triumph. Although a quarter of the town was in flames, they were exulting.

Bisclavret attached the hook to the edge of the barricade, took aim and brought the fuse to the touch-hole. The harquebus fired with a roar.

“May it fly straight up Sir Půta’s arse!” growled Bisclavret through the smoke. “Direct my ball, Our Lady!”

“We’re falling back.” Scharley wiped his face, smudging soot. “We’re falling back, lads. The fun’s over. Kłodzko has repelled the attack.”

“Jesuuuuuus!” yelled Parsifal Rachenau at the top of his voice as he lay on the floor of the hoard. “Jesuuuuuus! Chriiiist!”

“Stop it,” hissed Henryk Baruth, called Starling, leaning over him. “Behave yourself! Don’t be a wench!”

“I am…” Parsifal sobbed. “I am a wench now! Chriiiist! It tore off… It tore everything off! Oh God, oh God…”