The man whom the Hussites dragged in, howling, wriggling and kicking was—Reynevan recognised him right away—Deacon Andrzej Kantor. He was dressed in nothing but a shirt, for he had clearly been caught trying to discard his Dominican habit. As he was being dragged, he noticed Reynevan.

“M’Lord Bielawa!” he howled. “Don’t let them kill me! Don’t leeet them! Save me, m’loooord!”

“You sold me, Kantor. Remember? You sold me to my death. So you will perish like Judas.”

“M’loooord! Have meeercy!”

“Bring him here.” Půlpán pointed at the bloodstained chopping block. “He’ll be the third martyr. Omne trinum perfectum! ”

Perhaps it was an impulse, some vague recollection. Perhaps it was momentary weakness, fatigue. Perhaps it was catching Samson Honeypot’s deeply melancholic expression out of the corner of his eye. Reynevan didn’t entirely know what induced him to take that particular action. He snatched a crossbow from the hands of the Czech next to him, took aim and squeezed the trigger. The bolt struck Kantor beneath the sternum with such force that it passed right through him, almost wrenching the deacon from his executioners’ grasp. He was dead before he hit the ground.

“I had my own score to settle with him,” said Reynevan in the turgid and dreadfully deathly silence that followed.

“I understand,” said Smil Půlpán, nodding. “But don’t ever do that again, Brother. Because others might not.”

Flames roared across the church roof, the chevrons and beams crashing down into the blazing interior. A moment later, the walls began to crumble and collapse. A column of sparks and smoke shot skywards. Black rags whirled around above the fire like crows above a battlefield.

The Church of Saint Anne caved in completely. Only the stone arch of the portal remained standing and grew black in the flames. Like the gate to Hell.

A rider dashed into the square and brought his foaming horse to a sliding stop in front of the Orphans’ hejtmans: Jan Královec, Little Prokop, Kolda of Žampach, Jíra of Řečice, Brázda of Klinštejn and Matěj Salava of Lípa.

“Brother Jan! Brother Prokop has turned back from Oława and is heading via Strzelin to Rychbach. He calls for you there without delay!”

“Did you hear that?” Královec turned towards his officers. “The Tábor calls!”

“The castle has not yet fallen,” Little Prokop reminded him.

“Lucky for it. Commanders, to your troops! Load the loot onto the wagons, round up the cattle! We are moving out! We march on Rychbach, Brothers! On Rychbach!”

“Greetings, Brethren! Greetings, Tábor!”

“Welcome in God’s name, Brethren! Greetings, Orphans!”