“In any case, she’s doomed,” says Bisclavret, getting up from a roadside ditch. How he spoke was a mystery since there was only bloody pulp where his throat and jaw should have been. “Jan of Ziębice won’t let her go. No matter what you do, you won’t save her. She’s as good as dead. She’s lost.”

Gelfrad of Stercza climbs out of a ditch on the other side. Headless. Holding his head under one arm.

“You vowed,” says the head. “You gave your verbum nobile, your parole. You have to sacrifice her. I sacrificed… myself. I did my duty. I swore to him… Hodie mihi, cras tibi… Hodie mihi, cras tibi…”

Horses’ hooves strike the earth. Reynevan gallops, bent over in the saddle. The village of Baumgarten ought to be somewhere around. But it isn’t. There are bare, ancient trees, a wild forest, a winter wilderness.

“You were a pretty couple,” calls a green-skinned creature with eyes glowing like phosphorous. “Joioza and bachelar. Oh, you were! You were!”

“A stone tossed at the ramparts!” Pale wights howl as they rise from a hollow. “A stone tossed at the ramparts!”

Tall, dark-skinned, white-haired alps with pointed ears peer out from behind tree trunks.

“Tempus odii.” Their intrusive, clearly audible whispers creep towards him. “Tempus odii, a time of hatred…”

The village of Bukowczyk ought to be there. It is not.

“The New Era!” shouts Krejčíř, the Orphans’ preacher, suddenly leaping up. He’s completely covered in blood; it is gushing from a stump ending above the elbow and from a dreadful gash on his head. “The New Era! And may the old world perish in flames! Sacrifice her! Sacrifice her for the cause!”

“A stone tossed at the ramparts! A stone tossed at the ramparts!”

“The Kingdom of God will dawn!” howls Krejčíř. “The true Regnum Dei! We shall triumph! The true faith will triumph, the end of immorality will arise, the world will be changed! For it to happen, you must sacrifice her! You must sacrifice her.”

The Totentanz, the danse macabre, descends the hillside in an unending procession. Hundreds of skeletons attired in shrouds cavort and hop, jiggling in clumsy, grotesque, swinging strides. Ragged standards and pennants flutter and flap. Hellish drums clatter. Bones rattle and teeth snap. And an uneven chorus is sung in screeching voices:

Ye, who are warriors of God

And of his law!

Thousands of crows, rooks and jackdaws circle and caw above the skeleton host. The wind carries a foul, rotten stench.

Bones rattle, teeth snap. There’s yelling and hellish wailing. And a song.

Ye, who are warriors of God

And of his law!

A stone at the ramparts. You must sacrifice her.

Reynevan presses his face against the horse’s mane and jabs with his spurs.

The hooves thud on the frozen ground.