And then the Wallcreeper saw him.

The Wallcreeper hadn’t taken part in the battle, he had no such intention. He had come to Stary Wielisław, riding concealed behind the Silesian army, with only one goal in mind. He had brought his ten Black Riders from Sensenberg with but one aim in mind. Predicting the mishap, they hurtled onto the battlefield like wraiths. Circling and searching.

It was by sheer accident that the Wallcreeper managed to spot Reynevan in the turmoil of battle, in the wild confusion and the darkness lit by flickering fires. A piece of luck. Had it not been for luck, neither magic nor hash’eesh would have helped him.

Spotting Reynevan, the Wallcreeper screamed an order. The Black Riders reined their horses around as one. Wheezing behind their visors, they hurtled towards where the Wallcreeper was pointing. In a headlong gallop, slashing and cutting down anyone in their way, barging, knocking over and trampling them.

“Adsumus! Adsuumuus! ”

Reynevan saw them. And went numb.

But accidents and luck could happen to anyone; no one had a monopoly on them. Particularly not that night.

When the Hussite infantry had poured from behind the wagons after the cavalry in pursuit of the Silesians, some of the artillerymen abandoned their cannons and joined in the chase. But not all of them. Others so loved their firearms that they wouldn’t go after anyone without them. Cannons, having gun carriages, were ideally suited to that kind of manoeuvre. As luck would have it, three artillery gun crews pushed and rolled their cannons onto the field directly opposite the charging Black Riders. Seeing what was afoot, the cannoneers swung the carriages into position and brought fuses to touch-holes.

The Riders’ plate armour was quite impervious to the hail of lead shot, scrap iron and incised nails, which bounced off their breastplates like peas. The elevation of the cannons meant, however, that most of the missiles struck the horses and sowed havoc among them. None of the ten horses withstood the salvo, none of them remained on their feet. Several Riders were crushed, several killed by kicks. The other Riders struggled to their feet, wheezing, looking around with eyes vacant from hash’eesh. They were given no chance to recover.

The last reserve of Orphans rushed out from behind the wagenburg. Soldiers with light wounds. Wagoners. Blacksmiths and leather workers. Women. Youngsters. Armed with whatever the casualties had dropped. Pitchforks, partisans and gisarmes repelled and downed the Black Riders and the Orphans swarmed over them like ants. Stanchions, axes, clubs, swingletrees and hammers rose and fell, penetrating weak points: visors, plackarts, couters and poleyns. Knife blades, spikes and sickles were plunged through slits in armour. The wheezing turned into high-pitched shrieks.

The Black Riders resisted death for a long time. They fought hard not to surrender their lives. But the Hussites struck, struck and struck again.

As long as was necessary.