The Wallcreeper saw it all and Reynevan saw it all. Reynevan saw the Wallcreeper and the Wallcreeper saw Reynevan. They looked at one another across the bloody battlefield, eyes smouldering with hatred. Then Reynevan roared furiously, spurred his horse and charged at the Wallcreeper, brandishing his sword.

The Wallcreeper dropped the reins, raised both arms in a sudden movement and wove a complicated gesture with them in the air. He was immediately surrounded by a creaking and sparking glow, and a ball of flame began to swell and billow around his outstretched hands. But the Wallcreeper didn’t manage to throw it. He wasn’t quick enough. While Reynevan galloped, from the battlefield a group of mounted men hurtled towards the Wallcreeper, approaching rapidly. A party of Litomyšl infantry armed with flails and halberds rushed from the wagons. The Wallcreeper screamed a spell and waved his arms. Before the eyes of Reynevan and the astonished Orphans, a large bird took flight from the saddle of the black stallion. Flapping its wings, it rose up into the sky, croaking savagely, and flew out of eyeshot.

“Witchcraft!” roared Matěj Salava of Lípa. “Papist witchcraft! Ugh!”

In order to discharge his anger, he buried his battleaxe in the black stallion’s head. The stallion fell to its knees and then toppled over onto its side, tensing its legs stiffly.

“Over there!” roared Salava, pointing. “They’re over there, the bitches’ sons! Over there! Have at them, Brethren! Kill them! For Kratzau!

“For Kratzau! Kill them! May none escape with his life!”

Having escaped the turmoil of the battle, Jan of Ziębice fled in panic, forcing the last breath from his snorting horse as he galloped.

He was heading northwards, towards the faintly smoking Schwedeldorf. He didn’t know exactly where he was going; it was indeed all the same to him. Stupefied with fear, he was simply following the others. Just to escape the slaughter. He caught up with a few knights on staggering horses, necks white with froth.

“Risin? Borschnitz? Kurzbach?”

“Your Grace!”

“Ride, swiftly! We must flee!”

“Over there…” panted Hyncze Borschnitz, pointing. “Across the river—”

“Ride!”

The idea of crossing the river was ill-advised. The worst of all possible ideas. Not only were they plainly visible against the blazing cottages of Schwedeldorf, but the river’s banks turned out to be a marsh that never froze. Once the horseshoes had broken the thin layer of ice on the surface, the heavy horses sank in deep, some up to their bellies.