The wind blew, combing the forested mountainside, covering the sky with a blue-grey curtain of cloud.

The grey-eyed priest reined in his horse, turned around and waited for Tybald Raabe to ride up.

“Dismount,” he said dryly. “I told you I need certain information. Here and now.”

“Here? In this fell wilderness? Right beside a boneyard? At dusk? Under those clouds, which will any moment burst? Can’t we talk in a tavern, over a beer?”

“I’ve already unmasked myself sufficiently because of you. I don’t want anyone to see me with you and put two and two together. For which reason—”

He broke off, seeing the goliard’s eyes growing wide in fear.

What they first saw was an explosion of black birds, flying up from the thicket surrounding the graveyard. It was then that they saw the spectral dancers.

One after the other, in a line, holding hands, skeletons appeared from behind the graveyard wall, cavorting in strange and grotesque strides. Some naked, some incomplete, some adorned in ragged shrouds, they danced, rocking and hopping, lifting high their bony feet, shin bones and thigh bones, snapping their gap-toothed jaws rhythmically. The wind blew, groaning like the damned, whistling through ribs and pelvises, playing through skulls like flutes.

“Der Totentanz…” Tybald Raabe gasped. “La Danse Macabre…”

The procession of skeletons went around the cemetery three times and then, still holding hands, they passed into the forest on the hillside, dancing all the while, jiggling and swaying. They walked, hopping and clattering, in a cloud of leaves and ash blown up from the burned-down houses. The flocks of black birds accompanied them the whole time, and even when the ghastly dancers vanished among the thicket, the confusion of birds above the treetops signalled their route.

“It’s a sign…” mumbled the goliard. “An omen! A plague will come… Or a war…”

“Or both,” said the grey-eyed man, shrugging. “It turns out that the chiliasts were right. This world has no chance of surviving to the end of the second millennium. Judging by all the visible signs, it will be destroyed long before that. Quite soon, I’d even say. To horse, Tybald. I’ve changed my mind. Let’s search for an inn. Well away from here.”

“Why, m’lord,” said Tybald Raabe, his mouth full of peas and cabbage. “Where will I get my hands on information like that? I shall indeed tell you what I know, in detail. About Peterlin of Bielawa. About his brother Reynevan and Reynevan’s romance with Adèle Stercza and what came out of it. About what happened in the Raubritter settlement of Kromolin and at the tournament in Ziębice. About when Reynevan… How is Reynevan, anyway, m’lord? Is he well? What of Samson? And Scharley?”

“Don’t change the subject. But since you mention him, who is he, that Scharley?”