For reinforcements kept coming.
“Death to the traitors!” they yelled, attacking. “Into the Vltava with them!”
“Kill them, give no quarter!”
Wounded steeds neighed, rearing up, and their riders fell to the ground, slippery with blood. And from the windows came an unceasing stream of bolts…
“Kill the traitors! Into the Vltava!”
The riders retreated, returned to the square, dispersed and regrouped on their own initiative to force their way through the barricades and chains near the Church of Saint Nicholas and in Michalská Street. But Hynek wasn’t with them. The horse of the hero of Vyšehrad had fallen under him, cut down by a scythe blade across the forelegs. The knight managed to jump free in time, his sword still in his hand, and smote those who leaped at him. Back pressed against the wall of the House at the Elephant, he called several men to him. Seeing that they were falling from crossbow belts, he darted into a vaulted hallway, barging open the door. A mob of Praguians rushed into the house after him. Hynek didn’t have a chance. It wasn’t long before his bloodied body, shrouded in a tunic decorated with the lion of the Markvartic family, tumbled from a window on the first floor and thudded onto the Prague cobblestones.
“Defenestration!” Flutek laughed, his face contorting demonically. “A fresh defenestration! That’s to my liking, dammit! Justice and symbolism!”
Hynek, having been thrown from the window, was still showing faint signs of life. The Praguians crowded around him. They hesitated for a time. Finally, one man overcame his reluctance and stabbed the knight with a spear. Another hacked at him with a poleaxe. And then all the others fell on him, stabbing and hacking.
“Oh, yes!” Flutek laughed. “Symbolism! Well, Reynevan? What do you say—”
He broke off. Reynevan wasn’t in the room.
It had to be admitted that the knight with the shield divided diagonally into silver and black fields saved himself using good sense and invention. Firstly, while still in the Old Town Square, he discarded the shield identifying him. When the horsemen who had been driven back from the barricades in the Fruit Market regrouped behind the Church of Saint Leonard to attack the Praguians again, the silver and black knight confidently turned his horse around and darted into the narrow streets, tearing off his richly embroidered cloak as he galloped. He rode into the small Puddle Square, frightening ducks and beggars. Hearing the cries of his pursuers, he leaped from the saddle, slapped his steed on the rump and dived into a narrow, dark alley leading towards Swordsmiths Street. The yelling Praguians followed the clatter of hooves towards the Dominican monastery and the Vltava. The river in whose waters—as the shouts of the mob were boringly and monotonously proclaiming—every rebel and traitor would soon meet his end.
The sounds grew fainter and more distant. The knight sighed in relief and smiled faintly to himself. He was already almost certain he would make it. And who knows, perhaps he would have, were it not for the fact that Reynevan knew the area very well. Swordsmiths Street and the backstreets leading from it had been home, in pre-revolutionary times, to several cosy and reasonably priced little brothels, so every student and scholar of Charles University was very familiar with the area. On top of that, Reynevan and Samson Honeypot were using magic—telepathic amulets, very simple ones, but sufficient for rudimentary telecommunication—for tracking and stalking.
The silver and black knight waited for a moment, using the time to drape a piece of cloth he’d found over his armour. He pressed himself against the wall on hearing the thud of horseshoes, but it was only a riderless horse, a dun with blood running down its side. Following the horse came a spotted cow, rocking and mooing—how it got there, God alone only knew.
When it grew silent, the knight quickly headed towards Swordsmiths Street, where he stopped for a moment and looked around, listening to the fading sounds of fighting and slaughter. Then he entered the first arcade and courtyard he came to, where he began removing the treacherous armour. He took down a very frayed and baggy blouse from among other garments on a washing line. It had clearly been made for a pregnant woman or one with a naturally rotund physique. Pulling the blouse down over his head, he couldn’t see anything for a moment.
And Reynevan and Samson took advantage of that.
Reynevan slammed the knight hard with a plank picked up from the ground. Samson caught the man by the shoulder, shook him, jerked him up and shoved him hard against the wall. Astonishingly, rather than sliding inertly down the wall, the knight pushed off against it, jerked a short sword from a sheath and attacked. Samson dodged and Reynevan swung the plank again. The knight parried powerfully, then thrust with the blade so quickly and expertly that had Reynevan not taken lessons from a swordsman, he would have bidden farewell to his liver and his life. The knight nimbly turned the short sword around in his hand and delivered a rapid blow. Had it not been for a dodge Reynevan had learned, the knight’s blade would have ended up buried in his cervical vertebrae. Samson neutralised the dangerous situation, knocking the knight’s weapon out of his hand with a blow from a stick and felling him with a punch. The punch was powerful, but the knight had no intention of staying down that time, either. He leaped to his feet, seized an empty barrel in both hands, lifted it up, grunted and, red in the face from the effort, threw it like a missile at Samson Honeypot. And here he met his match. Samson caught the barrel in mid-flight and sent it back like a ball. The knight was knocked off his feet and tumbled into a pile of straw.
This time, he didn’t manage to get up. Reynevan and Samson were upon him, pinned him down, twisted his arms behind his back and bound them. They wrapped his head around with the blouse to blindfold him and then bound his legs at the ankles with a long rope, which they used to drag him to a nearby cellar. They didn’t go easy on him, oblivious of the fact that the knight’s head was banging rhythmically against the stone steps and he was groaning and cursing.
Shoved down into a pile of cabbages, he sat up, groaning and fulminating. When Reynevan tore the blouse from his head, he blinked. The cellar had a small window and a little light was coming through. The knight scrutinised Reynevan for a long time, then glanced at Samson, and at once decided that of the two, only one was a partner in negotiations. He looked Reynevan straight in the eye and cleared his throat.
“Sensible,” he forced himself to smile, “judicious, Brother. Why share with others when you can have everything for yourself? The times are too hard and unpredictable to turn one’s nose up at a penny. And you’ll end up with a penny, I promise.”
Reynevan surreptitiously sighed with relief. Until that moment, he hadn’t been absolutely certain and had felt a gnawing frustration that he might have been mistaken. But when the knight spoke, there was no chance of a mistake. He had heard that voice two years before, on the thirteenth of September, in the Cistercian grange in Dębowiec, Silesia.
“You deserve…” The silver and black knight licked his lips and glowered at Reynevan. “You deserve a reward. If only for your cunning. You caught me craftily, what can I say? You’ve got your head screwed on—”
He broke off. He realised he was talking in vain, and that his words weren’t making any impression on his listener. He immediately changed tack. His face assumed a proud expression and his tone became lordly and imperious.