The bishop’s regiment was the first to withdraw and then flee in confusion. Decimated by a salvo in the charge, they ground to a halt in front of the wagenburg and became impaled on the thicket of fixed pikes, gisarmes and bear spears like leaves on a hedgehog.
On seeing it, Mikołaj Zedlitz completely lost heart. Shouting incoherent and nonsensical commands, the Starosta of Otmuchów suddenly reined his horse around, flung his shield with the gold clasp onto the ground and simply rode away. Marshal Wawrzyniec of Rohrau galloped after him. The two men were followed by the entire regiment. Or rather what was left of it.
Wenceslaus, Duke of Głubczyce, son of Przemko of Opava was next. Wenceslaus, an adept of the occult arts, had spent the entire journey pondering over an enigmatic horoscope the court astrologers had cast before the expedition. Now, as the Opava knights began to fall under the blows of Hussite flails, Duke Wenceslaus decided that the conjunctions were unfavourable and the prospects poor. And that it was time to go home. On his order, the entire Opava contingent withdrew. In considerable panic.
Jan of Ziębice, Hinko Stosz and Jerzy Zettritz were hoarse from yelling out orders. The knighthood withdrew from the wagon fort in order to regroup. It was the commanders’ final and worst mistake. The Orphans had managed in the meanwhile to load their trestle guns and cannons; harquebuses, handgonnes and crossbows were at the ready. There was a deafening roar as the wagon fort once again spat fire and smoke, and a lethal hail of missiles fell on the retreating Silesians. Once again, balls and bolts cut through armour, once again mutilated horses tumbled down, squealing. And whoever was still able set off in desperate flight.
The Starosta of Grodków, Tamsz of Tannenfeld, fled in panic, overtaking all of his subordinates. Deputy Starosta Stosz ran from the field with the remains of the surviving Świdnica knights. The Wrocław and Ziębice knights, deaf to the desperate calls of Duke Jan and Zettritz, ran away in confusion.
“Now!” bellowed Jan Královec of Hrádek. “Noooow! Have at them, Warriors of God! Have at them! Death to them!”
Immediately, several wagons were removed from the walls of the wagon fort and the Czech cavalry charged through the gaps. On lighter and fresher horses, less burdened down by armour, the Hussite cavalrymen caught up with the fleeing Silesians in no time. And cut and hacked them down mercilessly.
The infantry left the wagons to rush after the cavalry. Any Silesians who were spared by the cavalry’s swords now perished under blows of flails.
“Have at them! Haaaave at theeeem!”
Smoke and the stench of burning crept over the battlefield. The fires died down. But in the east a bloody dawn was rising.
“Have at them!” yelled Reynevan, galloping in the charge between Salava of Lípa and Brázda of Klinštejn. “Kill them!”
They caught up with the Silesians, swooping on them like hawks, and a massacre began. Swords clanged on armour; sparks shot up from blades. Reynevan hacked with all his might, yelling to give himself courage. The Silesians broke free from the fighting and fled. Reynevan galloped after them.
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.
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!