“We’ll talk more at Chojnik Castle about whether you have it, how much you have and where it is.” Schaff squinted slightly. “Whence we shall soon set off. If you give me your knightly parole that you won’t try to escape, I won’t order you bound. In any case, where could you escape to? The forests are teeming with those hell hounds. Bergow is certainly on your trail. Ulrik Biberstein—who can’t wait to get his hands on you—is also sniffing around near Trosky. No harm will come to you while you’re with me. I’ll even leave you some of the tax collector’s money, I’ll only take… Four hundred grzywna. For which reason—”
Before the heir to Chojnik could finish, the Visumrepertum periapt quivered on Reynevan’s arm. Spontaneously.
The magic that triggered the amulet was so powerful, Reynevan didn’t have the slightest difficulty in determining the direction from which it was emanating. Taking both Schaff and his men by surprise, he ran across the track through some juniper bushes, cleared a hollow and without a second thought fell on a man in a hood crouching behind a fallen tree. Reynevan knocked a box resembling a small reliquary out of his hands with a sweeping punch, kicked it, punched him in the nape and again in the ear. The hood fell and a tonsure shone. Reynevan would have punched the priest again, but Schaff’s men caught him and seized him in an iron grip.
“What the Devil are you playing at?” yelled Schaff. “Are you insane? Or demented?”
“Look what he had,” yelled Reynevan even louder. “Ask him what he was doing!”
“What are you talking about? That’s Father Zwicker, my chaplain!”
“He’s a traitor! That casket is a magical communicator! He was sending a signal, trying to contact somebody and summon them here using magic! And I know who!”
Schaff bent down to the box lying on the ground, but stepped back suddenly on hearing a buzzing sound. Without thinking twice, he crushed the box with a mighty blow of his boot, grinding it into the sand with his heel. The chaplain uttered a stifled cry at the sight.
“Would you like to explain this to me, Zwicker,” said Schaff, approaching him. “Eh?”
“I can explain,” Reynevan shouted, still being held by the soldiers. “The damned priest has betrayed me! He has brought tormentors down on me—it was owing to him that they almost caught me yesterday! Ask him about the sorcerer Birkart Grellenort! Ask him how long he has served Grellenort, how long he has informed for him! How long he has been betraying you, too!”
“Birkart Grellenort,” Janko Schaff repeated ominously, seizing the chaplain by the collar of his vestments. “The bishop’s confidant. Is that so? Is it? You’re his spy? You use magic to report to the bishop? Telling him everything I say, do and think? Are you betraying me?”
The chaplain pursed his lips and turned his head away.
“Answer the accusation, wretched priest. Defend yourself. Swear you are innocent. That you are my obedient servant. That you pay with loyalty for the bread you eat thanks to my grace, and for the money I graciously permit you to steal!”
The priest still said nothing. Schaff pulled the priest towards him. And then shoved him away, casting him down onto the ground.
“Bind the scum,” he ordered. “The executioner will have words with him.”
“Apostate!” bellowed Zwicker from the ground. “Heathen! You are not my master; I do not serve you! I serve God and those who act on God’s orders! They will catch up with you, you hell spawn, and my martyrdom will be avenged! You shall know my masters’ wrath; you’ll howl like a whipped cur when they come on their black horses! And you, Bielawa, unchaste scoundrel, you’ll find no refuge on this Earth! There is already a place for you in Hell! But here, on Earth, you will taste agony! You will be flayed—”
One of the soldiers quietened him with a powerful kick. The chaplain curled up, wheezing.
“To horse,” Janko Schaff commanded without looking at him. “On we go!”
Schaff’s party numbered nine horsemen—two burgmen, two esquires, three bowmen and two armed servants. There must have been more with him at Trosky—the seven slaves that Schaff received in the division weren’t with them. An escort had probably driven them towards the Silesian border. Now the only captives were the chaplain and Reynevan. Unlike the priest, Reynevan’s arms hadn’t been bound nor his legs tied under the horse’s belly. He had been coerced into giving his parole that he wouldn’t try to escape, sealed by a vow on his honour and the cross. He naturally planned to escape at the first opportunity, but Scharley would have been proud of him—neither his face twitched nor his voice trembled when perjuring himself. He almost believed the oath himself. Schaff, however, wasn’t so gullible; he had certainly dealt with oaths before, and with people of Scharley’s ilk. Reynevan wasn’t tied up, but his horse was led by the bridle and a bowman riding behind kept a keen eye on him. And a loaded crossbow trained on him.
They rode quite quickly, without dallying, heading towards the north and the mountains. The route led through a barren and remote area, indicating that Schaff was deliberately avoiding main roads. Reynevan didn’t know the Podkrkonoší at all and was quite lost. He did know the destination, though: Chojnik Castle near Jelenia Góra. It was on the Silesian side of the Karkonosze, so it could be presumed that the detachment would head for a pass. Reynevan’s knowledge of the area was too poor to know which one.
Although he didn’t really know the Karkonosze or the surrounding region, he had heard various tales about Chojnik Castle, and he knew enough about the place to be anxious. The ancient stronghold, already shrouded in numerous legends, stood at the top of a steep, high mountain, rising over a bottomless abyss reputedly strewn with human bones, and known—in order to avoid unfortunate misunderstandings—as “Hell’s Valley.” The modern stone castle, built by the Ĺwidnica-Jawor Piasts, had been captured around fifty years earlier and added to his already very wealthy estates by Gocze Schaff, Burgrave of Jelenia Góra. The castle was inherited by his elder son Janko. His other son, Gocze junior, was the lord of nearby Gryf Castle. The brothers ruled the entire surroundings with iron fists, including part of the important trade route running along the bank of the River Bóbr.
While the genealogy and wealth of the Schaff family didn’t interest Reynevan greatly, the same couldn’t be said for Chojnik Castle. Most of the horrible stories about the stronghold were most likely apocryphal, but the fact remained: Chojnik was a difficult castle to enter and even more difficult to leave. An escape, were it to succeed, would have to be attempted before they entered the castle.
There was one more important reason for doing so.
The frozen ground on the track and the moss on the roadside clearing were churned and torn up by many hooves. Schaff’s soldiers created a circle and looked around with their hands on their sword hilts. The bowmen loaded their crossbows, observing the road and the edge of the forest attentively.
“There was a brawl here,” said Gwido Buschbach, a short, stocky and not so young esquire and the detachment’s guide and tracker. “Around thirty horse. They fought, then went their separate ways. Yesterday, judging from the horse shit.”