“Supreme Master of the Holy Inquisition, Johan Ostlandский, rode toward the other riders. He did not feel fear. The Master had forgotten what fear was. There was no helmet on his head, and the wind ruffled his filthy hair, hair that could not hide the swollen, pus-filled wounds on his forehead. The Order’s master staggered from weakness—like shackles of a prisoner, poorly fitted armor with loosened ties and dangling buckles rattled on him. The black cross on his torn cloak was smeared with mud and dusted with road grit, and his knightly sword in its scabbard was missing. Then again, empty scabbards didn’t bother Johan at all. In his right hand, the Master held a long, thin twig…”