The Silver Scar by Betsy Dornbusch

Author:Betsy Dornbusch
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Talos
Published: 2018-10-09T16:00:00+00:00

TWENTY-SEVEN

Reine d’Esprit huddled in her cloak, a hood concealing her Indigo locks. A young man waited at the church gate, but he didn’t challenge her. He just bowed his head to her and called her ma’am. The church grounds were deserted even in the middle of the afternoon, emptied by the burgeoning army of crusaders gathering on a stretch of bare land inside the eastern wall. The church building itself was empty and cold. A few torches flickered, reflecting against the polished wood stretching up to the ceiling and the boarded-over colored glass windows. Beams arched into the darkness. Unlit lanterns swung overhead, caught in cold drafts. She crossed to a bench in the front and lowered herself to her knees, like she heard Christians did. She’d stay a few moments to prove to anyone who might appear that she had reason to be here, and then she’d go find Paul.

She’d come inparish to start her own war, something to distract the bishop from her crusade, but she’d been suffering second thoughts since she’d crossed the parish wall. That damn wall had made her think about her own freehold walls.

Spearguards were working day and night laying traps of razor wire and trip lines around their freehold walls. Patrols roamed their county acreage, non-coms and children dug fighting ditches, and spies had been dispatched inparish. Two riders had raced out to seek help from other tribes. If they could bring in another sizeable, well-equipped tribe or two, they’d have a decent chance of withstanding a siege. At least their mines and spears might damage the crusading army enough to give the children time to escape, though to where she didn’t know. Hopefully the warning of the coming crusade was enough to firm up alliances. She didn’t kid herself about winning any battles outright. It would be ugly. But worth it, so worth it, if they could fight off the Christians and if the tribe survived in some form. Even if they lost their freehold in the process.

Maybe Paul could help. Maybe he could stop the bishop.

She folded her hands on the back of the pew and stared at the grand table of wood raised up behind steps. It had a deep, beautiful sheen even by torchlight. Strange sculptures peered down at her from a glass case behind the table—a lion, an eagle, a queer-looking bull, and a man. She tried to relax, but the place was spooky.

Paul had been here, guarded his bishop here. She supposed he prayed here. He was a believer, willing to lay down his life for the Church. They rarely discussed religion. But he wore prayer beads around his neck and never hid the tattoos of his order, even when he snuck away to see her at her freehold. He bore scars from his duties as an archwarden.

She thought of the dream, his blood splattering the sand. Trinidad’s sword had made a wound no man could survive.

But it wasn’t real. It was just a dream.

A commotion behind her made her turn, her hand slipping to the knife inside her cloak.

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