Thomas couldn’t get the sight out of his mind.

  The same Deputy Ava that seemed so kind, was drenched in the blood of the Saracens.

  “No,” Thomas shook his head whilst he mounted his steed, “Muslims.”

  The battlefield had descended into chaos. Captain Reynard was in the centre of it, spear in one hand, shield in the other. Whilst he wasn’t completely covered in blood, the typical blue and white colours of the Order had been dyed with red.

  “Captain! I bring urgent news! Where is Malcolm? The Deputy sent me!” Thomas shouted, trying to block out the moans of injured enemies and allies alike.

  Reynard lifted his helmet, eyes as deep as the ocean sea; you could hardly tell what colour his eyes were anymore.

  “Brother Thomas, it’s good to see you well. Malcolm is near the village armory, stationed with two other men. They intend to cut off the enemy’s supply of weapons.”

  Thomas gave an awkward bow, the best a new recruit could manage, and rode west toward the armory.

  …

  Blood. Bile. More blood. That’s all Malcolm’s job ever was.

  For the past three years, slaughter never got any easier. He wasn’t the upright, devout Christian Little Miss Righteous was, or as wise as Reynard, but he wasn’t heartless, and he wasn’t as good at detaching from situations as Reynard was.

  He still remembered his first mission. Reynard and Ava soaked in blood—Ava especially. A soul as noble as hers, so gifted in the art of taking lives, must be one of the angels’ cruel jokes.

  He lifted his helmet and stroked his stallion, his loyal steed for two years, ever since the last one took a volley of arrows in a skirmish. Malcolm had the brutal job of putting the horse out of its misery. Since then, he made a habit of not getting attached. Anyone or anything could die; that was the nature of warfare.

  “Brother Malcolm! It’s Deputy Ava! She requested your assistance at the church ruins!”

  Thomas stumbled onto the concrete, still adjusting to the weight of his armor and equipment.

  Malcolm sighed. More killing—that was the life of a Crusader after all. He wondered what sort of unholy mess the Little Miss had created in there. He mentally prepared himself for the walls to be streaked with blood; no doubt Thomas had seen something frightening.

  “Did she say how she would lead me to her? Other than a fresh recruit, of course.”

  Malcolm grabbed his helmet and trudged toward his mount.

  Thomas opened his mouth to answer. Scenes of blood, eyes flying from their sockets, and screams cut short flooded his mind. More of his breakfast followed.

  “I get the idea, boy.”

  Malcolm scratched the back of his head, trying to console him.

  “Blood signs, right? Thought she’d stopped doing that after the raid on Morphou. Stay here, Thomas. You’ve earned a rest.”

  Malcolm mounted his stallion as Thomas steadied himself. He turned in the saddle for one last remark.

  “So how was it?” he asked. “Your first taste of war. Still eager to be a Crusader?”

  His mount stamped impatiently beneath him.

  “Kyah!” Malcolm shouted, riding toward the church—if a place of such slaughter could still be called one.

  …

  The entire church was empty. They had escaped her wrath.

  Ava found provisions. Confirmation that Christians had been held here. Bibles lay scattered among them. Qurans too, the script closed to her, unreadable. The newly replaced stone stuck out to her like a sore thumb.

  Ava spotted a scrap of parchment among the scattered belongings, a Bible verse written across it.

  Revelation 13:10.

  Ava understood immediately. The verse marked the underground exit Thomas had spoken of. Her pulse quickened. Desperate men made desperate choices, and every moment lost brought the captives closer to death.

  Despite her best efforts to avoid it, her thoughts drifted to one thought alone, “What would Louis do…”

  Ava spat on the ground. God forgive her for such an act. In order to save them, she’d have to rely on him. Her mind flashed back to days in the academy: swordplay lessons, tactical scenarios, hostage extraction, private lessons.

  Private lessons…

  …

  Louis yawned as he eyed Ava up and down, like a beast eyeing prey, “When the enemy feels desperate, that’s when they’re at their most predictable. That’s when it’s do or die. That’s when you strike.” Louis stabbed his knife into the table, his private quarters, the most lavish chambers a Knight of the Silver Sword could have, aside from the Grandmaster’s.

  Ava fumbled with her thumbs and stood straight up. She was not permitted to sit on the bed. A lowly squire, a trainee knight, could never dirty the bed of the great Louis de Bergliez.

  “Aveline, dance for me again. I enjoyed it. If crusading doesn’t work for you, you could certainly work in a whorehouse!” Louis laughed as he curled his thumb around the knife he lodged in the table. Ava meekly approached and began to dance for him, a sickening sight.

  “Aveline, the first step in defeating an enemy is understanding their mind. Do not forget that. That is the first step to power.” Louis leaned back in his chair, laughing all the while.

  …

  “The woods,”

  Ava thought to herself, brow narrowing.

  “They’ll head past Fiana, then break north along the coast towards Sidon. They’ll find mercenaries. And cover. If the captives slow them down—”

  She didn’t finish her thought. They would be dead within the hour.

  Ava kissed her blood-soaked Bible and dropped the shield she used to bash the eighth Levantine soldier. It would slow her down.

  On top of the ruined altar, where Christians would receive the body and blood of Christ, Ava drew the sigil of the Silver Sword, with the paladin’s sword pointing north. Hopefully, Malcolm would understand.

  “It’s just as you said, Louis. It’s do or die,” Ava whispered as she broke into a mad sprint.

  …

  Nine years of warfare and crusading made Reynard a dangerous commander. In a profession where men died young, he was a rarity. The enemy never stood a chance. Ava’s scouting had improved rapidly over the last four years, natural talent sharpened by relentless pressure.

  Marshal Louis’ particular interest in her had certainly hastened that growth. Reynard had often wondered what passed between them.

  “Captain Reynard, the enemy is in a rout! Victory is ours!”

  Reynard shook his head and pulled another bottle of ale as he removed his helmet. Twelve kills. No—thirteen. Ava had a knack for tactics, but she always underestimated numbers. Reynard had accounted for that.

  Malcolm at the armory. Armory cut off. Ava struck during the fourth prayer.

  “You declare victory too early, Brother Daniel,” Reynard dismounted his horse. “Have any captives been spotted?”

  The knights hung their heads. Reynard closed his eyes and drank. He was no Louis. No Richard. No Saladin. But he had survived long enough to know what came next. Forty men. Fewer, if he was honest. Half the Fourth Company marched with Louis toward Acre, chasing glory and sieges. The remaining ten companies had followed Louis, too.

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  What remained here was all he had, and it would have to be enough.

  He ran the directions once. Only once.

  North meant Ava. Anyone foolish enough to flee that way would not survive the night.

  West was the sea. No ships. No supplies. A slow death.

  South was worse—Tyre, Acre, crusader patrols. Fire and steel.

  Reynard opened his eyes.

  East. They were headed east.

  “Thomas. Up.”

  Reynard clapped him once on the shoulder. Innocence was a rarity in war; if Reynard had learned anything in nine years, it was that, if the boy wanted to survive, he had to learn how to fight.

  Reynard knew Thomas would thank him one day.

  “Take nine men and ride east. Track the deserters. Do not engage. That is an order.”

  Thomas straightened.

  “Observe from a distance. When you have their movement, send Brother Daniel back to me.”

  Reynard paused.

  “Use the dark. Let it hide you.”

  He stepped back, already turning away. Reynard drew his hunting dagger, plain steel, worn thin from years of use.

  “The rest of you,” he said quietly, “we evacuate Fiana.”

  He glanced once at the darkened village.

  “I trust you remember your combat dagger drills, men.”

  A grimace crossed Reynard’s face as he caught his reflection—pale, worn, tired.

  “We’re going hunting.”

  …

  It had taken Thomas all day, but he was finally doing more than riding on his horse and relaying orders. The other nine knights were following him, with Brother Daniel next to him, sent personally by Reynard. What a gruesome operation it was. He had never expected crusading to feel so…

  Unholy.

  Thomas rode further east, searching his memory for anything from his lessons on tracking deserters, or some tactic Ava had once discussed with Reynard. His mind came up empty.

  “Brother Daniel.” Thomas gripped the reins tightly. “Is war always this brutal?”

  “Yes.” Daniel did not hesitate. “You’ve yet to kill your first Saracen. Once you do, you’ll know how it truly feels.”

  Thomas’ grip tightened, his knuckles turning white, but Daniel continued.

  “Imagine how Captain Reynard or Deputy Ava must feel. They’ve seen more bloodshed than you could imagine. Try to picture four years of it.”

  Daniel’s voice softened.

  “Let alone nine. What that does to even the most pious of men.”

  Daniel continued scanning the surroundings, though only half-heartedly.

  “That is why we place our faith in Christ. He is our salvation. Without Him, the burden would be too heavy even for the greatest crusaders. Have faith, boy, and do not be in a hurry to grow up and prove yourself.”

  He glanced at Thomas.

  “Innocence is a rarity in the Holy Land.”

  Thomas said nothing. The reins creaked softly in his grip as the horses pressed on into the dark.

  …

  Thomas did not know the plan Reynard had set in motion. During the brief lull, he and his men took refuge atop a hill, two or three leagues from Fiana, though still far from Sidon.

  Under the cover of night, Thomas studied his reflection in the flat of his longsword, the moonlight glinting across the steel. His hair, once light brown, was matted with dirt and grime. His face was streaked with the filth of battle. Even his eyes, usually as blue as the open sky, seemed darker now—dimmed by what he had seen.

  Just as Thomas’ mind began to shut down, ready for sleep, one of the scouts whispered, “About ten Saracens spotted walking towards us. They do not seem to know our location and seem exhausted. They must not have supplies.”

  Reluctantly, Thomas stood upright and immediately woke Brother Daniel from his rest. With a quick summary, Daniel mounted his horse and set off back to Fiana, wind blowing his unkempt hair to the wayside…

  …

  “Fourteen.”

  Ava slit the sentry’s throat under the cover of darkness. Stealth had always been her strong suit. Back in Canterbury, before Grainne, before any of this, she had learned to move unseen, to survive in the shadows. It was instinct. Inherent.

  Necessary.

  Though she’d never used it to take lives, that only started after she became a knight.

  She scouted the location of where the Muslims were staying, prioritising the captives. They would not escape this time. Ava placed one hand on the Silver Sword Bible.

  “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee—” Ava muttered.

  Ava counted, and counted again, and once more to make sure. She had miscounted earlier at the grove vantage point. There were at least fifteen fighters, but then why didn’t they all attack her in the church?

  It didn’t matter. They didn’t then, and they’re about to sleep now. But fifteen was far too much, even for a warrior of her calibre.

  Ava flipped the dagger she had just wet with a man’s blood in her hand as she mulled it over in thought.

  If I go back to the captain, I’ll lose them for good. If I wait for Malcolm… maybe, but even us two against fifteen men?

  Ava had stripped a lot of her crusader armor off. Espionage was key in scenarios like this. Against fifteen men, if she got cornered, she was dead—armoured or not. Underneath her crusader armor, she wore a slightly padded light orange tunic and white trousers. She had extra padding on the shoulders to try to make up for the physical difference of a typical crusader.

  “Do or die.” Ava muttered to herself again.

  …

  The cracklings of embers scattered across the Levantine camp. Ava had lit three, arranged in a triangle, praying just one soldier would take the bait and investigate.

  She heard mutters of Arabic, not a single syllable she could understand. Then louder whispers. Footsteps began marching toward her position. Louis had been right—he was always right. Desperation overrides judgment. If you’re scouting late at night, never split up. Never.

  The west side of the camp had reached her trap first. Like a predator, Ava stalked her prey—watching their movements, reading their expressions, ensuring each was alone. Five on one? A matchup she could handle. Tough, but not impossible. After the man she’d crushed with her crusader shield, she doubted any of them were as skilled.

  That man… the way his eye had bulged from its socket…

  Suddenly, the cheese she’d eaten with Grainne earlier bubbled in her mouth. Nausea clawed at her, yanking her from focus. She slit a scar on her shoulder, forcing herself back to reality.

  A Levantine soldier brushed dangerously close to her hiding spot. He would be the first. Swiftly, she covered his eyelids with two fingers, pinched his lips with the other two, and slit his throat in one long, deep stroke.

  “Fifteen,” she thought.

  It was going to be a very long night.

  …

  “Twenty-three.”

  Another body dropped. One of many lives the Deputy had claimed today. One of many throughout her life—since Canterbury, since the Order of the Silver Sword.

  She wondered where Ava the Crusader ended, and where Ava the murderer began.

  Time. There was no time to dwell on thought.

  “Twenty-fo—” Ava counted, until the Levantine soldier managed to let out a gut-wrenching scream. That was it. Her cover was blown. No more sneaking around. She slit his throat all the same, but now the pressure was on. By her estimate, only six men remained. Tough, but doable.

  She would prevail.

  Like a battering ram, Ava jumped through the bushes, running towards the centre of the Levantine camp, making a quick head count of the prisoners.

  “Ten… far too little for a town. The rest must’ve been slaughtered before we got to the Levant, or…”

  Her thoughts slowed her down too much. She had to focus.

  Battle cries roared from the forage as Ava sheathed her knife and drew her longsword, trusty, lathered in blood. Only a bit more to go.

  …

  The battle was fierce. Six men against one knight was no easy fight. Without Ava’s quick thinking, she would have surely perished.

  The scimitar was quick; it caught her many times. One head would disappear, only for two to emerge. The men themselves were not hyper-skilled, not like that warrior in the church, but they coordinated their attacks well, catching her arms, legs, and shoulders semi-regularly.

  One-on-one, they were no threat. She weakened four of them—hands and arms—to prevent them from raising their weapons, eyes wide with panic as they realised they couldn’t strike her.

  Adrenaline surged, senses heightened. It had been nearly two years since she felt like this, since she felt the threat of death loom over her shoulder. Ava leapt back, turned, and immediately threw her knife into a soldier’s head.

  The skills she’d honed on the streets of Canterbury had not been for nothing after all.

  He crumpled onto the ground, oozing blood onto his comrades. Ava didn’t understand their dialect, but she could see the rage in their eyes and bolted into the forest. They, of course, followed in hot pursuit.

  Their cries followed her as she bolted through the cover of the trees. She could barely see next to her, so she had to rely on her speed to help her, and that Thomas had gotten the message to Malcolm in time, if he was alive.

  “BLERGH—”

  All the food she had forced down over the past few days erupted from her, bitter and sour. She recoiled, not from the act itself, but from the fear that it might have revealed her position to the enemy.

  “Malcolm—if he’s still alive—I can’t let them find him because of me.”

  Ava leaned upon a tree; she’d been running and killing for hours, nearing her physical limit. The vomiting continued, uncontrollable, tears blinding her vision. Not good. She had to get a hold of herself—every life she’d taken weighed heavily, and she knew she couldn’t falter. Female crusaders always met the worst fates before death, but she would not be one of them. Not today.

  Her legs trembled as she used her sword as a walking stick. She had overestimated her strength, and flashes of the Fiana raid haunted her. With each step forward, all she could see was the man in the church, pleading for mercy for his daughter’s sake.

  “Forgive me…” She choked through tears.

  Ava limped on and bumped into something. It wasn’t a tree…

  …

  The beating was brutal.

  Ava always knew that, when it came to pure physical strength, she was mismatched on the battlefield, which is why she focused on speed and precision. But in this situation now, with no energy and the weight of her actions piled upon her, she could not bring herself to fight back.

  The Levantine soldier pummeled her, hair in fist, delivering vicious blows. If Ava hadn’t already thrown up the last of her food, it was definitely gone now.

  …

  Malcolm knew the Deputy was a hothead—but this was a level even he had never seen. The lengths she would go to, just to save even one innocent, were nothing short of astounding.

  What wasn’t astounding was the sight before him. Little Miss Righteous was being given a beating so brutal even the most devout bishop would have cursed at the sight of it.

  One swing was all it took. The Saracen’s face came clean off.

  “This is no time for wallowing in self-pity, Ava,” Malcolm said, wiping his axe clean. “And I know the bile I’m smelling isn’t theirs. This isn’t like you at all. Where are the others?”

  Fate answered first. The last soldier lunged from the dark.

  “Behind yo—!” Ava tried to shout.

  Too late.

  Malcolm turned. The scimitar missed his head by inches and took his left forearm with it. The scream he let out was nothing short of demonic.

  …

  The next ten minutes of his life were a blur. Something broke in him. The quiet, pious, astute veteran was gone, replaced by something hollow and furious.

  Crack.

  Another bone gave way as he swung with wild abandon. The soldiers made feeble attempts to fight back. Each one failed. Every injury Malcolm took only fed the rage—consuming, enveloping, irreversible. When his gaze settled on the last man, a dark stain spread beneath the soldier’s legs. No explanation was needed.

  Malcolm threw his weapon aside. For one impossible moment, his unending fury was directed at her. Then he stepped forward. Slowly. Deliberately. Little Miss Righteous, leaning on a tree, bruised and bloodied. Malcolm’s newfound stub for a limb left a trail of blood in his wake, face contorted with pain only suppressed by hate.