A salty sea breeze peppered Thomas relentlessly. He stole a glance, then another, and then another. Malcolm no longer looked like the man he had spoken to on the ride to Fiana. He grunted for only one reason Thomas could place.

  His riding was unsteady. The black-clad horse wobbled beneath him.

  Thomas dared not open his mouth.

  Malcolm went to reach for his pack on his left side—then paused. There was nothing.

  He fumbled once, then crossed his body to grab it instead. Thomas knew he felt his gaze flicker.

  “If you have something to say, boy—” Malcolm said, taking a swig and guiding his warhorse with his legs alone.

  “—Then come out and say it.” He finished his swig, “You’ve done braver things than talk to me.”

  He tossed Thomas his pack. The new recruit barely caught it on horseback.

  “…Malcolm, sir,” Thomas said at last. “What happened?”

  He hesitated. “You’re one of the strongest knights I know. I—I never thought—.”

  His voice trailed, the lifeless sag of Malcolm’s left arm causing his eyes to wander.

  Thomas forced his gaze east, toward the Levantine Sea, his light brown hair plastered to his forehead. They rode along the coast, following Reynard’s lead. Tyre was only a few days away now, the most secure Christian settlement in the Holy Land.

  Malcolm’s grip tightened as he stared straight ahead.

  “Thinking you’re above your enemy,” he said quietly, his jaw locking, “thinking you’re better than them—”

  His teeth ground together. He tasted blood.

  “That’s what led me here.” He exhaled through his nose. “Never think you’re special, boy. You’re not above anyone.”

  A pause.

  “You’re not God.”

  Thomas, for the first time, took a swig of Malcolm’s ale. The taste was bitter and lingering, his face naturally contorted; Malcolm let out his first real, sincere laugh since they had landed in the Levant.

  He continued to chuckle, going to bury his face in his hand, then it happened again, his hand met nothing; the chuckles died out in an instant.

  “The face of a new recruit drinking, it never gets old…”

  “You can keep the ale boy. You’ll need it for what you’re about to see.”

  With that, Malcolm rode further off, the small bottle seeming so large in Thomas’s hands.

  …

  It had been years since Ava was not at the front of a cavalry march.

  Even during her days at the Order’s Temple in Bayeux, Normandy, she had made a habit of riding ahead. In holy communion, back in Canterbury, she had been no different — always forward, always seen. Always behind Grainne.

  Today was not one of those days.

  The boy she had found in the ruins of Fiana was slowing her down. Or rather — slowing Grainne. The mare carried the weight of Silver Sword armor, and now two bodies besides. Ava kept her watered, soothed her pace, but Grainne could no longer blaze forward as she once had. Riding her at full speed had always felt like freedom.

  Freedom had never felt so far away from her in the Holy Land, riding under the banner of the Silver Sword.

  Grainne stumbled, but only for a moment. A less experienced rider would have missed it. Ava did not. She could not, her beloved horse, the horse she’d ridden through so many skirmishes, had tended to on so many nights. They shared a bond, Ava would notice even the most minute of details about her beloved steed.

  The boy yelped as a plate of horse armor clipped his broken legs. He clutched at Ava’s back. She exhaled. Reluctantly, she shattered the silence.

  “Do you have a name?”

  She ignored Reynard’s earlier dismissal.

  “I won’t let the Order leave you in some nameless village. Reynard always comes around.”

  Ava stroked Grainne’s mane, wondering whether the love she felt was ever returned.

  “Abel,” he said quickly. “It’s Abel, sir.”

  Ava stifled a smile. Sir was a new one.

  “You don’t need to call me that,” she said. “I promise I won’t take offense.”

  She adjusted her orange tunic, suddenly aware of how exposed she felt without her Silver Sword armor. Tyre lay ahead. Louis would be there. A chill slid down her spine. Ava stretched anyway, as she always did, forcing her breath to steady.

  “Abel is a lovely name,” Ava continued, clutching her shoulder, the wound she had self-inflicted during the Fiana raid throbbing painfully.

  “Abel, like the son of Adam and Eve?”

  The boy meekly nodded, “It’s a name I can never live up to now, my parents were kind, and generous, true Christians…”

  Tears formed at his eyes, but he pressed on, “Si- I mean Ava, what happened to your parents?”

  Grainne neighed loudly as he said that.

  “My parents?” Ava softly brushed the mane of her beloved horse, her eyes loosening at the motion, memories flooding back.

  “I was an orphan at birth, I never knew the love of a father or mother.”

  Ava reached into her worn leather pack, no cheese sadly. Instead, she pulled the last of her supply of water. It was fine; worst-case scenario, she would ask Reynard, but even then, Tyre was starting to come into view.

  “It’s not so bad, though, you can’t miss what you never had, can you?” Ava fluttered a forced smile; she patted the boy’s head, “Don’t worry about me, we’ll find your parents, you will not be orphaned, God help us.”

  …

  Reynard, in all his years and all the lands he had seen, always found Tyre a sight to behold.

  The city was vast. Its cobblestone streets locked and intersected like a tapestry, leading into a never-ending maze of homes, markets, and bustling ports. Byzantine, Roman, and Fatimid structures loomed overhead—a poetic fusion of the dynasties that had ruled Tyre long before the Christians. Sweet scents of freshly baked bread drifted through the streets.

  As the Third and Fourth Companies rode through the city, Reynard kept a careful head count. Tyre could distract even the most disciplined soldier. He kept a watchful eye on his deputy, making sure she didn’t wander toward the market for a slice of cheese…

  Seagulls wheeled overhead, diving toward the glittering port. Missionaries shouted through the streets, arms flailing, voices cracking.

  “The end times are coming! The Crusades are the only salvation! Save yourself before the apocalypse! Join the brave crusaders!”

  “You don’t seem so impressed, Captain,” Malcolm said, a trace of sarcasm in his tone. “What does it take to pry a reaction out of you?”

  Reynard shrugged. “The only things that could probably do it are women or alcohol. The rest I’ve seen before. But this city… It’s a sight to behold.” He clenched his hand into a fist. “Imagine all the knights who set foot here before us. Many legends passed through these gates.”

  In his mind, the memory of an old man, his cape flying high throughout the city of Tyre came rushing back, the sword he held gleamed so bright, illuminated by the sun.

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Malcolm grunted, scratching the back of his head.

  “Who cares? You don’t usually ask questions like that. We do our duty, just like those before us. And those after us will continue, until those Saracens—”

  “Muslims!” A familiar voice from the street cut through, sharp and certain.

  “Right… until those Muslims are dealt with. That one Sultan, Saladin—he’s been a real thorn for our forces, hasn’t he?”

  Reynard yawned. “He has. Rumor has it the bigwig nobles are locked in a nasty deadlock at Acre—Saladin on the Saracens’ side, Guy of Lusignan, Philip II, and even Richard the Lionheart is all tangled up there.”

  He shook his head. The higher politics barely registered to him; the Order’s own internal maneuverings were far more irritating.

  “Well, I'd better start preparing for tomorrow’s roundtable. Louis will want a detailed report. I’ll brief Ava on the general gist of it.”

  Malcolm’s eyes widened. Reynard was not the type to prepare for anything but warfare. “Uhh, Captain… did you hit your head in Fiana? Did you just say prepare?”

  Reynard shook his head, grinning from ear to ear. In his typical fashion, he seemed to conjure a bottle from nowhere. “The best way to prepare is to have a drink or ten! And I plan to bring a new drinking buddy along…”

  His gaze darted behind him. Poor Thomas, brown hair drenched in sweat and sea salt, had no idea what was coming.

  …

  The Fourth Company settled in the barracks at the edge of Tyre’s borders; their steeds were stabled in a nearby farmhouse managed by a prominent local merchant. Ava organized Grainne’s pen herself, laying down fresh straw and arranging her bedding. The mare neighed, restless and unamused. Free-spirited as ever, she hated being confined.

  “Sorry, Grainne,” Ava murmured, pressing her forehead to the mare’s and stroking her mane. “Just stay here for a little while, okay?”

  She stepped away from the stables. It wasn’t a good look for a deputy to linger in spaces meant for servants.

  Ava had a few places in Tyre she wanted to explore before retiring to her quarters. Wait—quarters? They’d been stationed in the barracks. Great. She’d have to share a room. Unlike Reynard, she wouldn’t have the luxury of privacy. She considered pushing for a promotion just to avoid this. Men were… gross. She would sleep fully clothed, dagger at the ready, having heard enough horror stories from the Canterbury nuns to know better. She hoped she could share a room with at least one of her company, Malcolm, or even Thomas, would do.

  She approached the city square, the walk feeling longer without her armor. Her armor. Ava would have to request a new set, but that could wait until tomorrow. The city was vibrant and packed with people, happiness in the Holy Land. Ava had to blink; there were merchants selling rare spices, secret medicines, exotic fruits she’d never seen… and cheese. Her nose twitched involuntarily, but she forced herself to ignore it. This wasn’t a self-indulgent trip. Call it overtime work.

  She made for a medicine stall, the goods laid out neatly, herbs and powders in tiny jars, fragrant oils, bundles of dried roots. A man with a well-groomed beard and fine garments tended it—a man of status. Good, maybe he could help.

  “Hello?” he said, glancing up.

  “I’m a knight of the Order of the Silver Sword,” Ava said, she dug into her orange tunic and produced a worn necklace with the Silver Sword sigil. “I’m looking for something to cure infect—”

  His face shifted from confusion to deadpan. “No can do. Infection? If symptoms are present, the poor soul has already met the Lord.” He went back to his wares, setting a vial neatly on the stall.

  Ava slammed a pouch of silver dirhams* on the table—more than a week’s wages for a skilled craftsman. “If money’s your concern, it doesn’t matter. You’ll have any price. But you must have something.”

  He looked up, brow furrowing. Ava flicked a gold dinar* to the top of the pouch. It spun once, catching the sunlight.

  The merchant groaned. “A dinar*? Do you think money calls back the Lord?”

  “I don’t care,” Ava said, her voice low, steady. “Later tonight, meet me at the barracks at the northeast corner. I have a patient for you. Don’t be late.”

  The man’s eyes lingered on the pouch, then on her. He nodded reluctantly.

  Ava glanced down at the stalls nearby—cheese, perfectly aged, stacked in neat wheels. She licked her lips briefly but turned back to her task. Life came before snacks.

  …

  A few hours later, Ava was winding down her exploration of Tyre.

  She had taken it all in—the soaring architecture, the interwoven cobblestone streets, the houses steeped in history. Each corner whispered stories she could never glean from books alone. The city had lived up to every glowing description she had read, and then some.

  Eventually, she found herself back at the bustling city center, one errand left on her list. She hesitated at the door of a small, well-kept shop. Had she left it too late? Would it already be closed?

  She took a deep breath, steeling herself, and knocked.

  Through the window, she had glimpsed it earlier—an elaborate set of miniature soldiers on a black-and-white checkered board. The perfect gift. It had to still be there. Ava refused to let a few minutes’ doubt ruin it.

  An old lady answered the door; she was piously dressed, hunched over with a walking stick, her necklace, the sign of the cross, dangled down from her neck. Ava described what she was looking for.

  “Ah, you mean the Shatranj* set? Yes! Yes! That’ll be 5 dirhams*”

  …

  On her way back, after spending more money than she liked, Ava had the misfortune of running into Reynard, deep in drink, staggering down the cobblestones, a bottle in one hand, poor Thomas dangling helplessly in the other.

  “Thomas, look, take this as a lesson from your captain, huh?” Reynard belched, a guttural, quaking sound.

  “You gotta loosen up. The ladies at the brothel won’t make you a man until you do. Come on, don’t lie—I know you’re still pious down there.”

  Ava sighed in disbelief. Always after a skirmish, Reynard’s priority wasn’t instilling discipline in his men—no, never that—but drinking until the sun rose. How could he be such a drunkard and yet so terrifyingly competent?

  “Well, if it isn’t our prim-and-proper deputy Ava!” Reynard waved from across the street. “Mind joining us for a drink? Let’s enjoy it before Louis rips us a new one over Fiana, aye?”

  Ava pretended not to know him. Later, if any townsfolk asked whether that was her captain, she’d simply say he was an imposter—a charlatan.

  “I guess it can’t be helped. God forgive him, he doesn’t know any better,” she thought. “But then again… I’m not much better.”

  And then the memory came, unbidden: the Levantine soldier she had killed in Fiana, his daughter’s scribbled words burned into her mind. She couldn’t shake them.

  …

  Malcolm lay in the barracks, staring at the ceiling.

  His left arm throbbed with a dull, unrelenting pain. The fingers he once had still felt almost real, as if, with enough effort and concentration, they might appear before his eyes. They never did.

  His gaze drifted to the wraps covering the new stub he was forced to call an arm. Blood leaked so freely it seemed the wool had been spun from red silk, not white. It was time again to reapply.

  The ritual was agony. Any misstep, and his hands, once so dexterous, betrayed him, greeting him with a world of pain. There was no dwale* to dull the sensation, and, if he was honest, he couldn’t stomach another round of alcohol cleansing. Even with it, the burn was relentless.

  When the rewrapping was done, his arm felt as sensitive as when it had first been severed, hellish, all-encompassing throbbing. But it had to be done now. If he waited until night, there would be too many eyes. The other knights of the Silver Sword would interfere and distract him. That wouldn’t do.

  A knock at Malcolm’s door turned into a soft voice.

  “Malcolm?” She shouted, “Are you here? I’ve checked everywhere!”

  It had to be the Little Miss. No one else had the stubbornness to search every barrack for a single soldier. She’d made it all the way down this far hall—the most out-of-sight, out-of-mind spot.

  Reluctantly, he cracked the door open. Still seething over Fiana, he didn’t invite her in.

  “Deputy. How may I help you? It’s getting late.” Malcolm forced the words through clenched teeth, holding back his spite with every fiber of his being.

  Ava fumbled with her hands, glancing up at his face, then quickly away—anywhere but the arm. Every time her eyes strayed, he was a hair’s breadth from slamming the door in her face.

  “I got you this Shatranj* set,” she said, finally, voice a little rushed. “I thought it would fit your interests. You’ve always been a realist. The lady I bought it from said it improves tactical thinking… I think you’d like it.”

  Malcolm stared at her. A gift? Surely, she could tell he was angry, yet all the same, she had gone out of her way to track him down and bring him some foreign game. He couldn’t help as a smile crept across his face, then lingered.

  “You really are a fool, deputy,” he said, fully widening the door now, revealing the full extent of his injuries. “You tracked me down, knowing my temperament, and handed me a gift. What would you have done if I’d still been angry?”

  Ava looked away for a moment, her hand brushing an imaginary beard. “I would keep trying,” she said steadily. “As my subordinate, I’d rather inspire trust in my allies than contempt. That’s not the kind of woman I am.”

  Malcolm couldn’t believe his eyes. This girl—no, this woman—had only seen twenty-two summers yet carried herself with such grace. He was her age when he joined the Order of the Silver Sword, and even then, he couldn’t imagine having matured this much in service.

  “Come in Ava, we have much to discuss,” Malcolm beckoned her inside.

  …

  Her gamble had paid off, sure, but she was still running late for her appointment.

  “I will never agree with your way of thinking, deputy,” Malcolm said, sinking back onto one of the barrack beds. He bowed his head slightly, eyes fixed on the floor.

  She could see it—the pain lingering in his gaze, the resentment that hadn’t faded. She couldn’t blame him; in part, she was to blame for his injury. But there was something else. The way he looked at his arm, the way he clenched his knuckles—there was more than resentment there.

  “Malcolm,” Ava said softly, leaning forward, “tell me what’s really bothering you. This isn’t just about your arm, is it? What’s going on? You know I keep the matters of my men completely private.”

  “I…” His voice cracked, just for an instant, before he continued. “The way I butchered those soldiers… bare-handed, with such brutality. I didn’t know I was capable of such an atrocity. I didn’t know I was such a monster…”

  Ava held her breath. His silence spoke louder than words. “And when they were all dead… with my hatred nowhere else to go… I was about to aim my fury at you.”

  He exhaled slowly. “But my burden is mine to carry. It was wrong of me to snap at my superior officer in the line of duty. Punish me however you see fit.”

  Ava cut the silence decisively. If it was punishment he wanted, he would get it. “Very well. I’ll grant your request.”

  Malcolm smiled full of sorrow, of relief, of something fragile.

  “Your punishment,” Ava said, “is that you are forbidden from calling yourself a monster.”

  Malcolm frowned.

  “You will carry what you did,” she continued, “but you will not use it as an excuse to destroy yourself. If I hear you diminish your worth again, then you’ll take Thomas’s role of cleaning the stables, do I make myself clear?”

  Malcolm’s eyes shimmered with moisture, but no tears fell. To do so would disrespect the grace Little Mi—no, Deputy Ava—was extending to him.

  “I… understood,” he said, voice low, steady, but heavy with feeling.

  …

  “You’re late, woman.”

  The merchant perched on the barracks walls. He was right—her meeting with Malcolm had taken far longer than expected.

  “Follow me. I’ll pay for your time, granted your services are satisfactory.”

  He grunted, and Ava took that as obedience. She strode down the hallway and, unlike Malcolm’s room, chose the one closest to the entrance—for Abel’s sake. She flung the door open, revealing the boy: legs wrapped in thick layers of wool, reinforced with wooden rods to stabilize his shattered bones.

  “I’ll leave you to it,” the merchant said, “I’ll be outside, sharpening my longsword.”

  Ava smiled briefly, then her expression hardened as she looked at Abel. “If anything feels wrong, you tell me immediately.”

  With that, the deputy’s work for the day was finally done.

  Dirhams and Dinars - The currency used in the Holy Land during the 12th Century, they're just fancy gold and silver coins. 1 dinar = 4.25 pounds of gold, and 1 dirham is 4.25 pounds of silver.