The Levantine coast stretched to their right, blue and indifferent. To their left, fields lay trampled and uneven, soil torn by the passage of kings and their hosts. What had once been farmland now bore the geometry of war—ditches, ash, the remnants of siege works long abandoned.

  “Captain Malcolm.” The voice came loud and clear as Malcolm rode across the road connecting Acre and Tyre.

  “Yes?” Malcolm shouted as the sea breeze blew, their horses galloping onwards, “What is it, Brother Yvain?”

  Lucian, Malcolm’s new deputy—even the thought disgusted him—had arranged a small retinue of knights, some of the Order’s finest, from across the twelve companies, not just the Third.

  Lucian had it on the Marshal’s authority, so there were no logistical issues getting men for the job.

  Malcolm’s concern wasn’t skill, nor strength.

  It was loyalty. His own.

  He remembered the path too well; his horse’s hooves had tread the same path not too long ago. How sand and dirt would keep up at his steed’s feet. Malcolm almost let a smile loose, memories of that foolish boy, Thomas, flashing in his mind.

  How Malcolm hoped he was not with Ava, he prayed, or try as he might, with one arm missing, that he had escaped this mess. He prayed he had kept his boyish naivete, for just a while longer.

  Yet Malcolm knew, in his heart, that innocence was a rarity in the Holy Land.

  “Never think you’re special, boy. You’re not above anyone. You’re not God.”

  Malcolm winced as his conversation with Thomas replayed in his mind. When he said that, who was he referring to? Was it Thomas, or himself?

  Hooves continued to march down the Levantine coast, the banner of the Order of the Silver Sword was held by a member of the Sixth Company, Brother Pelleas. His hand was still, unwavering throughout the march. Malcolm stared at him, at his hand, and how surely he carried it as he marched towards Tyre.

  Malcolm could only envy that same conviction.

  Brother Yvain spoke at last, or maybe Malcolm had just not been paying attention.

  “Captain Malcolm,” he began, “We’ll be reaching Tyre within the day’s end, Iss is already in sight, should we stop by to examine the area?”

  The knights all turned to face Malcolm, who was riding in the centre of the formation.

  He paused, so many eyes on him, for all of his doubts, about God, about faith, about leadership.

  Please.

  Malcolm thought.

  Captain, watch over me. I don’t have it in me to replace you.

  Malcolm took a deep breath, taking in the warm, rich air, before speaking.

  “Yes,” he stated, “We’ll ask the inhabitants about what happened that day, and we’ll take the time to plan how we’ll deal with Ava—”

  The knights looked at him. Of course, these men were not the Third Company; most of them had no personal attachments.

  “How we’ll deal…” his eyes closed, “With Former Deputy Captain Aveline.”

  …

  As they rode into the Town of Iss, they were met with glares.

  They walked through Iss, and Malcolm could sense it, the dense history, the even more dense atmosphere. Suddenly, he welcomed the sun setting over the vast sea.

  He was not eager to stay here longer, as he turned to see his band of knights, they seemed to agree.

  In Iss, Pelleas did not hold his banner high.

  The houses of Iss were humble things, wooden-bodied and stone-footed, pressed shoulder to shoulder along the street as though leaning on one another for warmth. Their pale walls had long since darkened.

  Low wooden doors crouched behind raised thresholds, and the tiny shuttered windows bled only thin, sickly threads of lamplight into the dark.

  They pressed deeper into the narrow street; the lanes seemed to tighten around them the further they walked, walls leaning imperceptibly inward.

  “Excuse me, sir,” Malcolm went to tap on a local man’s shoulder, “Where might we find lodging?”

  The local paused, his gaze lingering from head to toe of each of the knights, then onto Pelleas’ banner, which he held loosely.

  “Doubt any would take you,” he grunted, “But you can try the Inn near the front of town, near the pens.”

  He paused again, his eyes lingering on the depiction of Lady Seraphine on Malcolm’s Captain cloak.

  “But for your kind?” he grunted once more, “Good luck finding shelter.”

  The man hobbled off.

  …

  “Damn it!” Pelleas yelled, “Triple the going rate!”

  Malcolm looked at his men; they were dejected, their heads hanging low as they all lay on the cold, hard ground of the Holy Land, even lower than the banner of the Silver Sword Pelleas carried. Yet, who could blame them?

  There could be no mistaking it now; Ava’s influence had, at least to the people of Iss, tarnished the reputation of the Order. Try as they might, no locals would offer them shelter or provisions, and so, as night fell, they were forced to sleep underneath the cover of the sky.

  “Captain.”

  Yvain called once again. He was especially passionate, especially bright, that’s how Lucian described him as he recommended him for the mission.

  Nights like this, we could use less passion and more solitude.

  “Yes, Brother Yvain.” He managed to stir up a response.

  Yvain stood to duty, as the other knights were winding down, he stood straight, arms rigid at his side.

  “Yvain.” Malcolm said, “At ease, what would you like to say?” Malcolm began, “I’m only Captain by name, please, I’m nothing more than the man you rode with for years.”

  Silence covered them like a blanket.

  “I’m nothing more than I was before… I’m not God, relax. Tell me, what’s on your mind?”

  Malcolm watched as his face went through a cycle of emotions, from hesitation to mournful, back to hesitation.

  “Captain,” he began, “The Former Deputy… I have a plan to smoke her out and capture her. Rumour has it she’s an excellent swordsman; we will need a plan.”

  Malcolm raised his eyebrow. He should have specified more to Lucian; he didn’t want men like this.

  Men who thought for hours about how to neutralize his former ally.

  “Sure,” Malcolm averted his gaze, he went to rub his left arm—ah then he dropped it.

  “What’s your plan?”

  “We use a child.” Malcolm nearly cut him off there, “We do not harm her, but we get a poor one, one from the slums, in dire need of coin.”

  Yvain jingled a pack of dirhams*, they were heavy, Malcolm could tell, he’d held enough coin to know what a lot was.

  “And then,” he continued, “We tell her we’ll pay her if she brings the knight with the long blonde hair to us, that the coin could be used for her family, or to buy her something nice.”

  Malcolm’s chest hurt; he could no longer hear it.

  “Thank you for your counsel, Brother Yvain.” Malcolm feigned a yawn as he spoke, “However, the journey to Iss was quite tiring; let us carry on in the morning.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  Malcolm turned his back.

  He knew he wasn’t God, after he failed to save his Captain, after his failure at Fiana, that much was certain.

  But if God was watching, it was all Malcolm could think of to pray and say this.

  Lord, please do not make me do this tomorrow…

  …

  Tyre’s market was always bustling, Ava knew this well, and still, the sight of young children running down the marketplace, hurried and in search of food, always warmed her face.

  Never a smile, though, that was never present, try as she might, Ava could never smile as she did before, before Louis took her on as his squire, before she left the Abbey in Canterbury.

  Before she saw Philip ripped from her embrace.

  Aveline!

  He would shout.

  Aveline! Stay here! I will come back and save you, okay?

  Ava had seen much blood in her life, so many men she’d snuffed the lives from, every one of them weighed deeply. But those words, and the fact that he’d still never come to save her.

  It hurt more than anything else.

  Wind blew as the small wicker basket she’d been carrying jolted, and two apples fell from it. Ava sighed as she bent down to pick them up. She knew Grainne would not be happy if she found out Ava had given her apples that fell on the floor.

  At least the cheese was secure.

  She continued to stroll through the city square, laced in full crusader armor. The locals usually found it odd; they would cry out to her, sometimes encouragement, other times, they reminded her of Beatrice from the Abbey, how it was not her place to be dressed as a knight.

  Still, she dared not walk around unprotected; the looming threat of the Order discovering her actions at Iss scared her too much. At all times, she had her sword at the ready.

  Spices. Ava smelled them. They hung in the air, like a cloud, in Tyre, merchants from across the sea came to trade, she heard even the Great Kings, like Richard the Lionheart, came here.

  Finally, she approached the saddler, she’d been eyeing him for weeks now, desperately wanting to get something nice for Grainne, her beloved horse, but money would not allow it. Only when she finally caved in and asked Thomas for financial aid did she have the funds to buy it.

  Deputy!

  He would yell.

  Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

  You always do this…

  If you were struggling, you should’ve just asked me.

  She shook her head. She didn’t deserve help from him, let alone anyone. To this day, Ava still wrestled with Alexei’s words; she still thought, at night, that he didn’t know the real her.

  That if he did, he would not have comforted her.

  “Ah!” the saddler exclaimed as Ava walked into his shop, “Dame Knight! What can I get for you today?”

  Ava ignored him. Reynard had always warned her of shopkeepers, how they would flatter you with compliments, talk of their excellent services, all so you would spend more coin. And whilst Reynard could play the game, she’d seen it many times in the Cyprus Campaigns, Ava had no interest in it.

  “Dame Knight?” he repeated, “I have all sorts of wears for your horse, I saw her recently, an elegant white mare, surely a mare as regal as her would need—”

  “One bridle, please,” Ava said. “I will be picking.”

  The saddler ruffled his hair; his eyes seemed dazed. He’d likely never seen a woman in full plate armor before Ava, even less likely one so stark.

  Ava glanced through his wares, eyes moving past polished browbands and gilded buckles. Most were cut for show, narrow straps, bright studs, iron too thin for real work.

  She stepped closer to the wall where the heavier tack hung.

  There.

  Thick headstalls of darkened leather, reins broad in the hand, bits resting on pegs beneath them. She lifted one down, weighing it. The cheekpieces were sound, stitching tight. The bit was a snaffle, iron smooth and evenly jointed, with no sharp seam along the mouthpiece.

  “For a destrier?” the saddler asked carefully.

  “For a war mare,” Ava replied. “Six dirhams should be enough.”

  Ava felt the saddler look her up and down, his gaze fixating on the emblem of the Silver Sword.

  “Ah, but you see, with this make and this quality—”

  “Fine.” Ava snapped; she lacked the energy to bargain with him, and if it would make Grainne even slightly more comfortable, it was worth its weight in silver.

  “Nine dirhams, just prepare it for me.”

  …

  Ava stumbled out of the store, the weight of her armor she was used to, but the wicker basket, full of apples, cheese, and her newly acquired bridle, made balance tricky.

  Sweat dropped from her brow; her concentration wavering, she’d been shopping in full plate armor for quite some time now.

  Now was as good a time as any to head back to the Inn.

  Thomas had left around the same time as her, leaving only the children, Ari, and Khalid present. Ava knew better than to leave Khalid alone for too long.

  Better than to let his stare of agony mature.

  No. She couldn’t think like that. If there was one thing she would not let happen, it would be for this land to take away the last strips of innocence from those children.

  Ava continued to stumble through, bumping into all manner of passersby; some winced as they bounced off her armor, others stared in awe.

  “Excuse me.”

  Ava felt a tap on her shoulder.

  Ava’s brow furrowed as she turned. She saw nothing, then looked down further.

  A young girl stood, her hands behind her, with light ginger hair, and a smile so bright Ava couldn’t believe her eyes.

  “Constance?” Ava said, her eyes blinking rapidly.

  The girl shook her head, “No,” she said, “My name is not that.”

  The girl took a step back, her head tilted to the side, her ankles visible in her rags; they were thin, veiny, and exposed. Compulsion rose within her, Ava wanted desperately to reach out and hug the girl; she knew her pain too well. To starve as a child, there was nothing worse.

  If it weren’t for Lady Grainne, she would’ve surely met the same fate.

  “Dame?” the girl began, “My family, please, can you come with me? They need help.”

  Her eyes, her deep-set eyes, pierced into Ava’s, Constance’s voice, her stare, merged with the little girl’s; she had no chance in denying her.

  “Very well,” Ava said, “Lead the way.”

  …

  The armories at Tyre were impressive, but when it came to crossbows, they couldn’t compare to the Order’s quartermaster.

  Thomas carefully inspected the bolts at the fletcher’s shop. He liked to keep a full quiver, but after Iss, he was two short.

  He ran his hands across the bolts, inspecting them closely. The outside world blurred for a time until he heard a familiar voice.

  “Child,” the voice began, “Where exactly are you taking me?”

  Thomas paused, then smiled. That voice was certainly the Deputy. It was paired with the rustling of armor in the city square, he was certain. Full of curiosity, Thomas peered his head out of the shop,

  “Hey!” the fletcher yelled, his voice deep and coarse, “If you want to leave, either buy them or drop them.”

  The brown-haired knight looked down at the quality of the bolts. He’d left the rest of his set at the inn, but they seemed to do the job just fine. He weighed both the crossbow and the bolts in his hand—Ava had warned him to always keep his crossbow on hand, just in case.

  “Yeah,” Thomas said, “I’ll buy two.”

  …

  Ava could smell it in the air, not the sea breeze, not the spices of the Tyre marketplace.

  Something was wrong, but she couldn’t tell what.

  Ava and the girl walked out of Tyre’s gates, and as they did, Ava shuddered under her armor. They passed where he had sparred with Thomas and Khalid earlier, and moved beyond that, the city of Tyre becoming smaller in the distance.

  “Child,” Ava tapped her on the shoulder, her other hand still holding the basket of apples.

  “Tell me, where is your family?”

  The young girl trembled at her touch. Ava saw it briefly, the glimpses of fear, the glimpses of guilt.

  She’d realized far too late what she had just walked into.

  The little girl ran off, darting for the groves ahead, and out of them emerged what she feared the most.

  They’d finally found her.

  Roughly six knights dismounted, all wearing helmets, with one of them holding the banner of the Silver Sword. Ava’s eyes scanned the surroundings. She could try to make a run for Tyre, the Order would not dare attack inside city grounds…

  Ava closed her eyes in despair. That’s why the girl had brought her outside the city gates.

  Neither left nor right was an option either; they had horses, and Ava had left Grainne in the city.

  Escape was not an option; the only way to win was to fight.

  They approached her, through their helmets, Ava could see cold, dark stares inside. Steel met the ground beneath as one of the knights slammed his sword into the earth; it resonated outwards, a ringing sound cascading throughout the Levantine sky.

  “Former Deputy Captain, Aveline of Canterbury,” he began, “We finally found you…”

  The little girl from before ran up to the speaker, shaking his legs. Hesitantly, he pulled out a pouch from his pocket and gave her three dirhams. The girl shot Ava a sad look. Ava knew she couldn’t really understand it.

  The severity of the actions yet to happen.

  Ava looked to the sky for a brief instance—no clouds, Lady Grainne’s teachings on justice, mercy, and humility, they came back to her in a flash of memories.

  Lady Grainne, what would you do in this situation?

  One of the knights remounted his steed, heading for Tyre. Ava drew in retaliation, yet she didn’t get far; the rest of the knights encircled her as the mounted rider headed towards Tyre.

  If he found Ari. If he found Khalid.

  She shook her head as she turned to face her opponents, clad in blue and white armor, their helmets firmly planted on their heads. They crept inches closer, until one of them spoke through, his voice muffled and coarse.

  “Former Deputy Captain Aveline,” he began, “Under the Marshal’s orders, Aveline of Canterbury, you are under arrest for treason against the Order.”

  Wind blew, he continued, “You have been summoned to Acre immediately.”

  He pointed his sword directly at her.

  “Do not resist.”

  Wind continued to rustle, her flowing, grass rippled underneath her boots. Saliva culminated in her mouth as the Bishop’s words came back to her.

  “When you have finished the path of the Crusader, visit me again. We will pray for those whose lives you have taken. But, if you can, refrain from killing. All life is sacred, I think you would agree.”

  “Knights of the Silver Sword,” Ava began, her voice laced in agony, “Forgive me, for I have sinned,”

  She paused once more, judging their reactions, their stances, the way they held their hands on their sword hilts, ready to draw. It was all she could do but not thank God, only one of them had drawn steel.

  “But, I cannot be captured here, I have my reasons,” she continued, “I cannot go back to Acre, I have those who require my protection.”

  With a heavy heart, she dropped her basket and drew steel.

  “Please, forgive me once more.”

  Immediately, the air grew tense, blades and spears emerged, and Ava found herself surrounded in a sea of steel. The knight who drew his sword first approached her, within dueling distance now.

  “My name is Brother Yvain,” he said, “Knight of the Sixth Company.”

  His voice trailed.

  “Out of respect for your good deeds in war so far—”

  She winced. How could anyone call those actions good?

  “I ask my fellow brothers that we duel, for what honor is there in striking down a lone woman?”

  A fully formed wall had been formed around Ava and Yvain. They circled each other, in their respective stances. Yvain held his sword high, as if preparing for an overhead swing already.

  “I’m a lucky man, I get to test my skills on the infamous Third Company Captain. After Fiana, the recruits gave you a new name. Do you know what it is?”

  Ava closed her eyes; Thomas had told her of it, on their way to Iss, and yet, despite her knowing what was about to escape his lips, it eased the shame no less.

  “Please, do not call me—”

  Yvain cut in.

  “The Hero of Fiana.”

  Her gaze hardened.

  “Brother Yvain,” she began, “Answer me this.”

  The pair circled still, baiting each other into striking first. Ava knew she was not sparring a knight as fresh as Thomas, that she might have to actually hurt him.

  “When you knights take that stance, rough and heavy, why do you think it’s strength?”

  Ava paused as she stared into his eyes.

  “Why do you think there is strength in brutalizing your enemy?”

  The onlooking knights murmured. Ava could tell they did not understand.

  “You’re far too slow, Brother Yvain.”

  With that, Ava darted forward, her boots crunching the grass beneath her. Yvain recoiled.

  Yvain grunted as Ava saw his eyes struggle to keep up with her pace.

  She evaded his overhead swing and, with all her might, slammed the pommel of her longsword into his helmet. A loud ring emanated from his helmet as he sank to the floor.

  His body went limp instantly.

  “Incredible…” Ava heard the surrounding knights whisper. Her head shook vigorously, yet the praise continued.

  “So, her speed is her weapon, then, let me try next, then.”

  The next knight set his banner down, and his hand crept towards his spear.

  “On your guard, Aveline.”

  He lunged with ferocious speed, nicking her partially. Ava examined his spear, worn and battle-tested, the shaft thick and durable.

  She couldn’t break the shaft; that would only lead to defeat. In her thoughts, she calmed the encroaching nerves inside of her.

  Stay calm, stay in control.

  Her opponent continued to lunge, pressing her against the edge of the wall created by the surrounding knights. He was fast, skilled with the spear, too, Ava’s weakness. But he wasn’t skilled enough. The general she’d bested at Ayyadieh was stronger.

  He lunged once more, and Ava took the split second to side-step and crashed the guard of her sword into his forearm. A loud crunch echoed throughout the fields as he collapsed in pain.

  “ARGHHH! My arm!” he cried out.

  Ava hopped twice, as two of the knights lay crumpled on the ground.

  “Who’s next?” Ava asked plainly, her hair covering her face, warped with regret.

  Silence fell, for an instant, then broke just as fast.

  “Surround her!” a knight yelled, “No more duels! Capture her if you can; if not, kill her!”

  Ava grimaced, “So much for your honor, then.”

  …

  That fool.

  It was the only thought Thomas could form. His hands trembled as he raised the crossbow. Even the light breeze drifting in from the sea threatened to spoil his aim.

  For the past month, their greatest worry had been coin. How to feed four mouths when they had only rationed for two back in Acre.

  Now the banner of the Order flew in the distance.

  Thomas could not make out every detail of the fight, but he heard enough. Steel striking steel. Men shouting. The dull cries of the wounded.

  But not the dying.

  He steadied his breathing and forced his mind back to that night in Iss, when Ava had taught him how to quiet the noise inside his head.

  Slow breath in. Slow breath out.

  His fingers traced along the limbs of the crossbow as he crept forward, careful with every step. His eyes searched the battlefield for the gaps Ava had taught him to aim for.

  Thomas dropped to one knee, and he made the sign of the cross obsessively. Ten seconds passed. His heartbeat slowed.

  Then he pulled the trigger, the string snapping forward with a sharp crack as the bolt tore across the field and struck a knight square in the back, lodging firmly through his body.

  For a moment, no one understood what had happened. Chaos rippled through the circle of knights as the man staggered.

  Then Ava’s voice rang across the field.

  “Thomas!” she shouted. “Do not kill!”

  She broke through the ring of men, ignoring the blades that reached for her. She rushed to the fallen knight and dropped to her knees beside him, taking his hands in hers.

  “No!” she said quickly, her voice trembling. “You will live. The wound did not pierce anything vital. You will survive, I promise—”

  Her words faltered as she looked down.

  The bolt had passed straight through his chest.

  Blood bubbled at his lips.

  Thomas had not been a crusader long, but he had seen enough war to understand. Bubbling meant no return. There was no saving him.

  Her grip tightened around his gauntleted hands.

  “Knight,” she whispered, her voice breaking, “please forgive us.”

  And then he saw it.

  Out of all the knights, lying on the grass of the Levant.

  Only one of them leaked blood from their armor.

  …

  Blood. On her hands.

  That was the last thing she could handle.

  Visions of Lady Grainne swarmed her mind, judgment and disappointment, that’s what they always were. Despite Ava’s best efforts, her hands always turned into the hands of war.

  The knight that Thomas shot lay silent, his body rigid. The remaining knights, roughly three, looked at her in shock as she closed the dead man’s eyes.

  Ava offered a silent prayer.

  When she was done, what Ava could only assume was that the leader of the group had removed his helmet. And she had known, when she took a closer look, not marred in the chaos of the battlefield, she should’ve realized.

  Only one knight in the Order lacked a left hand. And he was lacking, due to her actions…

  “Malcolm—” Ava barely could control her tears, “Malcolm, what are you doing here? Why are you hunting us…”

  Ava always knew Malcolm to be a pragmatist, to get his job done, nothing more, nothing less. But as she looked into his eyes, it was as if he’d seen a ghost. As if he’d been forced to watch horrors unspeakable.

  Malcolm averted his gaze, addressing the two knights still standing after Ava’s assault.

  “Men, stand down, she’s beyond your skill level,” he stated, “Even when holding back, she bested both Yvain and Pelleas.”

  His voice became colder.

  “The mission is a failure, let us return to the Marshal, we’ll tell him Aveline evaded us, we’ll tell him more men are needed for this to work.”

  They nodded, yet Ava could not ignore this any longer.

  “Malcolm!” she yelled, “What is going on? Why are you helping Louis? Did you not even try to defend us? Defend Thomas?”

  Ava’s gaze darkened further, her eyes dropped to his cape, her throat bubbled as her pupils ran across that ever-so familiar design.

  “Where is Reynard!”

  Malcolm closed the distance and came up to Ava’s ear.

  “There’s not enough time to explain, Ava, but we’re in trouble,” Malcolm whispered, “I will tell the men still standing to take the knights you bested to a healer, meet me at the tavern north-east of Tyre tomorrow. Understood?”

  Ava wiped her tears. Even in agony, she could not help but interject.

  “But Malcolm, you know I don’t go to—”

  She saw the look of fury in his eyes, that same wrath he had in Fiana, when he lost his arm, Ava bit her tongue, silencing the words she had prepared to say.

  “Understood…”

  Ava watched as Malcolm and the other two knights hauled their allies on their horses, and pulled them towards Tyre, leaving not a single warhorse behind.

  “Ava…” Thomas had finally broken his silence, he held his crossbow in hand.

  “Deputy I—”

  “Thomas.” Ava’s voice was low and filled with grief, “Every life is sacred…”

  She paused, she saw him looking down at his crossbow.

  “The moment we start taking lives without thinking, without trying everything first…”

  Ava looked at her gauntlets once more, smeared with blood.

  “We lose the right to call ourselves Crusaders, we lose the right to call ourselves followers of Christ…”

  “We lose the right to call ourselves Christian.”