“Sir Reynard, thank you!”

  Reynard grimaced at the memory of the harlot’s—no, Margot’s—face. The last person who should ever be owed thanks, and here he was, carrying it. Still, could barely piece together the daily burden his most diligent knight endured.

  But if Reynard was right—if his instincts about Louis and Ava were correct…

  He scoffed, pulling his hood up as he walked through the streets of Acre. The city was quiet, as always on the sabbath*, but even in the hush, the few shops he passed stirred memories, some long past, others far too recent.

  Merchants shouted and waved their wares, fresh produce and spices filling the air, but he kept walking. He didn’t want to linger near the centre—the brothel had been risky enough. An old woman caught his eye, selling a board of little soldiers locked in battle, the game vaguely familiar from Malcolm’s recent fascination, though its name escaped him.

  At the edge of town, near the port, a simpler scent drifted to him: cheese.

  A short, wry smile tugged at his lips. He pictured Ava and Grainne, delighting in such a humble pleasure, and it never failed to bring him a smile. Cheese for her, he thought, was what ale was for him.

  “Ava, Thomas…” he whispered beneath his cloak. “I hope you’re well. The company misses you.”

  He paused, quickening his pace.

  “Come back alive. The Order is worse without you.”

  …

  Reynard stared at the sea, his sword rustling at his hip as he watched the sun sink below the horizon.

  He’d been sitting there for hours, taking in the sunlight, blocking out all other senses, glossing over moments of bygone days, of when he graduated third in his class, at the Temple of the Silver Sword with Gandry, nights spent drinking, days spent riding with his brothers, and gaining wisdom from his mentor Godfrey. The night he first met Ava, before their campaigns in Cyprus, she seemed so serious, so broken.

  He removed his hood from his head and scratched his hair in frustration; he didn’t understand. If his suspicions about Louis and Ava were true, why hadn’t she spoken? One word, and he could have gone to Marcus, the Eleventh Company Captain, to the Grandmaster — anyone. Anything was better than this silence. Sure, the Eleventh Company wasn’t very respected, but if Ava just told him a bit of what happened, he could put a case together and inform the Grandmaster. Reynard never liked how the Marshal treated his men like expendables anyway.

  Reynard let out a long, drawn-out sigh as waves crashed onto the coast of Acre, sea salt lightly peppering his skin. His skin felt the rough wooden planks he sat on, wide and strong, above the sea line.

  “What should I do…” Reynard rubbed his eyes, the fatigue from earlier starting to settle in.

  “What you should do, Captain Reynard, is turn yourself in.”

  Reynard whipped his head behind him. A sea of blue and white lined up behind him, steel at their hips, eyes cold as ice. Their gaze was as distant as the faraway sea, yet even still, Reynard knew they did not come to watch the sea with him.

  “Reynard, it’s been a long time since we’ve met like this. How long has it been, nine years or so?”

  He knew that voice, bellowing from behind the sea of knights. Gandry. His hands felt more slippery than usual as Reynard rose from the pier of the shore.

  “First Captain,” Reynard rose from his rest and bowed, ignoring the snarky look Gandry gave him, “How may I be of assistance? Forgive my stubbornness, but I cannot turn myself in without reason. On whose authority did you decide to gather these knights for my arrest? Order law clearly states—”

  “Marshal Louis de Bergliez.” Gandry’s voice cut like steel. Reynard faltered in his tracks.

  Reynard attempted to laugh, cocking his head back, “Gandry, you really think I’d be fool enough to believe that? The Marshal barely has time for us,” Reynard lowered his gaze, and increased the frequency of his cackling, “I know you’re still hung up on Master, but this isn’t going to bring him back—”

  Reynard’s laughter elicited no response; Gandry spoke.

  “Reynard, you bastard, your Deputy has committed treason, and upon the orders of Marshal Louis, you are hereby charged with conspiracy for treason.” Gandry raised a Silver Sword issue bible. Reynard’s heart sank.

  The wear on it, the corners chafed with dried blood, the slight discoloration, there was no doubt who this belonged to.

  “Liar.” Reynard’s former bravado collapsed, hardening into a cold stare as he drew his sword, “That’s my Deputy, my right hand you’re accusing, and she’s a more pious soul than the rest of us combined, treason is the last thing she’d commit.”

  Gandry scoffed as he turned his back, “Men, capture him alive, we need him fit to stand trial, the Marshal himself will act as the judge.”

  Reynard scanned the knights in front of him, observing their equipment, their demeanors, and then he realized. Some of the men charging him now.

  Were his own.

  “Gandry!” Reynard bellowed, the knights closing in on him, “You fiend! Your hatred of me is just, but to subject these men to capturing their own Captain? Is this really what Master would have wanted for us—”

  “Do not speak his name, you don’t have the right to invoke Godfrey’s name into this!”

  Reynard grit his teeth as he turned to his former comrades.

  “Forgive me, men, but I cannot submit today.”

  Reynard brandished his sword, hands steady.

  “On your guard, men.”

  …

  Swords were never Reynard’s specialty. The lance suited him better. It let him keep a distance. It let him stay clean. Now he had neither space nor choice.

  The Third Company was well-trained. Too well. Some of their cuts, the timing of their footwork, and the way they pressed without overcommitting. Reynard had not taught them that. Ava had. For all her hours in prayer, she was a demon with the blade.

  “Captain, please surrender!”

  The young knight’s voice cracked as Reynard turned his strike aside and sent him sprawling into the water. Reynard did not pursue. He would not. These were his men. Men he had ridden with, bled with, shared cups and silence with. Whatever else he was, he would not butcher them for obedience.

  Even as they closed in on him.

  Pain detonated across his back. Steel rang. Heat tore through his spine and stole the breath from his lungs. Reynard staggered, then turned.

  He saw the blade before he saw the face.

  “Go to Hell!”

  He moved without thought. The cut was short, decisive, driven by reflex. The body came apart before the scream could finish. Legs fell away. The rest followed.

  The knight collapsed. Reynard froze.

  Blood coated his hands, slick and warm. Too much of it. His vision swam as he looked down and recognized the face beneath the helm. Reynard sank to his knees.

  “No… Brother Harken.” His voice broke. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

  The line of knights recoiled. Whispers rippled through them. Fear took root. Not of the blade, but of Reynard. The captain stood over one of their own, drenched in red.

  “Ah,” Gandry said softly, stepping forward. “There he is.”

  Reynard did not look away.

  “The coward finally shows himself.” Gandry’s smile was thin. “You were so afraid to die that you killed him instead. As long as you live, nothing else matters. Isn’t that right, Reynard?”

  Gandry tapped his forehead in a mocking gesture, “Well, your charges aren’t looking too good right now, conspiracy and murder, oh, it really isn’t looking too good for you, is it?”

  Gandry continued to stroll closer to Reynard, drawing his sword, “Let’s settle this, one on one. I’ve wanted to settle the score for a long time now, since Iss. Since nine years ago…”

  Reynard’s sight did not leave its target. Brother Harken’s eyes rolled upwards, his face stiff, blood leaking from the waist down, as Reynard’s grip on his sword became slippery. The ever-familiar feeling, he never wanted this feeling to come from the death of a comrade, however.

  “Prepare yourself, Reynard, I want to savor this fight, on your feet.”

  Reynard’s vision blurred as Gandry began to raise his sword. Begrudgingly, he rose.

  “But why, why did it have to end like this?” Reynard began, palm open, inspecting every drop of blood on his hands.

  “Good men, loyal men, turned against each other. Brother Harken was the son of a humble shoemaker before he joined us, and I killed him. Why? Why do we have to fight Gandry?”

  Gandry scoffed, “Stop deflecting, Reynard. I know you are the pinnacle of cowardice, but even you must have some class. Prepare your blade.”

  Reynard shook his head as he threw his blade aside; it clattered on the wooden floor.

  “No. Gandry. I won’t, because why does it have to be the Sword or the Knee?”

  Silence.

  Reynard’s sword continued to bounce along the wooden planks; the remaining knights, battered and bruised, watched on.

  Gandry scowled at him, “Is that it? Is that your answer? For your subordinates' crimes? For your cowardice nine years ago?”

  Reynard looked down at Harken’s dead body, limp and cold, then stared back at Gandry.

  He mustered the slightest smile.

  “It is.”

  Gandry clenched his fists, “Guards, seize him, he’s disarmed, get this disgrace out of my sight and in chains.”

  He paused, glaring Reynard up and down as Reynard was bound by chains and rope.

  “I said it that day, years ago, and I will say it again.”

  Gandry strode towards Reynard and crouched down to meet him at eye level.

  “You disgust me.”

  The world faded to black as Gandry landed a devastating blow to his forehead.

  …

  Malcolm had always thought the worst punishment the Order could give was a week of cleaning stables. Especially Grainne’s. There was nothing more tedious than scrubbing her pen while she lay around like a princess.

  Malcolm couldn’t have been more wrong. He heard the whispers before he saw the condemned.

  Reynard was dragged across the barracks, bruised and bloodied, a dark trail smeared behind him. Gandry walked ahead, his jaw tight with fury. Several knights of the Third Company followed, their faces grim.

  Malcolm moved without thinking.

  “Men!” he cried. “What is the meaning of this?”

  The barracks were cramped and dim, stone walls sweating with heat, the air thick with steel. Knights crowded the narrow floor below him, murmuring as if they were watching a spectacle. Some tried to shove him back. He ignored them.

  Pointing at the men he once called brothers, he shouted,

  “What right do you have to seize Captain Reynard? Has he not been loyal? Has he not led you to victory? What could make you turn on him now?”

  Gandry turned slowly, his eyes cold.

  “I heard you were promoted to temporary Deputy,” he said. “I didn’t realise the Third Deputy position came with a compulsion to disobey authority.”

  Malcolm stiffened as Gandry continued.

  “Your beloved Captain stands accused of conspiracy. And after today…”

  Gandry gestured. Malcolm followed his gaze.

  Two knights carried a young man’s body, severed cleanly at the waist. The top half sagged forward. The lower half dragged behind.

  “Treason too,” Gandry said calmly. “The killing of one’s brothers seems to be standard practice in the Third Company.”

  Malcolm’s fist clenched. His left stump trembled.

  “What are you implying, Captain?”

  Gandry raised his voice so all could hear.

  “Behold.”

  He seized Reynard’s face and forced it upward.

  “Captain Reynard Blackwood is hereby charged with treason against the Order and the murder of Brother Harken of Venice.”

  “And his Deputy,” Gandry continued, “Aveline of Canterbury, is charged with high treason against Christendom. These arrests come by order of the Marshal himself.”

  Reynard’s body hit the stone floor with a dull crash. Gandry let him bounce once before signaling the knights to drag him away.

  “He will be held in the dungeons,” he said, “until he is ready to stand trial.”

  The only thing Malcolm could do, as his Captain was to be dragged across the floor, on his knees.

  Swords drawn on either side of him.

  …

  When Reynard awoke, he tasted a metallic taste in his mouth, slightly bitter too; he sighed as he thought about what the taste was.

  It was definitely not ale, it was times like this he could really use some ale, too…

  He went to scratch his head, in frustration, in habit, but then he felt it, the sharp bite of steel on his wrists. The cold floor that froze his skin, the occasional squeak of a mouse, Gandry had won; he knew exactly where he was and how dire the circumstance.

  The cell was a coffin carved from stone. Its walls were rough, damp, and streaked with water that dripped steadily from unseen cracks in the ceiling, leaving dark, slick trails. The air was heavy with the smell of mold and sweat, and the faint metallic tang of iron hung from the bars. Only a single, narrow slit of light cut through the wall near the ceiling, casting a harsh, angled beam across the floor, which was cold stone, uneven and jagged underfoot.

  Every shadow seemed alive, crawling along the walls and wrapping around him. Even the silence was suffocating, broken only by the distant drip of water or the muffled steps of guards pacing outside.

  Reynard’s thoughts went back to his conversation with the mistress earlier, to his meeting with Gandry at the port, but from there, his memory slipped; fiction and reality began to merge.

  He turned his head to his hands, squinting his eyes in the dark of the cell, and he saw it. Blood.

  “No, God… what have I done—”

  The sight of Harken clouded his vision, bile and spit bubbled in his mouth as memories came back, how his rage took over, how his fear of death pushed him to kill one of his men, men he’d nurtured, men he’d promised to return to their families, their loved ones. He had become no better than the enemy.

  Reynard shook his head, steeling his focus. If he wanted to live, he had to think of something, of something fast.

  His mind drifted to Silveredge, still lying underneath his bed, glistening in the darkness, and the words of Margot kept reverberating in his mind, how some of her patrons waited for when their mistresses turned from resistance to apathy…

  “Ava wouldn’t kill fellow knights of Christendom, would she?” he muttered to himself.

  Reynard took a deep breath as he gathered the facts. Gandry had her Bible; he couldn’t imagine Ava giving that away to anyone, so at the very least, she’d been involved in a skirmish where she’d lost it. Thomas was likely with her too, but Gandry, and by extension, Louis, likely didn’t know that yet; they did, they would’ve grouped his charge in with Ava’s.

  He bit his lip as he continued to theorise. Gandry had it out for him personally; that much was clear. He could feign ignorance as to Ava’s whereabouts, well, actually, he genuinely didn’t know anymore; he thought she was just going to the Cathedral in Tyre.

  Louis had done something to Ava, of that he was sure, earlier, even before Fiana, Ava would always mention Louis’ love for power, how he was power incarnate.

  He shuddered at the thought. How had he not noticed? For years, Ava showed signs, even before they landed in the Levant, in their minor campaigns in Cyprus. Ava showed so many signs, yet Reynard was too far into his drink to realise the immense suffering of his right-hand woman.

  Reynard heard a faint knock on the door, and as soon as the knock finished, one of the knights entered his cell, a recruit, he could tell by the way he held his spear; he couldn’t have had more than a year’s experience on the field, yet he did his best to command respect all the same.

  “Captain Reynard,” The knight did his best to avoid eye contact, “You have a visitor.”

  Reynard lifted his head, and he’d never been happier to see the man before him.

  …

  Malcolm had never thought he’d see the day when Reynard was so down.

  He’d have spells of hangovers, times where the withdrawal of a bottle hit him hardest, but this? This was much worse.

  His captain was kneeling on the floor, both hands skyward, bound by iron chains, slightly rusted, his once well-kept hair hung raggedly over his face, his face rising slowly, his eyes hollow.

  “Malcolm, is that you?” Reynard began, Malcolm killed a sob under his breath, merely nodding at Reynard.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  “Come closer, we have much to discuss, and we can’t let the guards hear us.”

  Malcolm kneeled as Reynard readjusted himself in his chains, his breathing loose and shallow.

  “Malcolm, what happened to Ava? I heard parts, but Gandry fed me more lies than truth.”

  Malcolm clutched his fist, his heart rate rising, blood vessels emerging from his skin.

  “Ava, that damn fool,” his teeth ground on each other, “Apparently, she killed some Christian knights in Iss, it’s a coastal town near Tyre.”

  Malcolm saw his Captain’s body tremble at the name of the town, but he carried on.

  “Apparently, she freed some merchandise, if I had to guess, that damn Little Miss Righteous saw some slaves, and couldn’t help but stick her nose where it doesn’t belong, and it’s us that have to suffer the consequences…”

  He kissed his teeth in fury. He owed Ava a lot, but all she seemed to do was get involved in things she didn’t need to, and the price was always someone else; it was himself, now it was the captain.

  Reynard coughed, blood exiting his mouth.

  “Malcolm, go easy on Ava, please, for me…”

  Malcolm went to interject, but Reynard cut him off, “Did you never find it strange, the way Ava would completely change when the Marshal was nearby, like her body would go rigid, her eyes would lock, in one roundtable meeting,”

  Reynard paused before he said the next part, “She even used the word Saracen—that doesn’t sound like the Ava I know.”

  “Captain, with all due respect, what does that have to do with the situation we’re in now?”

  Malcolm furiously scratched his head, looking for any solutions, “We’re under a lot of pressure right now, you’re in the dungeons, Ava is currently being hunted, when was the last time anyone saw Thomas? And you’re just worried about Ava? The rest of the knights in the Third Company don’t know what to do, and I’m not fit to lead them.”

  A long, steady silence fell between the two.

  Reynard’s voice went quiet as a mouse when he finally spoke again, “Listen to me very carefully, Malcolm. I have reason to believe Marshal Louis has it personally out for Ava, he’s the only one, aside from formal summoners, that refers to her as Aveline, she trembles at his presence, when I visited the brothel earlier, they said that…”

  Malcolm leaned in as Reynard beckoned him forward.

  “They said that was a symptom of something much more sinister happening every time.”

  Malcolm raised his eyebrow. What was Reynard on about? Sure, practically everyone in the Order knew more or less that Louis didn’t play nice with anyone, and especially not Ava, but exactly what did Reynard mean?

  “Captain, just spill it out. I don’t understand.”

  Reynard sighed, he seemed to almost get the words out, but instead.

  “Just, the relationship between our little do-gooder deputy and the Marshal isn’t as straightforward as we thought. Keep an eye out for her, okay?”

  Malcolm shrugged as he replied, “I think she needs to keep an eye out for herself; she creates problems of her own making every week, and we clean it up for her.”

  Reynard’s eyes fixated on a corner of the room, and he went dead silent.

  “Malcolm, underneath my chambers,” his eyes darkened, “lies a sword, it glistens like moonlight.”

  More silence, Malcolm could feel Reynard’s desperation.

  “My master, Godfrey the Brave, upon his death, tricked the Order into believing the sword was lost, its name is Silveredge.”

  “Malcolm, I killed a fellow member of our Order. I would be lucky to be excommunicated, there’s a chance this mistake will be my last…”

  Malcolm’s voice cut the silence, “Captain, that’s absurd, surely Louis will see reason that it was a mistake—”

  “I’m not so sure, can’t you see something bigger than us is happening?” Reynard cut him off, “If they put me to the sword, do whatever it takes to keep that sword away from the Marshal, he knows of the authority it brings, throw it in the ocean, if you must, or…”

  He raised his eyebrow a touch, “If you could find Ava, she might make better use of Silveredge than I did.”

  Malcolm finally had enough; he grabbed his captain by the throat, teeth grinding.

  “After all this? You want me to track down the deputy? None of us even know where she is! You want me to risk my neck for her again?”

  Malcolm raised his left arm, or what was left of it.

  “How much more should I be forced to sacrifice for her?”

  His voice rose as he hung the mangled stump in front of his captain.

  A knock came on the door.

  “Your time is almost up. Make it quick.” The guard outside shouted through the door.

  Reynard’s body shook as he mustered the words to speak once more.

  “Please, Malcolm, make sure Louis cannot attain that sword; whatever you do after that is up to you…”

  Malcolm saw a single tear drip down his face.

  “And please, do your best to look after our deputy…”