Chapter 330: Monastery in Disguise

Horizon of War Series

Monastery in Disguise

Monastery

The fierce battle had ended, and now the banner of Blue and Bronze flew over the Monastery. Over two hundred guards, gray-robed Candidates, and Believers surrendered. It was estimated that a similar number had been killed, though no one had begun to count. The men were exhausted, and there were more pressing matters to attend to. Most bodies were left where they fell. Weapons, however, were piled in a guarded chamber, in case stragglers were still hiding in the dark.

The prisoners were herded into locked chambers to be investigated tomorrow morning. The wounded among them were allowed to tend to themselves, with their own men acting as makeshift medics. Unfortunately, Saint Candidates were not permitted to assist. Even unarmed, they were considered too great a threat, and their presence alone could rouse the Believers into trouble.

Each surrendering Saint Candidate was locked in a separate room. The officers feared that keeping two or more together might let them break a common wooden door with their enhanced strength. Dozens of sentries were posted in that section to guard against such an eventuality.

In a bid to reduce the tension, confiscated wine was handed out under watch. Before long, many prisoners slumped where they sat and fell asleep.

The Monastery Guard Captain was brought before the Vice Commander for questioning. The exchange remained professional. Both understood each other’s roles.

With a numerical advantage of two thousand men, minus the injured, the Blue and Bronze scoured every part of the Monastery, leaving only the Inner Sanctum untouched. Sir Stan and Big Ben were left in charge there to keep the remaining Saint Candidates from attempting a desperate breakthrough.

As a gesture of good faith, the Inner Sanctum forced the fleeing guards, Candidates, and Believers to surrender after Sir Stan promised them a fair trial without execution. However, unable to remain united, a small group of Saint Candidates brokered a separate deal to switch sides.

Sir Stan received them and had them given proper treatment at once. Still, suspicion lingered, and out of an abundance of caution, they were kept in a separate area under watch. A few volunteered to treat the wounded regardless of side. Their help was accepted only in the most critical cases.

Meanwhile, outside, beneath the hill, the ducks patrolled the area, wary of escaping Monastery men, or even the Saint herself.

With the rest of the Monastery secured, Sir Harold and his men finally had time to rearm. Messengers were sent to the camp to fetch their squires. Before long, the squires came, bringing armor and gear, and the officers dressed themselves in their usual harness. The familiar weight returned to them, and in full kit they looked both at ease and imposing.

Gregory, of the same mind, paid a younger brother-in-arms to fetch his armor. He soon reappeared in a bright red cuirass that made him resemble Sir Stan of Toruna enough to invite jokes. One of his friends mocked him as the Baronet’s knockoff, but Gregory was too proud to care.

Sir Harold quickly formed a separate detachment to take Saint Nay. It would be done formally, with a bailiff’s representative present to deliver a summons to court.

However, they immediately ran into problems.

“The fleeing Monastery members have barred the door to the lower levels. We’ve called out, but there’s been no answer,” a messenger reported, bringing word from the lieutenant in charge of securing the lower floors.

The detachment, made up of the two Bannerets, SAR elements, fifteen selected men, including Gregory, a young Black Knight, and a bailiff official, exchanged grim looks. The barred door was not the issue, but the silence behind it. There was no reply, no negotiation, no attempt to buy time. It meant some other motive was at play.

Recalling the Monastery’s layout, one of the SAR voiced his concern. “They’re likely running deeper.”

“The Saint might have supplies hidden down there, separate from the Inner Sanctum,” the SAR Captain said, sharing the same worry.

“Or an escape route,” Sir Morton added, speaking the uncomfortable truth.

“Then the ducks will find them,” Sir Harold said firmly. He led his men down the corridor, now bright with lantern light, with men stationed at every entrance.

They moved along the long passage. The men they passed saluted. While most of the main combatants had been ordered to rest as reserves took their place, the adrenaline was still high, and many remained on the lookout for trouble. By tradition, none touched the wine, knowing the victory feast would be sweeter once all their objectives had been secured.

From the other side, the Vice approached, fresh from interrogations, accompanied by his escort and a woman walking under guard. She carried a different air about her, enough to make Sir Harold wonder if she was a guest or a noble hostage the Monastery had kept.

“Commander. Sir Morton,” the Vice greeted as the two groups came to a stop.

The Mage Knight gave a acknowledging nod, but his gaze settled on the woman in black robes and a white cloak. His eyes took on a subtle golden glow.

“Vice, what have you got for me?” Sir Harold asked, while his men spread out and watched the corridor for threats.

“A guide,” the Vice answered. “May I introduce Saint Candidate Emma. She volunteered to guide you.”

The woman, in her twenties, stepped forward. Taller than average, she wore silken black robes and a contrasting, lustrous white cloak. Her gaze stayed lowered. Her hands were clasped tight, and one shoulder trembled faintly. Yet there was no hiding her high noble beauty. “Well met, sir. I am Emma.”

Sir Harold understood the reason for that tremor. He glanced at his brother-in-arms. The Mage Knight gave a reassuring nod as the golden glow in his eyes faded.

Emma immediately let out a quiet breath of relief. A moment ago, under Sir Morton’s gaze, it had felt as if an ethereal hand had reached through her body, into her very vessel and soul.

“Lady Emma,” Sir Harold said, respectfully, “do you know where the Saint is?”

“Everyone in the Monastery would say she’s in the lower level,” Emma began. “But nobody can say with certainty.”

“How so?” Sir Harold asked.

“Aside from her entourage, guards, and attendants who lived apart from us, nobody truly knew. Saint Candidates like me last saw her two months ago.”

Everyone found that hard to accept. Gregory, the most outspoken among them, scoffed and asked, “You jest, Sister. How can the head of your order go unseen for months?”

“She has taken less and less part as head of the order,” Emma explained to the red armored man. “Even before the siege, she only communicated through her trusted aides. Only the head of the Candidates, the Caretaker, had access to her.”

Hearing that, the Vice added his report. “We’re unable to find the Caretaker. Several men, including two of rank, said the Caretaker has not returned after being summoned by the Saint a few days ago.”

Emma nodded quickly, confirming it.

Sir Harold glanced at his men, declaring, “This changes nothing. The door below is barred.”

“Barred?” Emma muttered, more to herself than anyone.

“Sir,” the SAR Captain stepped forward. “Let me organize men to breach it.”

“Do so,” Sir Harold agreed. The Captain, along with several of his men, moved ahead at once.

Sir Harold returned his attention to Emma. “So nobody saw the Saint for a long time... When did that begin?”

“Ever since the attack ended,” she said, then quickly corrected herself. “I mean, ever since Sir Hohendorf and Saint Candidate Angela returned.”

“The traitor,” Gregory exclaimed. He turned to the Vice. “Have we found him?”

The Vice shook his head. “Not yet.”

“Nobody has,” Emma revealed. “After that night, they were never seen on the Monastery grounds.”

“You mean the Saint killed them?” Gregory blurted, startled.

“I’m not sure,” she said flatly.

Noticing her emotionless tone, Sir Morton gave a soft chuckle and asked, “It seems you have no love for her.”

For the first time, Emma met the Mage Knight’s gaze. “I’m not close with Angela. I found her skill as a healer lacking, and her conduct irresponsible. Moreover, I do not support this war. We are healers. Why we would attack a noble is beyond me.”

Sir Morton’s mouth curved slightly. “You do realize this will not make us trust you so easily?”

Emma inhaled softly and gathered her thoughts before saying, “It’s best to see this as a shared goal.”

“Go on,” Sir Morton said.

“I’m looking for my friend, Anna. She’s a Saint Candidate and an apothecary. I asked for her help three days ago, and she was last seen heading to meet one of her friends who worked with the Saint. If I accompany you, I’ll be able to find her.” She turned to Sir Harold. “Promise me you’ll free her.”

Instead of answering, Sir Harold asked, “How about the Great Gemstone?”

Her eyes wandered before she replied. “The Great Gemstone was hauled down to the lower level. It took days and tens of men to move it safely through the stairs. The Saint undoubtedly wished to study it.”

Sir Harold was about to ask more, but he noticed her brows furrow, as if she were recalling something. He gave her a moment, and she added, “If I remember correctly, there was a rumor that the Saint only agreed to take part in the attack on Cascasonne for the sake of that Great Gemstone. But I can’t say whether that rumor is true.”

The news drew exchanged glances among his men. Sir Harold’s interest sharpened. “Who can explain?”

“There are other senior members, but they might lie. It’s best if you confront the Saint herself.”

“That is the best idea,” Gregory said, swinging his fist in approval.

Sir Harold thought the same. He turned to the Vice and said, “Walk with us. Everything will be clearer once we see this Saint.”

The two groups moved as one toward the lower level.

On the way, Gregory, walking behind Emma, asked, “Do you think she’ll try to escape?”

“That is hard to tell," Emma replied.

Her flat tone piqued Gregory’s interest. “Why do I get the sense you don’t particularly like the Saint?”

“She’s dangerous,” Emma replied bluntly. “Nobody but her closest wants anything to do with her. She is cruel, and she has punished, even killed anyone she dislikes without mercy. Nobody could stop her.”

Hearing that, Sir Morton, walking beside her, could not help but scoff. “It seems she’s not as popular inside these walls as she is outside.”

“Indeed,” Emma replied firmly. “Many are against her, but too afraid to resist.”

“Is she really that powerful?” Gregory wondered aloud.

“Don’t treat her like she’s a mere healer. She’s an accomplished mage. An old one, too. Don’t be fooled by her looks. She’s older than the Monastery,” she explained without slowing her pace.

“Fascinating,” Sir Morton muttered, his boots thudding softly on the rush-matted floor

Sir Harold made no comment while his men exchanged glances. They had heard rumors, but never from a credible source.

Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

The Vice spoke next. “That is why I accepted her help. She can identify Saint Nay for us. The others are too afraid.”

Sir Harold drew a careful breath, deep as he could manage without pulling at his stitches.

Emma noticed at once. “Sir, you’re injured.”

“It’s been stitched,” he answered, without slowing down.

“But no healer has treated you. May I?” she offered, then suddenly gasped, drawing the men’s attention. “My apologies. I did not mean to overstep.”

Sir Morton snorted, and Sir Harold realized at once that it was about the magic mark on his neck.

“I suppose I can say it safely now. My wife is a Saint Candidate,” he revealed.

Emma’s mouth fell open, and her eyes went moist. Carefully, she asked, “Is your wife Clementine?”

The men looked at one another, surprised. Sir Harold frowned and stopped, turning to Emma. “How do you know?”

“Is she alive?” Emma asked, unable to hide her excitement.

“Are you a friend of hers? Yes, she’s well. She’s at the camp.”

Emma looked overjoyed, almost bouncing where she stood. “B-but how?” she asked. “She’s stubborn and strong.”

Sir Morton huffed a laugh, drawing her attention. "This man,” he explained, giving Sir Harold a firm pat between the shoulders, “can beat most Mage Knights. A Saint Candidate won’t do him any harm.”

Amazement flickered across Emma’s face. She looked Sir Harold over again, as if only now taking in how tall and strong he was. She swallowed, thinking how someone like Clementine, not even as tall as she was, had ended up with a husband like this. “May I ask you a few questions?”

Sensing the talk would turn personal, Sir Morton walked off with the young Black Knight, gesturing that they would find something to drink.

“Wait, let me join,” Gregory said, and followed. The Vice quietly ordered the nearby men to spread out a little farther, giving them space.

“It’s a long story,” Sir Harold said, not wishing to entertain any questions.

Undeterred, she asked in a merry but dignified tone, “Did she ever speak of Emma?”

“No. I don’t recall. She mostly kept quiet about the Monastery. Only about her older and younger Sisters.”

Emma’s shoulders loosened. “So they’re alive. I’m so glad.” She abruptly paused, then added, “Not the older Sister, though. She’s nasty.”

Sir Harold let out a short chuckle. The fact that Emma knew about it was enough proof.

“Come,” he said. “When this is finished, I’ll let you speak with her.” Sir Harold strode off, and without needing an order, his men followed.

***

Lower Level

Not even a lantern was lit, and the brazier had long died, leaving only an acrid scent behind. In a separate antechamber connected to the entrance hall, Anna sat on the floor, bound in thick rope that dug into her skin. Her attempt to find her friend had been met with suspicion. She had badly misjudged how deep that suspicion ran among the Saint’s closest followers, and she had been dragged here and questioned about her motives for wandering into the lower floor.

Her basket of medicines was treated as evidence. They questioned her about it again and again, but the Saint’s followers knew next to nothing of apothecary work. They saw poisons where there were remedies, and in the end they locked her in an unused antechamber, with no clear decision on whether she would be punished or released.

Even after three days, too preoccupied with the siege, the Brothers refused to pass judgement. They simply shut her in and left her there.

The way they held her was inhumane. Without even a bucket, she was forced to relieve herself in the corner of the same chamber. The stench became a constant humiliation. She had wept, but it solved nothing.

From overheard conversations, she learned that the Saint herself was greatly displeased by what was happening above.

Anna had fallen into the Saint’s unwanted list.

Now, even her skill as an apothecary would go to waste. The Saint cared for no one. She had likely gone mad.

And it was hardly a question. The Saint had declared a holy war against a noble, hardly what a healer should do.

Anna blinked weakly. Her eyes were heavy, her lips dry, her throat parched. She had barely been given food or water. When they did give her something, bound as she was, she had to bend forward and eat like an animal. Worse, the Brothers had abandoned this floor, leaving the place dark and quiet. Now, only cockroaches wandered in the cracks of the walls.

A short while ago, there had been a stream of hurried steps. Monastery guards, Believers, Candidates, passing with lanterns and torches. Each time she called out for help. Each time they recognized her but chose to ignore her pleas, thinking that if the Saint had locked her away, then she was not to be trusted.

That was what broke her hope. Abandoned by the very people she had helped with her medicines.

Tired and cold, with nothing else to do, Anna strained herself to see in the dark. She was a Saint Candidate, but she had never trained for it. It was not taught openly, but passed from senior to junior. As an apothecary, no one had seen a reason to teach her such arts.

Gradually, the air grew stale. The stench of death seemed to thicken.

It did not surprise her. With the door likely shut, it was inevitable. Yet she wondered whether anyone had dealt with the bodies they had received. The lower level served as a mortuary before burial. It was meant for Monastery members or high-ranked guests with money enough to pay for the rite. Even then, burial within sacred grounds was not always permitted. Most were embalmed and then transported to where they resided, or to the cemetery at the foothill.

Suddenly, loud noises rose from outside. They were muffled, and her antechamber lay deeper in, so she could not make out the words, but the tone carried warning. Then came the heavy crash of iron on wood. Again. Again. Heavy blows that could split a sturdy door.

Anna went cold. It was clear. The Lord’s men were upon them, and she would be their victim.

“No,” she muttered, her stomach turning.

The blows kept coming, merciless and steady. The wood groaned and creaked, and the sound only grew louder. Each strike jolted her heart and seemed to punch straight through her belly. All she could do was cower in the corner. She strained against the ropes again, summoning what strength she had left, but the knots held fast, biting into her skin.

She gasped, exhausted and thirsty, sweat breaking out for nothing.

In horror, she could only wait, praying the door would hold, the way a castle gate could hold for weeks in a siege. But heavier blows betrayed her hope. Panic rose in her throat, and still there was nothing she could do.

Then a thought came, sharp and terrible. She still had the wall.

Even in the dark, she fixed her eyes on the cold stone. She gathered what will she had left and shifted her body, inch by inch, until she could bring her head close to it. Then she drove her forehead into the wall. The impact gave a dull, wet thump.

Her head recoiled and pain burst through her skull. Warm blood gushed. She gritted her teeth. She refused to be taken as men’s playthings.

She drew a ragged breath and did it again, with more determination.

Her head recoiled hard from the impact. “Ah,” she gasped, and fell onto her back.

“Stars swam across her vision. Her head felt split open, and the world tilted, dark and spinning.

As if answering what she had done, there came a final crack at the door. The sturdy wood split, the latch tore free, and the door swung wide and slammed into the wall with a violent bang.

Anna panicked. She tried to do it again, but in her frenzy she could not even move.

Then, through the din, a voice rang out, loud and unmistakable. “Anna!”

She could not believe her ears.

“What?” she muttered, dazed. She tried to listen through the stinging pain, the splitting headache, and the warm blood spreading across her face.

“Anna!” the shout came again, clearer, stronger, and it echoed down the passage.

Anna gasped and cried out, “I’m here!” Her voice cracked. “Help!”

...

Sir Harold

The stench of death greeted the Banneret and his select group as they descended the stairs. The lower hall was no longer dark. Long torches had been set along the passage, braziers rekindled, and Gregory had lit a gemstone of light he had bought from a noble House. Only he would dare spend so much for it, but in a place like this, it was a worthy purchase.

The advance group had already recovered Anna, the woman Emma had been searching for.

After Emma tended to her, Anna, who had nearly tried to kill herself out of fear, gradually began to trust the Lord’s men.

Sir Harold watched the exchange while his men scoured the floor, searching for the Saint, her followers, or a hidden escape route.

Unbound, Anna drank a good amount of water a little too fast. Naturally, she choked and vomited.

“Slowly, slowly,” Emma said, tapping her friend’s back.

When Anna could drink again, Emma wrapped her hand in fresh bandages. It took several moments, but at last Anna was ready to stand. Yet her attempt to kill herself had not been without consequence. Though she could stand, the moment she tried to walk, her legs gave out.

“Careful,” Emma said, catching her just in time.

“I’m fine,” Anna insisted, though fear and strain thickened her voice. She tried again, and again her legs failed her, as if all strength had drained from them.

Emma caught her once more. “Where does it feel wrong? Any injury?”

Anna stared at her in shock. “My legs. I can’t walk.”

After several more tries, they could only conclude that the concussion had done something to her. She would need rest. Yet, against everyone’s expectation, she was determined to see the Saint. Hatred burned in the young, lithe woman, even as her legs betrayed her.

Emma was against it, but she carried too much guilt to forbid her friend.

Without hesitation, Anna told them what had happened over the last three days. Unfortunately, she had seen none of the people Sir Harold meant to capture. Not the Saint, not Sir Hohendorf, and not Angela.

Still, Sir Harold thought her cooperation was valuable.

Gregory, always drawn to bold women, seemed to take a liking to Anna. He approached with respect, knelt, and offered her his gemstone of light. “Forgive my brashness, but I can carry you on my back, so you can guide us with the light.”

Anna looked at the man in red armor, then to the others, and finally to the tall knight who clearly held command. “May I?”

Sir Harold nodded. “If you want to accompany us, this is the only way.”

Gregory shifted closer, and Emma helped Anna up onto his back. Once he had her secure, he quipped, “If anyone asks my role in this mission, I hope they say I carried a brother, a lady, and the whole mission on my shoulders.”

The men scoffed or snorted under the glow of lanterns. Indeed, for the first part of the raid, Gregory had carried a SAR member with a broken leg on his back. Now he was carrying an injured Saint Candidate.

They finally stepped out. The passage beyond was bright, and the chandeliers had been hoisted back into place.

Sir Harold led the group to an intersection, where the Vice was taking reports from his men.

“Report,” Sir Harold requested.

“Commander,” the Vice saluted. “Aside from her, there’s only the dead on this floor. Our men confirmed it. Combatants, all marked by grave wounds. The other chambers were used as quarters, but they’re empty now. We found signs of supplies, but they’ve likely been moved.”

“So they still have a plan,” Sir Harold pondered aloud. “How’s the blockade on the stairs?”

“Sir Morton is helping. They'll clear it soon. Just need to be careful of traps.”

Sir Harold nodded. There was no door separating this floor from the one below, and the Monastery members had resorted to blocking the stairs with heavy wooden furniture to slow them down.

“What’s downstairs?” Gregory asked Anna, who was on his back.

“A warehouse. Also, a prayer hall, but it only leads to the catacombs,” Anna muttered.

“Catacombs?” Gregory frowned. “Why would a powerful Saint spend her time in a place like that, away from all the luxury of the Monastery?”

“She’s truly studious,” the older Emma answered. “If she wanted to study the Great Gemstone, it’s the quietest place in the whole Monastery. Nobody would bother her. Not even the chirp of a bird.”

Despite some doubts, Gregory nodded.

The Vice turned to Anna and inquired, “More importantly, is there an escape route down there?”

The two Saint Candidates frowned. Anna was not sure, so Emma answered, “Why would someone build an escape route in such an inaccessible place? It would make more sense elsewhere in the Monastery.”

Sir Harold drew a heavy breath. There were too many questions, and his patience was wearing thin. “Lead me to Sir Morton.”

The Vice and his men guided him at once.

It did not take long before they came upon men clearing the blockade, hauling the heavy furniture aside and stacking it where they could. Sir Morton and his men had already gone below. Without a word, Sir Harold followed.

...

The stairs were wide and straight, with a wooden rail and ropes, likely meant to help move the dead. Still, there were fresh scrapes along the left and right.

“Deep gouges,” Gregory commented as they descended, one step at a time.

“Likely scratches from moving the Great Gemstone,” Anna answered, fighting a burp after sipping a thick, nutritious beer Gregory had given her.

“That’s odd,” Gregory said. “They didn’t leave marks like that on the previous stairs.”

“It’s the Saint, all right,” Anna said with a sigh. “She must not want people to see her, so she ordered her Saint Candidates to move it for her.”

“They did a bad job,” Gregory quipped, and Anna giggled.

That laugh and her previous words reassured Gregory that she was on his side. He hitched her higher on his back and adjusted his hold, careful not to jostle her.

“Apologies,” she whispered, so only he could hear. “I must be stinky and heavy.”

“No need,” Gregory murmured, raising an arm to shield her head as they squeezed past a jutting table leg. “You’re lighter than I expected.”

“Really?” she asked, meekly.

“Yes. You need to eat a lot more. How about after this, I treat you to some duck egg broth?” he offered.

“Yummy,” she replied lightly. The beer, though far from strong, was still hitting her empty belly.

“But we’ll do it far from here,” he warned.

“Why?”

“Because of the ducks. They’ll get mad if they smell duck egg on us.”

“You’re joking.”

“Ask the others. It’s real.”

Anna let out a small giggle.

“So,” Gregory said, again shifting her a little higher on his back, “what will you say to the Saint when we catch her?”

“The worst,” Anna replied. “I might even throw something at her. I can’t believe her lackeys tied me up and wouldn’t even give me a bucket to relieve myself.”

Gregory snorted.

Their lightness, strange as it was in a place like this, seemed to calm the dozen men who marched with them.

Squeezing between the stacked furniture, their guest, the bailiff official, coughed. The air had changed. Others noticed it too.

Then, from below, a voice howled, “You’ve been surrounded. Stop resisting and lay down your arms.”

The demand echoed again, but only sporadic replies came back.

“Bah. It seems they’re not ready to discuss terms,” Gregory commented.

“We’re facing the most stubborn,” Anna warned, and the fact that even a Saint Candidate said it gave the words weight.

Sir Harold reached the bottom, squeezing past the wooden barricade, his armor scraping against the edges.

He found Sir Morton facing a spectacularly grim sight, a wall of worn caskets stacked haphazardly to block the way. Sir Harold approached and asked, “Are they surrendering?”

Instead of an answer, screams rose from the far end. The men in front startled, but Sir Morton and Sir Harold pressed forward, shoving the caskets aside until a path opened.

Breathing heavily, the two took in the scene, and understanding hit like a blow. The surviving Monastery members were armed, armored, and wearing their helmets, but they were not making a last stand. They were carrying out a mass suicide.

Nearly a hundred bleeding bodies lay in a rough ring. Their faces were still warm, but they would never see daylight again. Some had cut their own wrist. Others had driven daggers into their bellies or under their ribs, and now lay on their backs, eyes wide and glassy. A few still moved, limbs twitching, a wet gasp dragging at their chests, but there was no hope in it. They had gone too far. Blood ran in dark lines between the stones, pooling where the floor dipped.

At the center lay a young woman in white robes, beautiful even in death. A golden dagger stood buried in her heart. Blood still seeped, spreading beneath her in a widening stain.

Behind her stood the Great Gemstone of Cascasonne, dim and imposing in the torchlight. It was finally recovered.

Still, it was a blow that they had not captured the Saint alive.

“Fuck,” Sir Harold cursed bitterly, as few of his men filed through the gap in the wall of caskets.

Not far from him, Sir Morton stood, gaze sweeping the chamber, searching for any trace of magic left behind.

“What happened?” the Vice asked as he arrived.

“They committed mass suicide,” Sir Harold answered.

Gregory was struck dumb by what he had seen. Anna could only gasp in disbelief.

There had been no negotiation. No pleas. No last words. Only the choice to leave the world behind.

Emma was spared the sight. She had stumbled behind and twisted her ankle badly, and a squire was helping her stay on her feet.

“Sir,” Anna called to Gregory.

Clearly, she had mistaken him for a knight, but considering what she had just been through, he had no heart to correct her. He simply replied in a low voice, “My condolences.”

“I’m fine, Stan. You’ll meet them soon enough.”

“Stan?” Gregory repeated, thrown by it. He shifted, as if to glance back at Anna on his shoulders.

But a blade flashed over his shoulder. It opened his throat in one clean cut. Hot blood surged down over his red cuirass. Gregory staggered, then toppled backward, and the person on his back was thrown free as he fell, gurgling.

For an instant, only a few men reacted, yet none of them understood. Suddenly, a low rumble rose, followed by a scream that tore down the hall.

***