Harndall speaks a prayer

17th November 1102

She lay before him, her face soft and peaceful as in sleep. She looked newly dead, the last vestiges of life draining from her pallid skin. He knew better.

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Beneath the ruins

17th November 1102

“Bring the torch closer so I can see”, barked Lochan.

Obligingly Noah knelt, the flickering light of the flare casting eery shadows over the weathered tiles.

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They go down below

17th November 1102

Tiny flakes of snow swirled through the chill air netting themselves in the heavy weave of Harndall’s cloak which was already sodden with their melting bodies. Behind them the hollow shell of the ruined church loomed, blackened arches curving upwards like the ribcage of some giant rotting creature.

All around him were men, men with swords, their sharp edges menacingly slicing through the soft forms of the unfortunate snowflakes whose suicidal trajectories intersected them.

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