We looked at them and they at us.
What looked like fifty men, but later we would understand to be twenty, stood in the aisle leading up to the podium. Each of them were clad in dark leather breeches and boots. The famous black Tintarian armor was scant on them, breastplates with a large shark tooth carved into the metal with vambraces on their arms. It had to be scant as the rest of their bodies were dressed with weaponry. Each man had a sword on one hip and a dagger strapped to one thigh. Large black shields were slung from their backs so that each man had a black half-moon shape behind his head, which gave them a vaguely reverent appearance, as if death, while vicious, was also sacrosanct to the deliverer.
The man who had spoken first, spoke again. “I said to come out.” He did not raise his voice. He did not need to. It carried without volume.
A desire to piss myself overcame me and I flexed the muscles in my legs. My mad theory had to now be tested. I closed my eyes. Then I stepped forward, my right hand outstretched, palm facing the speaker. And Saint Agnes herself must have spoken through me, for my voice was as steady as my murderer’s, even if my bladder threatened to release.
“This is a temple! A chapel!” I pronounced. “We are priestesses of Saint Agnes. Your sanctuary doctrine protects private holdings and religious institutions.” I spoke quickly for I did not know how much time we had. “We respect your right to invade when our city-state failed to honor trade agreements. We do not stand in your way. We only ask that you hold true to your own sanctuary doctrine.”
Behind me was the collective hush of the others. In it, I could hear the tears held back, the inhales burning in their lungs, the pleading they were desperate to do.
My eyes focused on the speaker. He wore the same leather and black armor, but he was clearly their leader. He was not the tallest or the broadest of them, but something in his manner, the way he carried himself, the angle of his head made it obvious. He was perhaps the oldest though, his close-cropped brown hair had gray at his temples and the lines between his brows and on his forehead were deep. He was thin but well-muscled, his cheekbones high on his face. His nose was once broken. His mouth sat naturally wide across his face but the slenderness of his lips made it seem like a slight sneer. He blinked, slowly, like a wolf watching deer.
“Madam, the citizens of Eccleston pay for this building. And you know that.”
“Shit,” I heard Mischa behind me.
I smiled, inhaling and exhaling through my nose. I was buying time but at what price? As I opened my mouth, unsure of what would come out, he unsheathed the sword at his hip. The scrape of the metal on the inside of the scabbard hit the inside of the chapel and was amplified by the small stone room.
“No,” shouted Helena. “No!”
The other men unsheathed their swords. In no rush, but at a steady pace, they began to advance.
The shrieking in unison behind me frustrated me because I could not think, but then I realized I had begun to shriek too. We were without recourse.
“You will be cursed! You will be cursed by Agnes!” Helena shouted.
This did not stop them.
I began to shout too. “You will be cursed! You will be cursed by Agnes!” I lifted my arms and corralled the others behind me as I shouted.
The other women followed suit. “You will be cursed! You will be cursed!”
“We are her sacred priestesses!” Mischa screamed.
“Alric,” said the tallest of the men behind the leader. “Alric.”
I noticed his steps falter and I shouted louder.
“Perch,” said the leader. “You will do your duty.” His tone was not angry but it sounded as if he was clenching his teeth.
“What if they’re telling the truth?” The tallest man argued, quietly so as to show some modicum of respect for his superior. This man’s hesitance spread amongst the group. Other men halted in their steps.
Our shouting stopped as we, and the rest of the soldiers, watched the leader.
He exhaled, lowering his sword. “Eccleston is a godless city. This is not even a temple. It is a kind of employment office and I am your commanding—”
The tall man also lowered his sword and held up his other hand, cutting off his leader. I noticed his hair was different from the leader, long and gathered in a knot at the back of his head. “Alric, I don’t think we should risk it.”
Another man, thickly bearded and with a shaved head, standing next to him, also lowered his sword and shook his head. Then he chuckled. It was a completely inappropriate noise and sounded all the more impertinent in a chapel. “Youarea backwater fool, Perch. My gods, man. We’re here to cut them down. You don’t even know this Agnes. You are superstitious sea scum. Superstitious about everything.”
The man with long hair sheathed his sword and put his hands on his hips. “I’m not being cursed for the rest of my life because of this lot.” He inclined his head towards us.
The bald man burst out laughing in full this time. “Perch, you’re bloody raving. I’ll buy you ten talismans when we get home. Cut their godsdamn throats.”
The man named Perch drew his brows together. He cut quite an impressive figure with his height and hair. I noticed he had a neat beard as well. “Well. I’m not doing it.”
“I’ll make you a bet then. We kill them and don’t get cursed, you buy my beers for a full season. We do get cursed and I’ll apologize. To your face.”
