The Wistful Incense
The grain was in the sacks, and the Abbot wanted it burned. Sergeant Elias Thorne stood in the muddy courtyard of the Abbey of St. Cuthbert, his sword still drawn, the steel slick with the blood of a man who had tried to steal the winter’s harvest. It was the year 1142, and the air tasted of wet wool and iron, a metallic tang that coated the back of his throat. Around him, the outlaws lay...
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