The Faded Shield
The arrow struck the center of the shield, and the sound was not a clang but a wet, heavy thud, like a sack of wet grain dropped from a height. I stood in the breach of the outer wall, the mud sucking at my boots with a sound that matched the rhythm of my own bleeding. The year was 1348, and the air smelled of wet wool, iron rust, and the sweet, cloying rot of the plague that had already taken...
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