The Pale Banner
The bolt was cold in Elias’s hand, a shard of yew wood and iron that had not yet known the heat of the sun or the sweat of a man’s palm. He stood on the ramparts of the Venetian camp, the air thick with the stench of unwashed wool and the metallic tang of fear, and he watched the Byzantine line hold firm against the midday glare. For three years, the men had called him the trembling hand, a...
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