The eleven men traveled in a double-line formation. Their somber brown cassocks marked them as monks, but upon closer inspection, it was apparent that they were something more. The sharp spurs on their plain black boots were well maintained, as was the chain-mail that could occasionally be heard as they turned in their saddles to watch the road behind them. The gauntlet-covered hands that rested on partially hidden sword hilts belonged not to those who followed the ecclesiastical orders of the church.
At the head of the line, their leader raised his head, eyes squinting as he looked toward the crenelated walls of the eighty-year-old castle. 'I'm sorry, Olwyn, I'm sorry that it has to come to this.' He sighed softly, suddenly feeling older than his forty years. 'Damn it all.' He mentally cursed. 'I hate breaking oaths, but we don't have a choice.' From where they were, they could see the sunlight reflect off of the armor of the soldiers that walked the battlements.
The monk'…
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