A Killing Season

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The travelers and their armed escort halted near the cliff’s edge. Far below them, the moss-green sea lashed the black rocks and roared with the fury of a creature enraged beyond all reason.

Brother Thomas grimaced, his face stinging from the wind as if the air had been filled with ice shards. Even his thick woolen cloak did not protect him from the chill, and his horse shook, eager to be away from this inhospitable place. Whispering promises of imminent relief in a warm stable with dry straw, the monk stroked her bristled neck and silently prayed that his confidence would not prove false.

Out of the corner of his eye, Thomas glimpsed a well-bundled, square-shaped rider edging closer to him on an equally thickset horse. It was Master Gamel, the physician.

“What has caused this delay?” the man shouted. The screaming wind and thundering surf muted his words.

The monk pointed toward the front of the huddled company.

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