The Other Crowd. Alex Archer
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“They’re here…”
Annja felt the breeze that moved her ponytail from in front of her shoulder to her back.
Then she paused.
There was no breeze.
She must have moved, flipped her hair over her shoulder with a jerk of her head. It was the only thing that made sense. Until a strange flutter made her look down.
She didn’t know what was causing her sudden nervousness, or making her hear things.
It had to be an insect. It had sounded like that, like wings fluttering.
“Just a bug,” she whispered.
A male cry of pain alerted her. She heard a body hit the dirt and the clatter of the plastic-encased camera followed.
“Eric,” she whispered.
Footsteps crunched. Those were not Eric’s rubber-soled Vans.
Sucking in a deep breath, Annja calmed her racing heartbeat.
She swept out her right hand. Looking into the otherwhere, she opened her fingers and closed them around her battle sword.
Slapping her left hand to the hilt, she prepared to meet whatever was coming around the corner….
Titles in this series:
Destiny
Solomon’s Jar
The Spider Stone
The Chosen
Forbidden City
The Lost Scrolls
God of Thunder
Secret of the Slaves
Warrior Spirit
Serpent’s Kiss
Provenance
The Soul Stealer
Gabriel’s Horn
The Golden Elephant
Swordsman’s Legacy
Polar Quest
Eternal Journey
Sacrifice
Seeker’s Curse
Footprints
Paradox
The Spirit Banner
Sacred Ground
The Bone Conjurer
Tribal Ways
The Dragon’s Mark
Phantom Prospect
False Horizon
The Other Crowd
Rogue Angel™
The Other Crowd
Alex Archer
The Legend
…THE ENGLISH COMMANDER TOOK JOAN’S SWORD AND RAISED IT HIGH.
The broadsword, plain and unadorned, gleamed in the firelight. He put the tip against the ground and his foot at the center of the blade. The broadsword shattered, fragments falling into the mud. The crowd surged forward, peasant and soldier, and snatched the shards from the trampled mud. The commander tossed the hilt deep into the crowd.
Smoke almost obscured Joan, but she continued praying till the end, until finally the flames climbed her body and she sagged against the restraints.
Joan of Arc died that fateful day in France, but her legend and sword are reborn….
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
1
Her forged steel battle sword clanked against an iron-plated chest cuirass. The shock of connection had ceased to clatter up her arms and vibrate in her molars. Over the course of the day, she’d become physically numb to violence, to blood.
To her faith.
No, she still clung to faith, to blind trust and humble servitude. It was all she had.
A thunderous warrior’s cry from behind her prompted her to spin about. Slick mud made footing unsure. The soles of her laced leather boots had worn thin; she could gauge the rises and fall of earth with a mere flex of foot. She maintained balance.
With no time to deliver an overhand slash of her sword, she plunged it up into the charging soldier’s gut. The blade slid under her enemy’s bloodied leather cuirass. She felt the soft acceptance as the sword tip sunk into flesh. The soul had been pierced. May God have mercy.
Blood purled down the flat of the blade. Her victim’s triumphant cry changed to a gurgling requiem. A mace glinting with the blood of her fellow soldiers fell from his limp grasp. For a moment he loomed before her in the rain, arms spread, yet hands limp. Mouth open and eyes horrifically wide. Poised between life and death.
As a child she had enjoyed playing in the rain. The world would never again be so carefree.
A heel to his thigh pushed his body off balance. He dropped backward. Mud droplets spattered his face and her leg greaves.
Death proved far too easy.
The violet sky briefly teased at the corner of her eye where mud did not blemish her vision. Too pretty for battle. It promised an end to the abominable weather. A rainbow was swirled in an oily slick before the castle wall.
“Jeanne!”
The familiar voice cut through the cacophony of warfare. Lieutenant Charlier. Just last night his wife had birthed a baby boy who was not breathing. The lieutenant mourned as a black cloud had entered his life. The child had not been baptized before