Sword of the Bright Lady Read Online Free
Author: M.C. Planck
small river running in front of it. Most of the buildings faded into the darkness; a large church dominated from the center of the town, with many-colored shining windows.
As they crossed over the simple stone bridge, he began to outpace the girl. He could no longer feel his feet; his tennis shoes were inadequate for the weather. The modernity of the light called to him, with its promise of shelter. Absurdly he began to hope they would have a telephone. Three large stone steps led to double doors, twice as large and impressive as those of the tiny chapel he had fled. They had no handles, so he grasped a huge bronze ring in the shape of a wreath of wheat and let it clang against the doorplate.
A blast of warm air: to his left, Helga had opened a small doorway framed in one of the large doors. He had to hunch over to follow her through the short, narrow space. Inside, he found a huge hall with light blazing from chandeliers and half a dozen crackling fireplaces.
A handful of tables were scattered about the room, mostly empty. At the closest a young man in a cassock frowned at them over a stack of black slates in wooden frames. The man standing next to the clerk was dressed as a soldier, in a chain-mail tunic with a long, straight sword at his hip. He stared at Christopher intently. Christopher stared back, heartbroken by the absence of a radio or a handgun, and shamed that he had let himself expect them.
Helga had shut the door, and now she hustled over to the two men, shaking and babbling. The clerk rose to his feet, concern on his face and in his reassuring touch. Helga calmed a bit and gasped out the rest of her story. Christopher could tell when she got to the part about the fight from the curious affect that flitted across the soldierâs face. But then it was gone, replaced by the mien of the professional military man.
The agitated clerk sat Helga down in his chair and said something to the soldier, who dismissed him with a brief nod. Then the clerk ran off, disappearing through one of the many doors emptying into the hall. Helga sat and sniffled; Christopher stood, swaying from exhaustion. He wanted to move closer to a fireplace, but the pressure of the soldierâs gaze pinioned him in place.
Soon the clerk returned, accompanied by a small crowd. A short, stout, middle-aged woman seemed in charge: she glared at Christopher and spoke to him. When he shook his head mutely, she muttered something in a different language, elegant and tonal, and waved her hand. While Christopher tried to decide if he should wave back, she studied him, and then reached a decision. The crowd surged around her, listening to her verdict, and then the soldier came forward to claim him.
Helga came also, and because of her, Christopher followed the soldier deeper into the church, through wood-paneled hallways lit by gas lamps, to a small, windowless office. Inside, a pair of armchairs faced a comfortable fire. One of the chairs contained a priest in crisp white robes trimmed in gold. At first Christopher thought he was young, because of his clean-shaven face. Every other man Christopher had seen here wore a beard; even the young soldier had a permanent rascally five-day growth. But the priest sat like an old man under a heavy burden.
Still, when he turned to Helga, he greeted her with a smile. The girl trembled in obvious celebrity-worship while she related her story, guided by a few gentle prompts. At the end of her tale, she squeezed Christopherâs hand reassuringly and then abandoned him. By reflex he turned to follow her out, but the soldier was leaning against the wall, his arms folded in denial.
Christopher turned around again, and the priest waved for him to sit. The chair was padded in old leather, worn thin. Christopher leaned forward to soak in the heat, the crackling logs familiar and safe.
A pot of tea sat on a side-table. The priest poured two mugs and offered him one. Gratefully Christopher took it, wrapping his
As they crossed over the simple stone bridge, he began to outpace the girl. He could no longer feel his feet; his tennis shoes were inadequate for the weather. The modernity of the light called to him, with its promise of shelter. Absurdly he began to hope they would have a telephone. Three large stone steps led to double doors, twice as large and impressive as those of the tiny chapel he had fled. They had no handles, so he grasped a huge bronze ring in the shape of a wreath of wheat and let it clang against the doorplate.
A blast of warm air: to his left, Helga had opened a small doorway framed in one of the large doors. He had to hunch over to follow her through the short, narrow space. Inside, he found a huge hall with light blazing from chandeliers and half a dozen crackling fireplaces.
A handful of tables were scattered about the room, mostly empty. At the closest a young man in a cassock frowned at them over a stack of black slates in wooden frames. The man standing next to the clerk was dressed as a soldier, in a chain-mail tunic with a long, straight sword at his hip. He stared at Christopher intently. Christopher stared back, heartbroken by the absence of a radio or a handgun, and shamed that he had let himself expect them.
Helga had shut the door, and now she hustled over to the two men, shaking and babbling. The clerk rose to his feet, concern on his face and in his reassuring touch. Helga calmed a bit and gasped out the rest of her story. Christopher could tell when she got to the part about the fight from the curious affect that flitted across the soldierâs face. But then it was gone, replaced by the mien of the professional military man.
The agitated clerk sat Helga down in his chair and said something to the soldier, who dismissed him with a brief nod. Then the clerk ran off, disappearing through one of the many doors emptying into the hall. Helga sat and sniffled; Christopher stood, swaying from exhaustion. He wanted to move closer to a fireplace, but the pressure of the soldierâs gaze pinioned him in place.
Soon the clerk returned, accompanied by a small crowd. A short, stout, middle-aged woman seemed in charge: she glared at Christopher and spoke to him. When he shook his head mutely, she muttered something in a different language, elegant and tonal, and waved her hand. While Christopher tried to decide if he should wave back, she studied him, and then reached a decision. The crowd surged around her, listening to her verdict, and then the soldier came forward to claim him.
Helga came also, and because of her, Christopher followed the soldier deeper into the church, through wood-paneled hallways lit by gas lamps, to a small, windowless office. Inside, a pair of armchairs faced a comfortable fire. One of the chairs contained a priest in crisp white robes trimmed in gold. At first Christopher thought he was young, because of his clean-shaven face. Every other man Christopher had seen here wore a beard; even the young soldier had a permanent rascally five-day growth. But the priest sat like an old man under a heavy burden.
Still, when he turned to Helga, he greeted her with a smile. The girl trembled in obvious celebrity-worship while she related her story, guided by a few gentle prompts. At the end of her tale, she squeezed Christopherâs hand reassuringly and then abandoned him. By reflex he turned to follow her out, but the soldier was leaning against the wall, his arms folded in denial.
Christopher turned around again, and the priest waved for him to sit. The chair was padded in old leather, worn thin. Christopher leaned forward to soak in the heat, the crackling logs familiar and safe.
A pot of tea sat on a side-table. The priest poured two mugs and offered him one. Gratefully Christopher took it, wrapping his
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