Free Rogue Angel 47: River of Nightmares by Alex Archer

shivered. Joan of Arc? Annja often thought of Joan, but never had thought of her this young. The girl was probably twelve or thirteen. At first she seemed plain, unremarkable. But the longer Annja stared, the more beautiful she realized the child was. Her eyes were clear and wide, face unblemished. The girl looked perfect and innocent, yet her mien was determined and her lips set firm.
    Annja had no words for her imagined encounter with Christendom’s youngest martyr.
    “My sword,” Joan said. Her voice was small, musical, but it could be heard easily through all the other sounds of this spot. “Only a moment ago, and yet so very long ago that was my sword you have in your lap. When I walked the earth at Chinon I sought a blade. It was in the Church of Saint Catherine of Fierbois. It was behind the altar with other weapons, all covered with rust. I knew the sword was there, the voices... my voices...told me it was there. Five crosses on it, and not deep beneath the ground. The prelates cleaned it for me, said the rust fell away like dust. And I was given two sheaths for it, one made of red velvet and the other of a golden cloth. Lovely, but not appropriate, thoughtful though. I thanked them for the gifts. But I had another made of strong leather, more practical. I told the inquisitors about it, the sword, and they asked where I had gotten the blade. They asked so many unnecessary questions. I told them the truth about the sword. But not all of the truth, for they were not of a mind to understand.”
    Annja found her voice. “Understand? Understand what?”
    “That I loved that sword like a mother would love a child. I loved Saint Catherine, and it was found in her church. They would not have understood that God delivered the blade to me when I was ready for it. And they would not have understood its purpose.”
    By having Charlemagne’s grandfather bury it inside a church? Was that how it was delivered?
    “And now you have the blade, since you were ready for it.”
    “I can’t save the world,” Annja said. “And I can’t change the world with this sword.” Charlemagne said his grandfather asked if he could change the world with it. In her way, Joan had effected changes that stretched from her birth to her death...and that had ramifications for centuries beyond.
    “You have saved many lives, dear Annja,” Joan said. “And saving even one person means that in their eyes, the world is forever changed.” She raised her chin. “And that, I believe, is the sword’s purpose.”
    Are you real? Is any part of this real? Annja rubbed at her temples.
    Joan had aged in the moment Annja had looked away. She was still young, in her teens, but there were scars on her arms and she looked weary. Her clothes—pants and a discolored tunic, what a farmer might wear—were soiled. Annja had seen enough blood to know that the garments had been spattered with it, and the attempts to wash it out were not wholly successful. Yet, she didn’t smell blood on the girl, only the soft scent of sweet flowers. French flowers—fleur-di-lis.
    Joan looked at Roux, and in that instant Annja saw his face soften and eyes become watery. His hands relaxed, and he mouthed something. Annja did not try to make it out, although this was her dream. Roux had been Joan’s knight. Annja looked down at the tips of her feet. Insects scurried along the ground in all directions, intensely colorful beetles. A butterfly lit on the ground, large and amazingly beautiful. Annja swore she could hear the gentle beat of its wings. Her gaze followed it as it rose and landed on the bench opposite her.
    Joan of Arc was gone...Roux was at Annja’s side, looking older now, the decades rushing back upon his frame. She stood and took his offered arm. There were lines at the edges of his eyes, and they deepened as he escorted her through the village and to the earthenware tubs and then beyond them to the shaman’s hut. His hair was long and gray by the time he pulled