That morning Melcher Fitz saw another rude awakening. The gentle bird-songs slowly introducing him to morning's warmth were torn asunder by a trumpet blast.

Under his breath he cursed Elekvaz, Giradin, and what was sure to be the Templars arriving to meet him. Those crusaders always felt the need to make a big show about everything they did. The great heroes who protected the people from monsters and demons.

Mujahid told me about what you blaggards really did in The Holy Land...

Melcher Fitz dressed quickly, throwing on his dark coat and mask. He'd no time to stuff the beak with herbs, but he didn't plan on going into the city anyway. The uniform was just for appearances' sake.

By the time a messenger arrived at his tent, Melcher was already, by all appearances, in uniform, with his long-sword at his hip and his fingers on the pommel.

"The Templars are here, master," said the messenger from outside his tent.

Melcher exited the tent and strode out with his shoulders pulled back and head held high with dignity. Down the hill, he spied his three guests arriving on horseback. They wore white tabards over chain-mail armor, and emblazoned across the front of their tabards, where a family crest might have been, was a blood-red cross. Each hid his face and covered his head with a steel great-helm with a golden cross on the face.

Melcher always thought their helmets looked like buckets into which they'd cut little eye-holes, and the sight made him chuckle.

One of the three Templars saw Melcher and rode his horse over to him at a slow trot. He pulled the reins just as he drew near. "I am known as Sir Emeric of the Winter," said the knight, his voice off-puttingly kind behind that cold helm.

"Melcher Fitz," the Crow replied.

"Fitz?" said the Templar. "A bastard name, isn't it?"

Melcher grunted. Though the Templar's tone betrayed no ill-intent, this was clearly meant as an insult to cut down his pride.

"Which lord is your father?" asked Sir Emeric. "It's possible I met him on pilgrimage."

"Count Bernhart Ackner," Fitz replied.

Sir Emeric glanced upward and to his right, as if trying to remember something. "Hmm... no, sorry. That one doesn't sound familiar. Do you know if he ever made it to Jerusalem?"

Melcher shook his head. "Wish you'd told me you meant pilgrimage to Jerusalem specifically when you said 'pilgrimage.' No. Lord Ackner did not have the pleasure of visiting the place where Christ died."

Sir Emeric gestured toward the walls of Elekvaz. "How fortunate for you, then, that you have seen an actual saint in your lifetime."

Melcher's fist tightened in his leather gauntlet and he gritted his teeth behind his mask. "Yes. How fortunate. If it's true, of course. Which is why you're here."

Sir Emeric held up both hands. "Not so fast. They sent three of us for a reason. Your letter mentioned claims of a wicked spirit in the city." Sir Emeric gestured to the two other Templars as they approached. "Sirs Philip and Cristoff shall deal with the ghost. Who can they speak to about that?"

"They'll have to talk to Giradin about that too," said Melcher. "He's the only one who saw it up close and is willing to talk about it. Though... I think I heard something about a militiaman who saw the monster, just before it tore his eyes out."

Sir Emeric leaned in closer. "Has the Saint been able to heal his eyes?"

Melcher paused at the question. He didn't know if Giradin had healed the militiaman's eyes, or if there really had been an injured militiaman at all. But he knew Giradin hadn't even been able to heal his own eye. Was this potential proof that he wasn't really a saint?

"No," said Melcher. "That seems to be beyond his abilities."

"Well, that's good, then," said Sir Emeric. "Only Christ is powerful enough to restore the human eye. If he'd managed to give the man his eye back he'd have to be in league with the creature that stole them in the first place."

"Wait..." Melcher tilted his head to one side. "The fact that he didn't heal his eye makes it more likely he's a saint?

Sir Emeric shook his head. "I didn't say that. I just meant it's more likely we can rule out demons as the cause of this." He turned toward Elekvaz, then to the other two knights. "Sir Philip, Sir Cristoff, you will accompany me to the city. Try not to get too close to the citizens there as they may have the plague."

The Templar reached into his saddlebag and lifted a string of onions and garlic. With his other hand he took a knife and cut pieces off of each one until the combined stench of both filled the air. The other two knights did the same, and all three of them wrapped the strings over their shoulders, to hang the stinking vegetables down onto their chests.

"Where can we find this lad... Giradin, is it?"

"Yes, Giradin," said Melcher. "You'll find him in the church, surrounded by people who are already convinced he's a true saint."

Sir Emeric turned his horse to face the gates of Elekvaz. "The truth will come out soon enough, Fitz. There's no need to worry. God's will shall be done here, whatever the outcome."

Without another word, the three Templars rode off for Elekvaz, leaving a cloud of dust in their wake.

No questions for me? None at all? I'm the leader of this chapter of plague doctors. You don't think I might know something worth knowing?

Melcher shook his head at the foolish men in white tabards as they disappeared into the city.