"Let the hostage go, Fitz!" Sir Cristoff demanded.

Melcher sneered at him.

"Master," said Shlomo, his hands held up to calm him, "I beg you to reconsider what you are doing. In the heat of battle, many strange thoughts enter into men's minds. They think the world is ending, they think God has forsaken them... Sometimes, when the blood is hot, they even attack their allies." Shlomo gestured across the room, to St. Giradin, who watched the scene intently. "But if you take a hostage there's no going back. If you kill him it will be even worse. Please, Master, please consider letting him go."

"Shlomo, look who you stand with!" Melcher Fitz spat back, slowly inching his way toward the door with his hostage. Templars and Crows alike moved out of his way as he passed, their weapons still pointed at him. "You are surrounded by men who fought in the Crusades, who murdered and raped your people under crosses."

Shlomo scoffed at Fitz's words.

But it was true of at least one man present. Sir Cristoff had committed the latter of the two crimes Fitz listed. He all but dropped his sword when he heard it.

"They'll turn on you," Fitz said, "Just like they turned on Mujahid. They'll kill anyone who stands in the way of their perfect world. A world without Moors, Jews, or non-believers."

"Listen to yourself, Master Fitz!" Shlomo pleaded. "Do you have any idea how mad you sound?"

"That boy is the Anti-Christ!" Fitz shouted again, gesturing toward St. Giradin with his head. "I know it... I've seen the signs. When we bathed him when he first came here I saw the scars. Three scars on the back of his thigh, each shaped like the letters V and I. VI. The Roman numeral six!"

Shlomo did all he could to suppress his laughter. "That's your evidence, Master Fitz? He has scars on the back of his thigh? Those could have come from anything!"

"He's the Devil's own son!" Fitz bellowed.

"That part may very well be true," said St. Giradin.

All eyes turned to him, confusion on every visible face.

St. Giradin nodded his head. "I never knew my father. I was born the son of a whore. It's entirely possible that my father was none other than the Devil himself. Clearly, even if he is not the Devil, he is a man of sin. But whatever my father was, is, or may be, I am a saint, as the Pope himself has verified."

Melcher Fitz pulled his hostage along with a hard tug, moving closer to the door.

"It seems to me, Melcher," said St. Giradin, "that if anyone here is in league with the Devil it is you, the man who is accusing the Pope of having made a mistake in his holy judgment."

"Liar!" Fitz screamed.

St. Giradin started a slow walk toward Melcher Fitz. "Put the sword down, Melcher. And let the hostage go. Hasn't there been enough bloodshed this day?"

"There will never be enough until you lie dead!" Fitz bellowed back.

St. Giradin continued to advance toward his enemy. Fitz shook with greater terror with each passing moment.

St. Giradin was now within reach of Fitz's weapon.

"Drop the sword," St. Giradin commanded.

Fitz shoved his hostage aside and lunged at St. Giradin.

In a flash, Giradin's seax appeared in his hand and he deflected Fitz's blade from his face.

Shlomo picked up his crossbow from the pew nearby and raised it for a shot.

But the clash between St. Giradin and Melcher Fitz made it impossible to get a clean shot in. If he pulled the trigger, he risked hitting his friend.

At least, that was the excuse Shlomo gave me when I asked him why he didn't shoot Fitz.

Sir Cristoff rushed in and thrust his blade at Fitz.

The Crows' Master parried the attack and kneed Sir Cristoff in the stomach.

St. Giradin stabbed Fitz in the shoulder.

Barely fazed by it, Fitz ran his blade through St. Giradin's stomach.

"NO!" cried out many of those in the sanctuary.

St. Giradin grabbed his wound, blood pouring over his fingers. When Fitz withdrew his blade, Giradin collapsed onto the Sanctuary floor.

Sir Cristoff's sword caught Fitz's neck and embedded itself deep. The blade went half-way through, elliciting a crimson fountain.

Sir Cristoff withdrew his sword and swung again, this time lopping off Fitz's head. The Crow Master's body collapsed in a heap on the sanctuary floor next to St. Giradin.