The Dinosaur Knights by Victor Milan

shorter, wider man had short hair, brown or blond. Rain had soaked it so I couldn’t. Chloé—”
    Little Pigeon indicated the girl, a freckled redhead. “—saw he wore armor. Olivier saw his cloak was blue and green.”
    That raised a sharp noise from the crowd: the Crève Coeur colors.
    â€œAnd the other?” Rob said.
    â€œHe wore a hood. But we saw his face.”
    â€œCan you identify him?”
    â€œI’d know that long nose anywhere. It’s him, the one who looks like he’s sucking on a green persimmon!”
    As one all three children pointed to Longeau.
    â€œBogardus, this is intolerable,” Violette all but shrieked. “How can you allow this farce—”
    â€œFarce, Sister?” Rob said loudly. “Or tragedy?”
    He turned again to the rear of the hall and roared, “Bring in the captive.”
    A man marched in, barrel-bodied beneath a sodden green and blue tabard with a mail hauberk clinking beneath. Rain had darkened and spiked his cap of hair. Broad and coarsely handsome, his face was given a devilish cast by a long sword-cut that ran from left eyebrow to bristle-covered right jaw. Full lips wore an insouciant half smile and murk-green eyes were calm, despite the fact that his hands were bound behind him.
    And, more impressively, despite the point of a spear pricking the back of his thick neck.
    Whereas the appearance of a captive Crève Coeur knight startled the crowd, the spectacle of his captor made them reel on their benches. The woods-runner Stéphanie carried the spear. She had her short brown hair bound up in a brown kerchief band. A feather panache in drab woodlands greens and browns was pinned at her left. A long narrow braid, feather-tipped, swung by each shoulder. A thin green braid that signified allegiance to Telar encircled her waist. She wore a leather bracer around her left forearm, a dagger strapped to her right, and low boots. And that was all.
    Ceremonial nudity was a recognized way of accentuating the gravity of an occasion. It had more impact here in Providence, where people normally went clothed, than in the hotter, wetter lowlands.
    Not that she didn’t make sufficient impression on her own. Rob hadn’t fully appreciated before what a remarkable figure she made, long-limbed, with the lithe muscles and assured lethality of a matador. The brutal knife scarring on her face, and incidental gouges and slices on her tawny hide, now only reinforced the splendid barbarism of her appearance. Her breasts were large if somewhat flat, with wide brown nipples. Rob couldn’t help noting with interest her pubic hair was an almost dainty patch, soft and brown, not the exuberant bush he’d expect from such a wild woman.
    For some reason the men in the audience seemed more appreciative than the women, but no eye looked anywhere but at Stéphanie as she marched the captive to the Council table.
    Bogardus seemed to have trouble restraining a grin. “Your name, Montador?” he asked the knight.
    â€œLaurent of Bois-de-Chanson, knight in service to my lord Baron Salvateur, and to his liege Guillaume, Count of Crève Coeur.”
    â€œAnd to what do we owe the presence of such a distinguished guest, Mor Laurent?”
    The man snorted as if at a joke. “The woods-rats and their mounted farmer friends caught me as I rode away from town this morning.”
    At the phrase woods-rats Stéphanie went pale and drew back her arm as if to drive her hunting-spear through the knight’s neck. Rob quickly laid a restraining hand on her arm. It felt like wrapped wire under velvet.
    â€œAnd did you meet someone in an alley near the square?” Bogardus asked.
    â€œYes.” He jutted his square chin at Longeau. “That one.”
    â€œDon’t listen to this nonsense,” Longeau said. “This—this is a feeble attempt to defame a man whose only crime is zealously serving the Garden of