Midway up the stairway, Anneliese rested in meditation, preparing herself for the long journey down. The clouds that obscured her view could not hide the approaching thousands and their attempts to near enclose the makeshift township that now surrounded the Temple of the Last. The stairway steps flickered with the subtle vibrations of marching foot soldiers and blow horns announcing their arrival. It broke her inward meditation as she glanced up to see the temple fires extinguish, and with it, the cloud cover.

Warm blue skies revealed the true extent of Sir Bradfrey’s forces. The divided columns were splitting out into their lines to entrenched battlements and siege equipment. Her nervous impulsions brought numb fingers to tap against shivering tights as the cold realization dawned upon her. There was no orange and blue banner.

Meanwhile, in the trenches of the fortified pagan position, Weddle strapped his horse, which was a ragged stud, packed with thin ornamental plates of gold and silver: the melted remains of the gypsy and pagan wealth. ‘Well, here we go,’ he said as the battle horns rang out from the approaching army.

Hundreds of children ran fire to the makeshift barricades of toppled wagons and dirt mounts, to create the illusion of a significant force through waves of freshly lit torches. When reality was a thick shade of grey hair or untested youth among the pagan ranks with little hope they could withstand an initial assault.

Yet in Anneliese they trusted, and in Weddle their hopes would be tested.

To the sounds of pagan worship and their ominous mantra, ‘Ommm ooooo Ommm Ooooo,’ Weddle navigated the maze of crisscrossing barricades, to the dirt-mound lip that made up the camp’s front gate. Alone he rode with his hood drawn long over his head and a large wooden cross atop his banner. Past the encircling farces he trotted, while inside the pagan fortifications, to the spiraling central fire, they pounded drums to a slow cadence and the perpetual sound of, ‘Ommmm oooo Ommmm Ooooo.’

The smoky haze drifted towards Sir Bradfrey’s regiments, and they witnessed countless thousands of ghost warriors emerge to form a circumference several lines deep around the temple grounds. Shoulder to shoulder, the ghost warriors braced with hunger and menace. It was a test of nerve for the lesser nobles, who sought reassurance through their commanders’ unchanged demeanor.

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The rock among the untamed oceans, Sir Bradfrey, watched as their delegate in Davos centered the triangle of his faithful regiments.

‘How in God’s name does a servant of God find themselves intertwined with the devil’s doing?’ said Davos as he rode circles around Weddle, who in turn kept a forward trot, if not a snail’s crawl towards the main force.

‘I’m but a wondering preacher bringing the lord’s word to those yet to see the light,’ said Weddle, flinging back his hood with whimsical ease as he traded glances. Neither here nor there, he played the empty vessel.

‘You’re the one, Weddle. Where were you during the battle of Keesh?’ asked Davos. In front and across Weddle’s horse the priest swerved, a pest that kept them both on uneven footing.

‘With the good book and a warm blanket. How about yourself?’ replied Weddle.

‘Wondering how wide Cestmir’s web had to be before I found you. Now, here you are. And with an army of the undead.’

‘Oh, didn’t notice them,’ said Weddle as he looked back with curious amazement while the hairs on the back of his neck stood in attendance. ‘I actually was going to suggest …’ His tongue tied to a subversive presence of the unknown. A slow-building presence more perceived than felt. ‘The temple is practically undefended, but thaaaat was before things got interesting. Still, you didn’t come all this way to take in the sights?’

‘If that’s not a bluff if I’ve ever seen,’ said Davos, drawing closer as he tried to see the liar in Weddle’s eyes – meanwhile, he was oblivious to the shift in the spiritual landscape.

‘Could be. I mean, I’m kind of out of my depth here. Is this where we are supposed to negotiate hostages? Or am I the hostage?’ Weddle enquired, unable to hold the calm among his usual bumbling disposition.

An unknown irritation brought Davos to a momentary spinal adjustment, and he searched with dubious distrust at the growing wall of ghosts. ‘Hmm. Well then, what trickery are you proposing.’

‘Does swapping Kulum for Sir Bradfrey sound reasonable?’

‘Pfff, amusing … truly. Perhaps I should take you as my hostage, minus that tongue and some dead weight below the neck? Or does a wondering preacher have more to say than lies, misdirection, and more lies?’ said Davos. The erratic nature of his horse tested his temper as a strange presence travelled along an optical illusion that tore an intersecting line between him and Weddle. The flow was alive and unmissable.

‘Can you see it?’ said Weddle.

The optical illusion threaded past them and into Sir Bradfrey’s forces before converging upon a distorted void at the distant rear of the main army.

‘Annelise wants Arcadius, but she’s afraid that if Kulum gets his way, he’ll take Sir Bradfrey out in the process,’ said Weddle.

‘Oh, my lord,’ said Davos – the fear of God was within him as he galloped and shouted his lungs out.