Far into the north, inside the sole stone structure centered tall and overseeing the town of Rekinvale, the various house insignias shadowed many a footman and squire. All were standing in their distinctive colours behind their seated lord. Some were of a certain vintage, having earnt their honors decades ago. Others were up-and-coming thoroughbreds, eager to make valor of their family names.

All were looking towards the blue and white checkered fort commander – Lord Hendricks. The former mentor of Sir Bradfrey and senior campaigner, he had a length of tenure in service of Vasier, which was surpassed only by Duke De La Castel. He stood gentleman-like out the window, one arm behind his back, and the other stroking his white beard. ‘The queen’s pacification of the north has been less than fruitful. We don’t have the men to hold every high ground or every passage. Our raiding parties have brought back fewer Vikings than casualties, and the men’s morals reflects that. Your arrival is welcome, but not enough to constitute overwhelming force, let alone campaigning north into the Greater Northern Steppe.’

‘That may not be necessary,’ said Amos.

‘A heretical horde confronted us a couple days back,’ said a lord of grey and black.

‘Viking?’ said Lord Hendricks.

‘Likely. We have reason to believe Bjarke was there. Aided by a couple of pagan sorcerers.’

‘Verivix and most likely his apprentice, Kulum,’ said Sir Bradfrey unenthusiastically from the opposite end of the room – more preoccupied with the dirt between his fingernails.

‘Pragians?’ asked Lord Hendricks.

‘Associated, yes. Aligned? Let’s say it’s been a few years since I’ve engrossed myself in Pragian politics.’

‘Heretics, the lot of them,’ said a templar lord. He then rallied cheers and stamping feet by his accompanying knights, who let loose a crescendo of interruptions by the lesser nobility.

‘Yet a wizard saved us,’ said the lord of grey and black.

‘A WITCH.’

‘AN ANGEL, if you will.’

‘ENOUGH,’ said Hendricks. ‘Sir Bradfrey, perhaps elaborate on this?’

‘Her name is Anneliese. We were divided, trapped, and about to be overwhelmed by Verivix’s horde. Then some …’

‘Satanic forces,’ said Amos.

Sir Bradfrey, sensing a lack of confidence in his authority, took a moment to stare down every compatriot, before a quick change in posture and amplified voice brought out the man from within the boy. ‘Spiritual, magical intervention … it channeled through her to shift heaven and the earth. The mountain collapsed and consumed the horde, saving our lives.’

‘And she is of your party?’ asked Lord Hendricks – he was, however, more interested in Amos’ reaction than Sir Bradfrey’s reply.

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‘Correct. She was an orphan, raised under the church. I’ve known her since she was young, and she since has developed a talent for the pen and an appetite for knowledge.’

‘We’ve burnt witches for less,’ Amos whispered under his breath, causing a few heads to turn towards him.

Yet all Sir Bradfrey received was the emboldened support of his entourage, who naturally gravitated towards the banner of Duke De La Castell – the house Sir Bradfrey represented, and the house even his detractors revered. ‘Bjarke and his war band pillaged her township. A mere ten survived. Women, children, some still screaming in their sleep. Anneliese is no stranger to these vermin, only she can’t swing a sword like most of you.’

‘Hmm,’ said Lord Hendricks. ‘By the authority of our sovereign queen, this is my barrack, but this is your army. Given my absence from the transpiring events, I will not bear judgement. That makes it your decision and yours alone, Sir Bradfrey. How should we attend to this girl?’

Suddenly, the warning horns broke loud and continuous, bringing the room to the arched windows behind Sir Bradfrey’s banner man. A clear vantage point allowed all to witness the approaching mob of gypsy-wood folk emerging in a disorganized manner towards the barrack’s gate. They were rejoicing the bravery of the northern guard and laying piles of tributes at the barricaded gate.

‘This is the sovereignty of Queen Marguen. Speak your business or leave,’ said the guard to the arrivals.

‘We’ve come to pay homage to the new wizard. Praise be to the defender of the Atrusian ranges.’

‘There are no wizards here. Best you go elsewhere.’

‘But, dear sir, we heard word of the demonic horde that was crushed beneath the ground on which they stood.’

‘OPEN THE GATE,’ yelled Sir Bradfrey from the window, before racing to the barrack’s gate to take control of the situation; he then held his sword in his wrong hand and reversed in his grip, with the blade against his back-shoulder chainmail: part defensive, part ready for anything.

‘Thank you, kind sir. We are not here for trouble,’ said a middle-aged man of carefree braids and sun-drenched face, which with a swipe of Sir Bradfrey’s backhand broke from inebriated smiles to blood-sucking sourness and his rather filthy body to a half-done mud bath.

‘This is a military fortification, so I must warn you that your presence here is a threat to our safety and a threat we will not take lightly. Your choice: disband or don’t,’ said Sir Bradfrey.

The nearby woodland folk, upon the sound of approaching calvary, learnt quickly the reality that they were unwelcome. As they fled, only the swollen-lipped man remained in a quivering mess before Sir Bradfrey’s stone-faced demeanor.

‘We are not here for your pleasantries; we are here for your protection. Now listen, there is no wizard. Her name is Anneliese. She is a follower of the cross and of house Castell. Understand?’ Sir Bradfrey advised.

‘Yes,’ said the man.

‘Good. There will be no speaking of her name in worship. All praise will be to Queen Marguen for sending her valiant knights and maidens to your aid.’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Right then. ALL HAIL QUEEN MARGUEN,’ shouted Sir Bradfrey.

‘All hail Queen Marguen,’ cried the surrounding knights.

The man then yielded, ‘All hail Queen Marguen.’

Detached and reserved, Sir Bradfrey turned the man around, facing him towards the retreating crowd, and said with one strongly worded whisper, ‘Be gone, be peaceful and be safe.’ He released the stumbling man back into the wild in which he came, leaving nothing of provocation for the approaching calvary to surge upon.

As the two ironclads kicked dirt through the barrack’s entrance, the entire guardhouse raised a ruckus – gauntlet fists upon wooden shields, and graveled ground stomped hard by synchronized spear butts. Chants of ‘Sir Bradfrey the Enforcer’ came think and fast.

However, their calls of comradery fell flat on Sir Bradfrey’s ears. With his cold, quiet march of victory, he untethered his armor straps with such hot-headed dissatisfaction that even the steely Lord Hendricks felt the tingle of intimidation. There was a new sheriff in town. It was Sir Bradfrey, or his backhand!