The tree-lined roads gave way to snow-covered ferns, which gave way to rocky outcrops and sheer cliff faces. The trail there was non-existent, and the knights roamed under no flag. Their pace was steady, their mood unsettled. For it was a race of endurance rather than speed as they rounded the peak into a barren plateau. The fauna was as grey as the sky was overcast.

Yet from the vantage viewpoint of her mounted horse, Anneliese watched as the migrating herds kicked snow for what morsels of vegetation still held strong against the bitter cold. The animals, sensitive to the sound of pounding hooves, had spiked ears and raised heads – suspicious of the passing humans. And the sounds of bellowing echoes warned the greater herd, from alpha to alpha, as they acted with cautious pessimism.

‘Hold,’ said the lead knight when their path came to intersect a pack of white wolves scampering down from the higher ground to a small undulating plateau where they could continue the hunt undercover of camouflage.

‘By my bloody rudder. Look at that one,’ said another knight.

The group bore witness to one giant man-eater of a black wolf. The beast perched proudly from a protruding rock face, splitting the half-frozen icefalls feeding the dry creek bed.

The previously obscured background then cleared to reveal a line of flame-lit staircases corkscrewing up a steep cone-shaped mountain, where an old gothic monastery overhung like rickety remains of a lost civilization.

‘What in God’s name?’ said Agrippa.

‘It’s the Temple of the Last, nothing more. Move it along before we waste the day,’ said Sir Bradfrey as he marched his horse across the caravan of knights. He was paranoid bad weather might keep them from reaching Keesh first.

“What’s the Temple of the Last?” asked Anneliese.

‘I don’t know,’ said Agrippa, happy to show ignorance on the subject.

Sir Bradfrey then stopped to turn his horse half-circle in lockstep with Anneliese as he second-guessed the need to explain further. ‘They say it’s the resting place of the pagans before they reach the afterlife. A last chance for loved ones to connect with the deceased before they are lost forever.’

‘Didn’t know they had an afterlife,’ said Agrippa.

‘What are they, Druid wizards?’ asked Anneliese.

Her display of pagan knowledge made Sir Bradfrey grind his teeth.

‘What’s a Druid?’ said Agrippa.

‘Druids manipulate spirits and omens. Kind of like … if you ever find yourself cursed, blame them,’ said Annelise.

‘They’re Mystics. They handle different spirits. The harmless ones, though never underestimate the knowledge that one can gather from the dead,’ said Sir Bradfrey.

‘See, you don’t know everything,’ said Agrippa to the slightly embarrassed Annelise as she sighed away the frustration of her error.

That night, Sir Bradfrey and his knights slept tightly packed to preserve warmth. And there was no fire to give away their position before the morning brought their final descent into the domain of Keesh. The early morning sun made grey contrasts of the silver-saddled knights as they finally erected their flags and draped their colors in readiness for the day’s march, while a lighter calvary division secured the last few passages en route to the capital.

The light calvary made quick work of the main bridge crossing before the outpost horn at Keesh rang loud their warning of an approaching force. Yet to Sir Bradfrey’s luck, the main army was nowhere to be seen, as the under-manned outposts were largely abandoned. It was near free passage to Keesh.

The city was a striking convergence of old Rowan empirical architecture and patchwork earthwork to the section of dilapidated fortifications. It was a tail of past glories and disrepair. From bustling metropolis, nestled at the crossroads of both trade and the converging y-shaped rivers systems, with gigantic turrets that littered an archipelago of artificial islands through the wide-bellied rivers. Structures that had succumbed to a century of neglect at the hands of tribal warlords who lacked the expertise to maintain such marvels of engineering. Yet to the Rowan’s credit, the slow decay could not undo the sheer structural integrity that kept the city defenses function long past their prime. Still, the defensible city was on a raised bank, well above the frosty flood plains on which Sir Bradfrey’s knights approached.

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Their point of entry was an old Rowan fortified bridge. It was a formidable obstacle, if not for the abandoned gatehouse and open passage.

A giant ginger-braided warrior stood atop of the bridge’s arch. He had tribal tattoos and wore a full metal armor of crude, overly compensating design, including neck protection that covered him from chest to nose, with little divots to exhaust his misty breath into the cold air. He held his helmet underarm with its protruding four prong blades tracing up like the head of a mace. His hair flew free while he held his gaze over the flooded land turrets, ready to face off against the light calvary, whose numbers accumulated until the full contingent had secured the side of the river but dared not step closer to the pagan warrior.

Not until Sir Bradfrey’s arrival with his three contingents of mixed cavalry. It was insufficient for siege, but enough to pressure the people of Keesh into surrender.

Sir Bradfrey treaded like a conquer to where the bridge’s arched ascent, which was a good eight hundred feet from the pagan warrior. He was a shining beacon of prosperity with his fine-fitting artisanal plate armor with Castell’s insignia draped across his chest. He acquainted himself in a conversation of silence, projecting a veneer of invincibility, expecting his soon-to-be-subject to relinquish his sword in surrender.

‘You are not enough to take this city,’ said the Keeshian warrior. His words rang hollow as he anxiously gazed across the floodplains to a plain-clothed rider in the rear. The sight commandeered the pagan’s attention, and he waved in a posse of ragged peasant servants carrying a tightly tethered captive whose identity remained hidden under a straw-thatched sack. They placed the captive lengthways under the warrior’s feet, and he kicked the very much alive body down the arching bridge, watching as it came to rest at the foot of his cross-baring foe.

With a quick slice of Sir Bradfrey’s dagger, he ripped the neck-bound tethers to reveal the disjointed-jawed demon slayer known as Bjarke. He was half-conscious but fighting to hold eye contact through the thin slits of Sir Bradfrey’s helmet. With a fist full of collar and an urge to shake his captive back to life, Sir Bradfrey assessed the damage. ‘Can he talk?’

‘He has no tongue,’ said the Keeshian warrior.

‘His friends?’ queried Sir Bradfrey. And then with the threat of dagger to Bjarke’s gums, he wedged open his captive’s mouth to see the shallow stub where his linguistic organ should be. However, it gave no impression of maltreatment. Like natural deformation or healed wound that no longer bore its scars.

‘Long gone. Verivix and the Vikings betrayed him in return for safe passage. In the same state I offer him to you, with one request.’

‘And what might that be?’

‘Is that the girl?’ said the warrior, nodding towards Anneliese. However, he needed no reply and unbuckled his sword’s sheath and with it every symbol of wealth and prestige. From breast plate to gold chain, until only the iron boots distinguished him from a simple commoner. And then he walked with divine purpose past Sir Bradfrey and through the corridor of spear and lance where he endured the odd jab-causing flesh wound or was shoved by noble boot. His trail of faith was witnessed by a crowd of unarmed peasant, who flooded in across the river fortification.

The pagan warrior took the B-line approach to Anneliese. Who, in a display of nervous jitters, concealed herself under her hood. Inside, she was wishing Agrippa would mediate the matter into something less incriminating. A brash display of knuckleheaded strength or dim-witted insults. She didn’t care. Just not her.

Yet the pagan pacifist’s devotion bought him safe passage to her presence, with Agrippa prancing out like a loyal dog, keeping watch over a distrusted stranger and unable to deter the pagan’s unflinching stare that longed for his eyes to meet hers, and the overflow of emotions that brought him to his knees, beneath his goddess and savor.

‘My dear Anneliese. Great wizard of the north. My lands, I give in service of your name as protectorate of my people.’

‘My confused and gullible friend. What is your name?’

‘Gulgamore, my lady.’

‘Well then, Gulgamore,’ said Anneliese as she untethered Bellamy’s cross and held it out in full display. ‘I am not your wizard. I am a servant to the One True God. Will you rise to join me and bear the cross?’

‘Whatever you ask, my lady. I will commit hole heartedly, if you will, but save us from this fate?’

‘SIR BRADFREY,’ yelled Anneliese.

Without delay, the dumbfounded leader of the northern army barged his way to the calvaries rear. His helmet was removed, so he could clearly see his opposing head of command pledging fidelity to the lowest of his ranks. ‘My lord of the house Castell, will you grant these people clemency?’

‘Do you harbor any of Bjarke’s Viking war-band?’ asked Sir Bradfrey.

‘None. They have dispersed north to their homelands. You’ll have to conquer the entirety of the Steppe and fjords if you wish to find them.’

‘Then why did they give up Bjarke?’

‘He is not one for words, and we haven’t found a question he’s capable of answering.’

The rumblings of a thousand hooves and multiples more feet acted as the ticking clock to Sir Bradfrey’s judgment. If his knights could just storm the outer walls and display his banner, they could placate the chaotic confusion that would permit Amos to rash decision-making.

‘By what disposition are your people?’ said Sir Bradfrey.

‘They are for whatever my lady wishes us to be. In her name, Anneliese, we will undo our wrongs and accept her rights.’

‘Good, then your city must immediately put down your arms and escort me across the southern drawbridge. I expect full unconditional capitulation, else I’ll subject you to a templar’s whim.’