The enemy was within. Whipped and chained. Bound to a barracks they once called home, by white knights of red crosses. The Vasierian uprising had failed, and in response, the church had instituted a complete purge of its suspected contributors. Those found guilty were brought before the public square to plead mercy, with the confession of one name: Cestmir. Again and again, one by one: Cestmir, Cestmir, Cestmir. The enabler of aid to the rebellious Pragian: Cestmir. The propagator of lies and pagan sympathies: Cestmir. The culprit to Sir Tristan’s failed siege: Cestmir.

All the loose ends tied together in a convenient bow of collective condemnation for the quartermaster, whose legacy now read of tolerance for the intolerable, an enabler of the wicked influence. A plague that infected all those who sympathized with the pagan contagion and propagated their coup against the crown and church.

The aftermath of which resulted in a broad psychosis among the populous. A paranoia that openly questioned the moral authority of the ruling elite. Until wild, unfounded accusation quickly turned to riots and the toppling of the old monuments. And then the institutions that once governed Vasier’s peaceful coexistence became the subjects of a purge. Where one’s innocence was tied to their devotion to the Church of the One True God. No fence to sit, nor safe haven to run to.

The edict of absolution demanded conversion or imprisonment. For where there was one nonconformist, there would be many. And where there were many, a great evil would spread through the ears and minds of innocent, until the devil’s work made monsters of angels.

For Sir Bradfrey, the tyranny of distance afforded him immunity to the mob hysteria overtaking the greater Vasierian kingdom, and the discretion needed to focus on Kulum’s capture, as his forces tracked the wayward wizard’s trail of destruction to the northern trade routes. The fiery fiend’s position narrowed to a collection of enclaves within the northern ranges, with the prospect of Kulum’s captured or assassination expected within the month. Yet for all the optimism, the ominous absence of Anneliese complicated an already stressful endeavor.

Then there was the letter. Delivered by Davos and double-sealed by the queen and Church. ‘We have spotted the traitor in your lands. The royal court expects you to redirect sufficient forces to capture Cestmir and ensure the safe return of Gideon.’

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The letter was read aloud by Amos while Davos took it upon himself to wander Sir Bradfrey’s recently requisitioned villa, admiring the state of luxury permitted only to such nobility.

‘I’m simultaneously pacifying the nomadic tribes of the Greater Northern Steppe, hunting the Viking war band, chasing the rebellious wizard Kulum, and assimilating Keesh in my non-existent spare time. But sure, a few good riders, why not?’ said Sir Bradfrey from behind his thick wooden desk that was so large, the villa had to be built around its oversized dimensions. He skimmed through the various forms of reports and scriptures, which he arranged in assorted piles for delegation.

‘What of the girl?’ said Davos while he experienced conflicting curiosity at the selection of literary works displayed on Sir Bradfrey’s shelves: texts of ancient Rowan and Greco philosophy.

‘What of Anneliese?’ said Sir Bradfrey before slamming his empty ink well against the desk to both divert Davos’ attention and alert his newly appointed squire of very junior tenure to fetch him a replacement.

‘Why is she not out espousing the teachings of god?’

‘She is young and more overwhelmed than what we claim publicly.’

‘Then perhaps reappointment under the ministry of the One True God would provide her a level of nurturing needed for developing minds?’

The proposition hit a nerve in Sir Bradfrey, killing any sense of momentum that drove him through the immensity of his responsibilities. ‘In time,’ he said with a sigh, no longer able to make sense of the scrolls through strained eyes and a warned impatience.

‘Perhaps now. May I at least see her?’

‘Fine,’ said Sir Bradfrey, waving his squire on to the task, knowing it would take hours for him to report back the expected absent response.

The timing aligned with the muddy footprint trails kicked in by a templar messenger. Fresh from the outposts, he was baring news of timely relevance. ‘The phoenix is within reach. My scouts are patrolling the area, in case he moves. Your orders, my lord?’ he asked.

The messenger’s words brought a sense of excitement to Amos. He was eager to unleash hell upon a deserving pagan foe.

‘I’m afraid the queen mandates we divert your knights towards Cestmir’s last known position. He and Gideon are our number-one priority,’ said Sir Bradfrey, nonchalant to the point of telepathic alignment with the slowly simmering Amos.

They withheld their collective frustrations behind machine-like mannerisms.

For Amos, it meant holding his tongue between clenched teeth while nodding in agitated agreement. ‘Can’t we do both?’ he questioned with a two-faced smile that shifted between Sir Bradfrey and Davos, as though any of them could change the directive.

‘That depends on how quickly you rescue Gideon. Alive,’ said Sir Bradfrey as the next set of foreign tribal dignitaries arrived, baring gifts of tribute and requests for trade and free passage.