The black knights were among the sea of white and red crosses. The templars were encompassing the Bradfrey banner of the chevron and three white stars, which was flown by his loyal and surviving retinue. Each layer was like concentric walls around their supreme leader as they marched up the rugged mountain trail.

Sir Bradfrey was riding the tallest upon his newly acquired white stallion. His body was equal parts bandage as armour, one arm slung, while his tender neck did what it could to compensate for his injured left eyes and the incessant need to check his blind side.

‘Do I look that pretty?’ said Amos. The templar general gleamed like a white spec among Sir Bradfrey’s black-coated inner circle.

‘Just wondering if that smirk rubs off?’ said Sir Bradfrey, mumbling through a swollen lip.

‘They say that scars are the trophy of a worthy adventure. But they also say good looks are God’s gift, and I am blessed,’ said Amos.

‘When done is done, will God’s graces compel you to relinquish the sword, retire a pious man?’ Sir Bradfrey queried.

‘You asked me that before. Back when we conquered Keesh. It plagued my mind, until I remembered the human condition is bent towards evil, and we always need pious men to straighten them out.’

‘Such is life. Now, excuse me,’ said Sir Bradfrey as he whipped his reins to stay a hot-step ahead on his partisan sidekick, trading polite conversation for double-time and shoulder-checks.

He measured the distance by the thinning of vegetation, and the late snows of early summer that lay upon the vast plateau of mystical resonance. Time was measured by his logistical train of thought; he counted a days’ return trip between supply depots; three supply trips before camp; four trips before they were fully supplied, and about the same time before his scouts surveyed the battlefield. Five trips minimum would be needed for his army to be rested and ready, with a trip or two more before confronting the makeshift barricades of pagan resistance.

Such crude estimates, of course, constantly shifted as the scouting reports came in thick and fast. At first, they were just crude sketches and outlines of the pagan position, but in time, they amounted to a complete map of their fortifications, which the squire marked out with wooden blocks and black marble chess pieces upon the commander’s table, while Sir Bradfrey rearranged rows of white marble pawns with his ridged unbending fingers, which thread between his swollen knuckles. He then placed them upon the board with a shake of the wrist, requiring the more dexterous squire to realign the pieces to his master’s intentions.

The usual talking heads lined the tent walls and made quiet chatter among their social circles. Armchair tacticians tossed and turned from modest appreciation to underhanded criticism posed as subtle questions. Each was said within their tight circles of confidence, as they dared not challenge their undisputed commander. Yet quiet whispers in a vacuum still tickled the ear as much as backroom slander through thin walls.

‘Why the gap?’ queried the Grand Templar Eberstein.

‘He intends to give them a route to escape. Have them chose between fight and flight. Demoralize and diminish,’ said Bishop Arcadius. He was the only one in attendance with the privilege of sitting and was positioned at the head of the table upon the queen’s throne, while his blind monks scattered around the room, blending into the curtain drapes like servants masquerading as statues.

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‘What if it’s another Pragian?’ asked Amos as he dislodged the queen piece from her perk atop four tightly packed castle pieces representing the Temple of the Last, before placing the marble figure upon a blank space denoting the yet-to-be explored mountainous ranges.

In reply, Sir Bradfrey gently sideswiped the remaining castle pieces, dragging a part of the map with them. One eye was holding peripherals on the twiddling thumbs and devious grin of the bishop. ‘Our aim should be to dislodge the pagan forces, not tempt them into battle. Have them on the move and in the fields, where they’ll be vulnerable. Which is why, Amos, I want your knights concealed under the northern gully, waiting until the trickle becomes a flood, then cut off their route to escape.’

‘It would be my honor,’ said Amos.

‘What of their trickery? If Sir Tristan taught us anything?’ said Davos. The priest was trying to nit-pick his way into relevance.

Sir Bradfrey merely shrugged off the comment. ‘He wasn’t a man of faith.’

It was enough to satisfy his more zealous contemporaries. Especially Bishop Arcadius, who nodded in sync with the collective accord. Elated, he watched as the mass psychosis permeate through the higher rungs of nobility, while the rules of the game bent his way. Whether they liked it, the ranks of the less obliged learnt to sing the same tune, lest appear the outcast in a room of inquisitors.

It was a fact Sir Bradfrey could not escape as he shifted rows of white marble pawns closer to the opposing black wooden equivalents. ‘I want our infantry under their noses. Have them feel the warmth of our breath as they sleep one eye open.’

‘Any word of wizardry?’ Eberstein asked.

‘None,’ said Amos. ‘Just gypsy and pagan peasants.’

‘Then this will be incredibly easy or deceptively difficult,’ said Eberstein. His words were profane to the chagrin of Sir Bradfrey.

‘Either way, I will leave no margin for error,’ said Sir Bradfrey as he stamped his authority with a grimacing thud to the table. ‘That will do us for today.’

The crowd dispersed, and Sir Bradfrey’s hand twitched in discomfort. The tide of departing zealots and noblemen held up the healer, and she waited to care for his bruised and swollen appendage. It was a short struggle before she could apply warm oils and a massage to his arthritic digits. Her attention was solely on the injured limb, as to avoid any inkling of eye contact, while a dissatisfied Sir Bradfrey’s attention lingered on the Grand Templar as though demanding explanation.

Considering himself of equal standing to Sir Bradfrey, Eberstein acted at his own pace, slithering slippery fingers through overlapping manuscript that depicted Sir Bradfrey’s thought process. The covers of which he flipped to reveal their controversial titles: Bjarke, the Demon Slayer, to old folk laws of nomadic wizards, and chronicles of Rowan victories over the barbarian battle mages. ‘Your father was never one for planning, but a blunt instrument with enough force does the job none the less,’ Eberstein said before noticing a small empty sack with shimmering specs of sand laying out of place upon Sir Bradfrey’s desk.

‘What good did that serve him?’ said Sir Bradfrey.

‘Redemption is more than paying off gambling debts. It’s the restoration of honour that kept your name from the spoils of disrepute. There is not an accolade to your name not born from his sacrifice, his bravery, honor, devotion,’ said Eberstein.

‘I was always told responsibility, accountability, and compassion. Not exactly qualities I saw in my father,’ said Sir Bradfrey.

The Grand Templar chuckled in reply. ‘Theeeeere’s Castell. The old war dog remains outspoken even in death. I’d imagine he omitted how a flawed man is groomed by society’s ills?’

‘You’re going to tell me it’s not my father’s fault for bankrupting my family? So, excuse me if I cut to the chase, I don’t need to forgive my father. I’ll raise his banner upon the temple’s ashes and call it a day.’

Eberstein furrowed his brow. ‘What if she’s there? The wizard girl. Which set of virtues will you uphold in her presence?’

‘The same ones inscribed upon my spare blade. I don’t have it on me, but if you would kindly retrieve is from Cestmir’s side, it would go a long way in jogging my memory.’

Eberstein laughed. ‘Castell’s teachings might occupy that headspace, but your father’s blood runs through your veins. That I am sure,’ he said before he flicked the marble queen piece from the table.