The city of Keesh had always slept under the rumblings of merchant wagons and late-night revelers making the most of the empty streets and dimly lit alleyways. The commotion moved in avoidance of the city guard, who kept their turf relatively quiet and uneventful. Except, this night brought more urgent priorities for the city guards.
Their absence, therefore, coincided with riots and looting as the city awoke to the disturbance of bullhorns from the far hills. Outpost fires were extinguished within moments of their first sighting, only to be replaced by the groaning bullhorns of another distressed outpost. This time, the flames engulfed the entire structure.
They were here.
Throughout Keesh, the clangs and rustlings of unease echoed as guards assembled and flooded to the walls and choke points – for Sir Bradfrey had been busy, revamping the decaying relic of the Rowan age into a maze of battlements. Mini fortresses were now crisscrossing the rivers, and they offered the Keesh defender control of the waterways and thus the means to resupply, reinforce or, if necessary, retreat.
Among these preambles of orders and mobilization, and atop the city’s central tower, Sir Bradfrey watched from the inner walls, with an unnerving stillness. He was like a statue, dressed in plate armor and Castell’s crest across his orange surcoat. The smell of smoke lofted in, filling his lungs with dire intent. His mind longed for the battle he wished would never come. Atop Keesh’s highest point he lingered, confronting the fear that came with Anneliese absence; to the peasants and soldiers below, they needed only to look up and be inspired by their fearless leader who was looking out at the danger, unafraid.
Thankfully, the battle would not be this night. Nor the next day – as the dawn broke without the waves of pagan hordes besieging the walls. Instead, their adversaries constrained themselves to a small, fortified encampment upon the far hillside. Their numbers were little more than a couple thousand, unorganised and ill-disciplined.
Yet, Sir Bradfrey waited, and he continued to wait.
And the pagan camp continued to grow.
The morning fog hinted a glowing orange – the land between devolving into a crusty hell scape. Until the Keesh guards’ nerves weathered to a tread, demanding they take the initiative before it was too late.
But Sir Bradfrey’s intentions were apparent. Wait. Wait for word to reach the queen, for their calls to arms to be heard far and wide. Until the gathering hooves and sprawling colors of banners ablaze flooded the roads to Keesh. Rival lords united under necessity, and merchant mercenaries seeking righteous glory over gold.
Then came The Blood of Templars, riding in from the rough, having made the journey from their own Steppe-facing fortresses. While against the river’s current came princes from lands separated by seas, bringing with them continental armies, several languages strong. All were compelled to act in the name of the Church of the One True God, and the holy war that was to come.
‘My God, we have more horses than bricks in the mortar,’ said Amos as he welcomed his brethren and the Grand Templar, Bernhard von Eberstein, across the drawbridge, who was followed by the many heads of house.
The elites were so numerous, it made Sir Bradfrey’s chapel’s seating arrangements standing room only. Where neither rank nor wealth could guarantee a place at the front, as such prestigious real-estate was reserved for those whose forces eclipsed Sir Bradfrey’s own citizenry. Such as the Grand Templar Eberstein with his two thousand knights, or Prince Vergenbrass of Mansour and his twelve-thousand-foot soldiers.
Yet none came close to the might of the full Vasierian army, led by shared leadership of Davos and Arcadius.
‘Make way, make way,’ said Davos as the head priest funneled Bishop Arcadius through the swollen crowds, pulling lesser nobles to the courtyard as the royal banner displaced all others. Never had the bishop made such an attendance, nor was it precedent that he be escorted by his contingent of eight blind monks. Their eyes were newly bandaged to disguise the black ink that was forming around their eye sockets.
Apart from a few wayward glances, the blind monks looked right at home among the assortment of religious fanaticism permeating through the greater nobility. That was except for Amos, who took a particular interest in the slightly smudged cloth bandage around one otherwise indistinguishable blind monk. The monk addressed the issue with a discrete wipe with his opposing thumb, threading it under the offending apparel to remove the excess discretion. The resulting blackened thumb was quickly concealed behind a clenched fist, unnoticed by everyone bar Amos’ watchful eye.
‘We lack the supplies to sustain such an army,’ said Sir Bradfrey, with half his entourage substituted for priests and religious symbolism as he appealed to their collective piety.
The brass Mansourian prince then made himself known with a puffed-up chest and a pitch loud enough to shake the windows. ‘Then we have no time to waste. We must engage at once and let God decide our fate.’
‘My forces are a fraction of our true strength,’ said the Grand Templar Eberstein. ‘As we speak, the bulk of my knights are positioning behind the pagan lines. Soon we will have their exit, just as we now have their approach. Then we tighten the noose.’ His words spurred a lightness in the room.
A fever of self-confidence transmitted through subtleties of smirking nobles: the extra inch of height from a stout posture to the twinkle in the mercenary leader’s eye.
A sense of unanimity sucked the authority from Sir Bradfrey’s more cautious demeanour. ‘Has anyone here ever defeated an army of wizards?’ he asked.
The question ripped tongues from mouths as it rendered the crowd a grumbling silence, unable to find a champion to push their agenda.
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‘I believe you have, Sir Bradfrey. Twice, if I’m not mistaken. Perhaps enlighten us with your experience,’ said Davos.
‘Wizards, yes, but battle mages are always an unknown quantity. Where a wizard’s magic is their trade, a battle mage’s magic is their weapon, and war is their trade.’
‘They are nothing but demonic forces,’ said Grand Templar Eberstein to the nodding heads of the religiously aligned factions.
It brought a subdued frustration to Sir Bradfrey as he reassessed his phrasing. ‘Demonic or evil, the important thing is that their magic is like any resource. Finite. If they are smart, they will conceal their true capabilities until we’re fully committed.’
‘If not?’ asked the Prince of Mansour.
‘Our tactics are the same. Bate them into conflict until we know what forms of magic we are dealing with.’
‘The gates to hell have opened,’ said a guard, screaming from the doorway.
The collective feet of the nobility shifted to the windows and courtyard to witness the dark pillars piercing the sky; the sign of the underworld and the conjured forces that accompanied it. While the daytime sun dimmed behind cloud cover consolidating above the pagan camp, further indication of their magic was the ambient humidity that retched up upon the city’s surrounds.
‘Verivix,’ said Sir Bradfrey before ordering his reserves to the barricades.
It was a case of hurry up and wait while their numbers became bolstered by the merchant mercenaries mobilizing rows of halberds in front of their battlements. A secondary steel wall interlaced, perched upon raised mounds with protruding wooden spikes. The disparity of armaments was unmistakable, as the mercenaries lined up with full plate armor, while the Keesh guards made do with chain mail and rudimentary metal-brimmed hats.
The roar of bullhorns was now ringing from the city itself as Sir Bradfrey and the other prominent leaders headed to the keep, ascending to the highest point to see an army of near-equal size to them, and growing. A mass of underworldly creatures, warriors from the Greater Northern Steppe, various tribes, and Vasierian outcasts were lining up in haphazard battle formations.
‘Finite resource, you say,’ said Eberstein.
‘Looks to me like they are not afraid to show their colors,’ said Davos with a breath of gleeful foreboding.
‘COVERRR,’ said the guard to a sight of mid-air explosions as balls of shrapnel flung from the pagan camp, reaching the top of their arch before hitting an invisible wall. Whereupon its contents rained down upon the city not chunks of rock and debris, but broken and distorted remains of plated armor: templar helmets, breastplates, and mace heads.
‘How many did you say were at their rear?’ asked Sir Bradfrey while he inspected one of the far-flung helmets, wiping away the muddy residue from the left chin protector to see the etched words: In God’s name.
‘Fifteen thousand, at least,’ said Eberstein, suddenly more clench-jawed than confident, with the blood shifting away from his cheeks as he leant down to pick up the broken fragment of a soldier’s metal cross.
‘Do not worry yourselves. This isn’t a battle of men, but a test of faith. Whatever they unleash, God will protect us,’ said Arcadius.
His blind monks whispered deep-voiced Nordic hymns as the black outlines of their bandaged eyes bled deeper over their upper cheeks.
‘I place my faith in the practical and let God reward my preparedness,’ said Sir Bradfrey.
‘Hence, why we’ve made other arrangements. Davos shall take command of the army,’ said Arcadius.
The decision burnt like hot coals to the back of Sir Bradfrey’s neck. His muscles near-spasmed with the dumbfounded rage, forcing him to speak slowly, to avoid breaking into an unfiltered tirade. ‘Is this a joke?’
‘Don’t be so alarmed,’ said Amos. His head was down in betrayal as he handed a large leather-bound satchel to Grand Templar Eberstein.
‘Tell me, Sir Bradfrey, why do you carry Duke De La Castell’s banner?’ enquired Bishop Arcadius.
‘Because my father chose redemption over his family’s welfare. No one respects a house that can’t pay its debts. Nor did I intend to inherit it. If not for Castell’s, I wouldn’t be standing here,’ said Sir Bradfrey.
‘By redemption, you mean the crusades?’ said the bishop.
‘He had a lot to atone for. Now, excuse me, but I’m failing to see the point in all this?’
‘There is the matter of Anneliese and the son of Burtrew,’ said Davos, basking in Sir Bradfrey’s discomfort.
‘Forgive me,’ said Sir Bradfrey, his wording becoming more tense and direct. ‘After all I’ve done for the queen? Honestly, if you really believe they’re on the other side of those battlements, then rest assured I’ll bring whatever’s left of them before you to bear judgement. But that still doesn’t justify Davos taking command.’
‘Easy up there, boy,’ said Eberstein.
‘We’re not asking for you to relinquish your titles. The queen’s willing to pardon such lapses in judgement. But as a show of loyalty, you will renounce the house of Castell and reclaim your father’s house as your own,’ said Arcadius.
The Grand Templar then unraveled a coat of black and white that had a crest of a shield divided by a chevron and three white stars – the house of Bradfrey, raised to prominence once more.
‘If I do this, will I retain command of the army?’ Sir Bradfrey asked as he accepted the offer with tense hands and a slow, snatching motion. It’s fabric immediately felt coarse and foreign as he transferred from one house to the other, in a quick, no-nonsense manner. Duke De La Castell’s surcoat was discarded like a towel to the rail, overhanging the parapet.
‘The queen’s army, yes,’ said Davos. ‘These are the queen’s lands, and you have a duty to defend them. But the combined forces are another issue.’ His words scratched at the ears of Sir Bradfrey.
‘This is a religious war,’ said Bishop Arcadius, jumping in before tempers devolved the disagreement into dysfunction. ‘The word of God shall take precedence.’
‘I’m still at odds with how that improves our chances?’ said Sir Bradfrey.
Bishop Arcadius drew his attention to the pagan formation and walked to the gap in the wall defenses as he ignited his invisible, smoky eyes and unleashed his inner ancient, the black shadowy serpent slithering out unnoticed onto the keep walls and perching in the front-row seats for the upcoming battle.
‘This army will not bend a knee to a simple lord, nor have they come by decree of our queen. Victory rests on the shoulders of our shared beliefs. So, when the mayhem begins, it’s Davos who’ll guide them to salvation,’ said the bishop.
‘Livestock to the slaughterhouse with a pat on their backsides and a free ride to the promised land,’ said Sir Bradfrey.
‘A war of attrition,’ said Eberstein. ‘Afterall, didn’t you say Keesh lacks the supplies to sustain such an army?’
Sir Bradfrey could only chuckle in disbelief. His stomach churned a stress-filled disgust, but his better judgements drove him to smile back in concordance. ‘Huh, well. What’s a life worth if it doesn’t sacrifice itself for the greater good, right?’
He would spend the next few minutes in seething rage subdued under the posture of a lesser lord – subservient and without protest.
Until Grand Templar Eberstein ended their deliberations with a complimentary pat on Sir Bradfrey’s back: acknowledgement for how well he had handled his demotion.
There was taste of bile in Sir Bradfrey’s mouth as he managed a solitary nod in reply.
It was a bitter pill he had yet to swallow while he departed back to his post along the northern river turrets. Looking onto the rows of crossbowmen and hurrying peasantry who were ferrying supplies to the battlements, his journey was one of emotional detachment. The sounds of trebuchets cogs clicked into place, rendering his entire train of thought to a mechanical process: numbers of soldiers; distances, prevailing winds; the terrain; the slope. They were all merely cogs in the machine – interchangeable and expendable.