‘You contrivable, double-faced deviant,’ said Davos. His tirades were a regular nuisance, as he paraded himself like a swindled merchant loud and unannounced through Sir Bradfrey’s manor. The ruckus penetrated from wall to ceiling and repelled all attempts by the lord’s servants to quiet the hot-headed Davos down.

Sir Bradfrey’s conjured sighs of ‘What now’, became the opening etiquette as he welcomed Davos’ correspondence. ‘How can we be of service, dear Davos? Rest assured, I’ve already committed every effort to whatever menial endeavor vexes you this day.’

In the corner, Amos pondered away on a spare desk, acting as his own scribe while he wrote condolences to the families of those he had lost. Thankful that Davos was Sir Bradfrey’s problem and not his.

None the less, this day’s theatrics came with the unexpected spectacle of the priest throwing the damp and muddied banner of white and red cross across Sir Bradfrey’s fine Persian rugs.

‘We know,’ said Amos, feeding his fingers through his blond hair with a claw-like grip. The tension upon his scalp alleviated the banner’s painful reminder of comrades lost.

‘I don’t suppose you know how this came about?’ asked Davos.

‘We’ve already sent word to the queen and the bishop,’ said Sir Bradfrey. He had positioned himself at the windowsill, emulating the poise of Lord Hendricks as he peered out onto his lands, if for no other reason than to disguise his insecurities behind a calm and controlled demeanor.

‘And your plan for capturing this wayward witch Anneliese … or have neither of you figured it out yet?’ questioned Davos as he inched closer with every word, like an ant climbing up Sir Bradfrey’s arm.

To which Amos interjected, ‘I think we were stuck contemplating how a garrison of a couple thousand confronted an army of battle mages. Or is that next week’s problem, Davos?’

‘How? What? Battle mages? They disappeared years ago,’ said Davos. The torque of his neck was almost giving him whiplash to the unexpected news.

‘It appears not, and now we’re in a bind,’ said Sir Bradfrey as he finally turned with white knuckles against his desk. He then spoke with deep authority in his own slow, methodical way, ‘A wondering friar of ex-pagan heritage disappeared some time ago en route to Vasier, but he disappeared before fulfilling his duties. That was until Amos’ spies encountered him at a pagan bandit campsite while tracking the dissident Kulum.’

‘Stranger still, they also sighted a giant wolf escorting what could have been Anneliese,’ said Amos.

‘Sounds dubious to me,’ said Davos.

‘The problem is,’ said Amos. His words ominous as he leant forward to impress the dire situation. ‘My easterly scout picked up unnatural disturbances, like purple rain across cloudless skies, unearthed graves, and wind devils the size of mountains.’

‘This friar is also the son of Burtrew,’ said Sir Bradfrey.

‘The wizard. My God, he’s out to avenge Pragian,’ said Davos. His mind was racing to connect the dots. ‘If he’s his father’s son, then he knows our next move … and possibly the outcome.’

To which Sir Bradfrey tempered Davos’ concerns. ‘I’m surer than not that he is neither his father’s son nor dissident. Either way, he gave us this information and has shown no ill intent. That said, I’m yet to figure out how Anneliese fits into all of this.’

‘You have a real affinity with the old pagan establishment. Don’t think I didn’t enquire about Anneliese, Coble’s ex-apprentice. Makes me wonder how a commander serving under the house of Castell came to conquer so much pagan lands where others had failed. Rekinvale, Keesh, Pragian … they were all bloodless victories, or were they?’ questioned Davos as he walked over to the bookcase, running his fingers across dusty hardcover manuscripts until he took particular interest in pulling out titles of contentious topics.

Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.

‘Are you questioning my loyalty?’ said Sir Bradfrey.

‘No, of course not. Just your reputation,’ said Davos with a glare of disappointment towards Amos, as Sir Bradfrey’s squire intervened to escort the priest from the manor.

It left Amos to collect the templar banner from the floor. It’s mud-soaked silt ran through his fingers while he threw side-eyed glances to the dislodged book titles. His mere curiosity sparked an unspoken rift between him and Sir Bradfrey, as his senior’s silent suspicions bore judgement upon him. ‘Well,’ said Amos, returning to his desk to pen letters with the weight of tension burning against his back.

Sir Bradfrey, on the other hand, found himself incapable of staying in one spot, and he vacated the room in search of cleaner air. His escape took the form of a guarded walk across the castle outskirts to the newly erected church grounds. His presence was met with bowed heads and scurrying commoners, all of whom carried a deathly respect for his authority. Not a soul was willing to act out of place while he walked to the adjoining orphanage, where a busy Mother Simonet taught her young disciples how to prepare dough.

Sir Bradfrey’s approach diverted her attention, and she instructed her eldest to take the lead while she hurried out to welcome Sir Bradfrey with all courtesies expected of a lord’s subjects. ‘You seem less yourself today?’ questioned Simonet.

‘A word in private,’ said Sir Bradfrey, short and direct, as he led her to the bell tower, where they could partake in whispered conversation. ‘We’ve located Anneliese,’ he said, his words reeking of caution and distrust.

The condescending tone ruffed Simonet, triggering her disciplinarian instincts into overdrive. She crossed her arms and engaged her superior in a staring contest in which she was unbreakable. ‘I take it that’s a bad thing?’

It was enough to force Sir Bradfrey into a more consolatory tone as he breathed out his frustrations. ‘We believe she’s associated with a band of pagan outlaws linked to Kulum. It also coincided with a local search party tasked with … retrieving Gideon, having mysteriously disappeared.’

‘Hard to believe,’ said Simonet, dialling down her tone but speaking with greater authority than Sir Bradfrey could muster without physical force.

‘What did you tell her?’ Sir Bradfrey queried.

‘That if she wanted to figure out her purpose in life, she’d be better off leaving this place and reconnecting with her roots.’

‘You did what?’ said Sir Bradfrey. The sense of betrayal was numbing his head.

‘It was what she knew but needed to hear from someone she trusts.’

‘And she doesn’t trust me?’ said Sir Bradfrey.

‘You would have had barely a victory to your name if it wasn’t for her, and yet you treat her like a pawn.’

‘Would it be better if she were a serf? Ploughing fields and subjecting herself to the whims of some derelict lord. No, I offered her an escape from squalor, but in return, there is duty. Such as mine is to the queen and yours is to the church.’

‘She is young and afraid. She looked to you for protection and found herself thrusted into the gauntlet.’

‘That doesn’t change the fact she’s associating with pagan outlaws. You know how this looks, right? Like I’m complicit.’

‘Not everything is crown and coin. Sometimes, you need to stand for what is right, or perhaps Castell never taught you that,’ said Simonet.

Her words struck a nerve within the flabbergasted Sir Bradfrey, warranting him to raise his fist, but he had not the temperament to throw it. Yet the mere thought of it broke the unspoken boundary.

Simonet backed up to feel mortar between brick.

‘I believe in defending the people and serving my queen. The oath of Castell is the one I follow,’ said Sir Bradfrey as he retreated to the opposite wall, hands clasped upon each other to avoid any further threatening gestures.

‘What of Pragian?’ said Simonet – less the passionate and more the betrayed.

‘I did what I could to spare their lives and was fortunate Draconian and Maneesh were the only casualties.’

‘I dare not say what you would choose if it came down to the people or the queen. Or yourself,’ said Simonet with a single tear tricking down her cheek as she hesitantly walked forward to place her stubbed amputated arm upon Sir Bradfrey’s shoulder, roughing his shirt as she shook her head. ‘You do what you must … I’ll go find her.’

‘Alone? The bandits will pick you off like …’

‘That is my problem, not yours. If this is of my doing, then I must fix it,’ said Simonet, squeezing Sir Bradfrey’s hands with her one remaining.

Sir Bradfrey then stared blindly at the brickwork – lightheaded, as if suffering from altitude sickness, daring not to look down in fear of triggering the free fall.