The weak-legged Cestmir, steadied by a sturdy tree branch walking stick, guided his people from persecution to salvation. The old warhorse, despite his limitations, struggled on with wind-burnt face and squinting eyes. He led them along the swollen glacial rivers, in search of a shallow passage that was tempting enough to cross.

Before they knew it, circumstance had them intersecting Anneliese and her giant wolf. Their opposing paths came from opposite sides of the river divide. The bareness of the riverbanks made their sighting unavoidable, and both parties ignored each other’s presence.

Each would have kept to their own, if not for the sounds of hilltop bullhorns that rang like thunder to the spotless sky, unshackling their collective angst. It echoed out from the western ridgeline to where the setting sun obscured the outline of the passing scouts.

Further up, a shadow of flag-drawn riders came to dominate Cestmir’s north ascent.

Their path blocked; their hopes now dwindling. The onset of desperation caused some to traverse the frigid waters with the intent to escape through the opposing gorge.

In response, Anneliese grabbed Weddle’s sack of enchanted sands and funneled a small portion into her cupped fingers. She then mentally navigated the fragmented memories of what used to be innate knowledge. The exact method of activation was played out in a game of trial and error. She shook her hands with intermittent blowing, which eventually sparked flames within the loose sands. Whereupon charred fingers released a burst of flames across the riverbank. The flames hindered the swimming exiles, who had to duck or splash themselves away before completing their crossing.

Take two repeated the same first steps. However, shaken hands were substituted for twirling windmill wrists. Her breath blew constantly away from the rotating sands from wrist to elbow, creating a cold, crisp brush that scratched her cheek. The sensation grew with every twirl, as frosty hands twitched with seizing joints, and the surrounding foggy air trickled specs of snowflakes. Her face grimaced at the pain of the bitter cold, with the sensation reaffirming her commitment. And then she released the pale flakes onto the river, which froze a slate of ice from rocky bank to rocky bank, just as a flock of critters rushed out from the scrublands, running headlong onto the icy bridge. Here they lost their footing and skidded over the uneven gradients and flushed into the river’s current.

Cestmir’s exiles hesitated, awaiting their unconvinced leader to think through their options. His thought process led him to the riverbank stones. And he sought the heaviest ones within reach, only for the heavier stones to strain his weak-hearted body, which struggled to shotput smooth rocky projectile a few uneventful feet. Neither dented the icy bridge nor convinced Cestmir of its structural integrity.

Not that Gideon needed convincing, as he carelessly dived headlong, belly down, across the uneven, slippery slide. He was able to make it midway down before forcing himself to spill out over the upstream edge. The icy bridge held, though the edges weathered with banked-up waves trickling over. Submerging his legs and flexing his upper body, Gideon braced himself from the frigid waters and called out, ‘Come on. I’ve got you.’

With grunting perseverance, Gideon kept himself afloat. Against the near frictionless ice, he kept one arm free as he slung the young, then the old past the difficulty midpoint. Where one by one turned to consecutive of two by two. Then multiples of whichever combinations could manage head-to-toe caterpillar across the icy bridge.

Cestmir kept pace through barked orders, conscious of the accumulating flags atop the hillside and the streaming cloud of dust that marked their descent. While Anneliese and the surviving swimmers positioned themselves at the far end of the icy bridge, grabbing arms, legs, and torso, as they pulled the continuous chain of human desperation onto the safer bank.

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Yet the more Anneliese helped, the more she felt Lascivious’ presence. He was chuckling from her rear. ‘Temptation, temptation. They’re not going to make it.’

‘No,’ said the wolf. ‘This is not your decision to make.’ The wolf then brushed her aside to scramble against the flow of traffic, knocking the traversing exiles from the icy bridge.

The bodies were pushed into the freezing waters and forced to swim for their lives, leaving the ten dozen yet to tempt the passage to make way for the sprinting wolf, who rushed past like the black haze of a ground sweeping missile. The wolf’s approach took a wide bow-shaped angle, coming at the lead templar from flanking position, ready to lounge with open jaw and razor claws at whichever horse crossed its path.

It was enough to draw the templars’ attention and stall their advance.

‘I am the flayer of flesh, the crusher of bones. Who dares fight me?’ said the wolf.

Its immense and fearsome presence caused a cascade of bucking horses and falling knights as they haphazardly encircled the wolf.

One brave knight snuck behind to land a stray spear to its hide, while another swung wildly with mace and vigor, almost losing an arm as the spiked ball and chain became more like a chew toy to the wolf’s vicious nature.

The templars kept their distance by lance and sword. Yet the wolf traded wound for wound as it drew the conflict close. Crushed gauntlets and bent shields became the trophies of the day until a thousand cuts to the wolf took their toll, whereupon dreary eyes and stumbled footing offered the templars a chance to strike the final blow.

The wolf’s last breath coincided with the last batch of exiles to cross, leaving only Cestmir and one other guard to slide the now cracking ice. With a strained back, he found his belly with a firm thud. The lapping water was a cold slap to his face that kept him from fading out. As he laid flat with arms out and walking stick for reach, the one remaining guard took the running shove upon ex-quartermaster’s backside. It was done with enough momentum to bring them both within reaching distance of Gideon’s position.

And then the thinning ice succumbed to their collective weight, breaking through the middle, with both Cestmir and Gideon flushed into the river’s torrent. Neither garnished the energy nor the warm-blooded strength to resist the force of waterlogged garment under fast-shifting waters. Each held their breath as they submerged with little more than a half second gasp.

Their drowning bodies tumbled against the rocky riverbed. Their paddling arms could barely keep them upright, as orientation obscured with faded consciousness. Yet before their final exhale, they found themselves flushed into the blue-flamed firepit of the old pagan stronghold. The dispersed waters thrashed harmlessly against the enclosed walls.

Cestmir and Gideon wrenched their lungs free of freshwater asphyxia, delirious before they were once more teleported from the stronghold to the riverbank. Here their collapsed bodies made beds of the damp, compacted snow.

Cestmir’s blurry eyes could make out the water-treading Anneliese. Her magic had been unleashed in full display as she walked back with clouded eyes and a trail of destruction. A desert made of dirt and metal fragments, where the templars had just slain the giant wolf. But they had failed to withstand the might of Anneliese’s wrath, as she left broken templar masts to mark their graves. Their white and red cross flapped haplessly against churned mud, while their horses ran scared in all directions.

Cestmir’s exiles quivered in collective shock, having witnessed what the rumors failed to mention: Anneliese. She was more savage than savior. Her return was accompanied by a death stare that bore judgement over their worthiness. Some bowed with pleas of mercy, others complete submission, until Anneliese’s scowling glare subsided to tearful exhaustion, and the exiles came to see her true nature. She was nothing but a victim of her own impulsions and the demon Lascivious within.

Anneliese retreated behind her hood, sulking. Not a caring hand was willing to comfort what they saw as less angel and more evil. Yet as she raised her head, almost to apologize for saving them, the sight of Gideon’s hyperthermia compelled her to press on. Her shaking fingers scooped up a palm full of Weddle’s enchanted sands. With a sniffling exhale, she made scrappy work of the enchantments. Yet, it was enough to bring a flaming inferno to one hand and a suspended bubble of water to the other. These, when combined, boiled and were absorbed into her closed palms.

At first, the bystanders shifted away, leaving the swollen-eyed Anneliese to approach Gideon. While she lifted his shivering hand, his pale blue face recognised the small child, now a young adult. His seized limbs breathed warm blood when Anneliese transferred the magical essence through cupped hands and whispered prays. The feeling was euphoric yet sickening, and a fully conscious Gideon blenched his stomach dry. He was disoriented but alive.