Motivated to beat the alpine snow already whisking over their heads, Sir Bradfrey pushed his knights forward. The funnel valley winds prolonged their exposure as the frost seeped through armaments; benign sniffles masked the onset of disease. Attrition, a stalking scavenger, circled their supply train.

‘Wind brake ahead,’ yelled a distance scout. His words cascaded through the supply train like marching orders.

The battalion reached a hot step uplift in pace as they channeled two by two down the frosty marshland road. The seasonal conditions left the road a soft, soggy bog, suckling at the soldiers’ boots. It was a struggle unbeknown to the mounted knights holding the front and rear, whose greater concern lay with the encroaching foliage creeping closer and at near head-hunting range.

‘I swear that the time saved in distance, we’ll lose to exhaustion,’ said Amos with his one good eye to the sky in search of migrating birds and overbearing clouds hinting of worsening weather. He was someone who simultaneously projected invincibility and the threat of impending danger, like a season hunter able to distinguish the sound of a passing antelope from a prowling lynx.

‘Weary men can still hold Rekinvale, while the local garrison gives chase with fresh legs. If anything, we’ll give the impression of being an overwhelming force,’ said Sir Bradfrey, emotionally retreating as the cold ripped across his red cheeks.

‘This is not my first time chasing Viking and their pagan vermin. In fact, it’s my favorited pastime, and if there’s one thing I know, no matter the body count, vermin find a way.’

‘I was once told, if all you seek is all you’ll find, then you’ll never know when you are wrong. And by that reason, when you are right.’

‘That is why I listen to God, and he hasn’t found me wrong yet.’

‘Sir Bradfrey, the clearing is less than a half-day’s march,’ said the scout.

‘Not short enough, if you ask me,’ said Amos as he straddled his reins with every ounce of subtlety urgency, to suggest his constant birdwatching was more than a leisurely pursuit.

‘Then make it so,’ said Sir Bradfrey, setting pace as to reaffirm his leadership.

‘Double time. Double time. Double time,’ came the call, cascading down the line.

Further back, Anneliese lapped up the journey in relative luxury, snuggled under a wardrobe of blankets and garments beside the royal supply train and surrounded by a sea of red-crossed templars, as she weathered in the cold mountain breeze. Her wagon jostled her from the mind-numbing funk brought on by the drudgery of endless marching.

‘Best you keep yourself busy. Talk for the sake of talking. Count for the sake of counting. Curse for the sake of cursing,’ said Agrippa as he rode by her side while toying with knots to the point of second nature, which he freely showed to anyone bored enough to make a second glance. He was a couple of years younger than her, but with a towering physic and the confidence to match.

‘It’s hard to read when I can barely keep warm.’

‘Well then, get up and stretch your legs. Come join me on Sicilia,’ he suggested.

‘It’s a stallion.’ She questioned whether the misgendering was deliberate or mere ignorance.

‘Yes, she is,’ said Agrippa. He then puffed out his chest, playing it off as if he were prince charming and Anneliese was hard to get.

It was at that point she rolled her head back, restraining herself from any further eye contact, but keeping some measure of politeness expected from a lady. ‘I appreciate the offer. But I doubt sharing Sicilia will save my sanity any more than staring blankly into the distance.’

‘Ha. If that’s how it’s gonna be … By the way, Sicilia goes both ways.’

‘Sure, I believe you.’

‘Good to chat. Hope I’ve warmed up your day.’ Having accomplished his vanity trip, Agrippa rode ahead, leaving Anneliese with the realization that her red cheeks were now flushed with fresh blood.

With her mind freed from the doldrums, she cuddled under the blankets with a salient smile unseen by the newly appointed squire. The outside world was alive with renewed interest that quickly diverted her to flashed visions of pagan slaughter, before the giant prowling black wolf drew her attention towards the forest.

The wolf watched her in stalking fashion as it disappeared and reappeared further along, in prime overlooking positions.

Until her field of vision started seeing shadows behind the autumn-ravaged trees, to the false peak of one sparsely snowed mountain side and the distant flash of unnatural green. This was not imaginary. ‘Agrippa,’ she yelled. Her fear sparked urgency throughout the surrounding templars.

Agrippa peered back to see an unwrapped Anneliese standing atop the rocking wagon. The carriage driver was holding her in place as her finger pointed to the rustling branches.

The warning, however, was too late, and a stream of flame ripped through the supply train, separating command from their foot soldiers, and knights from the supply train. As well as Agrippa from Anneliese.

Fireballs burst overhead, causing chaos and disarray among the regiments trapped by the igniting tree line, boxed into a last stand or swampy retreat. Before them was the abnormally loud rumble of dark, deformed creatures of the underworld as they stampeded down the mountain.

‘BRACE FOR IMPACT,’ came the call as the first wave of three-legged runners launched themselves into the quickly formed lines of sword and spears.

At the front of the line, Sir Bradfrey barked orders to his men, smashing palm against backplates as he forced his knights in tight. ‘We are not to falter; we are not to look back. By the love of God, hold your brothers. Hold the line.’

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

Their flank was held by Amos and his walls of white and red crosses, who whispered words of conviction, ‘Blessed in the lord my God, who trains my hands for the battle and my fingers for the war.’ Their wide eyes stared down the stampede with fanatical embrace, longing for this moment of confrontation, to prove themselves worthy against the demonic.

The moment was lost to the deafening silence, brought about by a shift in winds that extinguished the inferno that caged their forces. Tumbleweeds of flaming debris were sent back up the mountainside into the faces of the approaching ogres and undead. Their advance was stalled as the demonic creatures snarled at the fiery facial, long enough for the sudden re-emergence of sound in the form of explosive rumblings.

Heaven and earth shook with violent rage.

The cliffs unleashed a rocky avalanche of splintered trees and raining granite, carving a new skin upon the mountain side, and taking the underworldly beasts with it, remaining nicely folded into the mounds of snow and debris that settled within blade-striking distance of the huddled men of iron and steel.

The knights’ confused denial left them braced for the next onslaught of the unexpected, until, one by one, a wave of emotion broke their ranks. Some fell to their knees in teary praise for the miracle before them. Others charged the rocky beast-laden mound in search of glory. While the bewildered few looked around for answers, only to find them upon the half-bogged supply wagons.

This was where a smoky-eyed Anneliese stood upon the shotgun seat on which she rode. The magical resonance fully consumed her, the likes of which emanated a black discoloring aura across her outstretched arm. Her body and clothes were unaffected by the physical world, until her last fleeting effort drained her, pale and weak. An unconscious rag doll, she fell into Agrippa’s well-placed arms. It was a sight of fear and wonder. Worthy of a thousand kneeled soldiers, blessing the ground and thanking their lord. Surely, she was a gift from the divine.

‘The girl serves your house, does she not?’ asked Amos as he twiddled his cross between thumb and index finger.

‘No further than the pen and the parchment,’ said Sir Bradfrey. He was dumbfounded and afraid, and aware. She was no angel, nor born of God-fearing parents. Yet there she laid, in the arms of his squire, under his insignia – their savior and their enemy wrapped in Castell’s colors.

The next day’s travels brought them fine weather and roads clear of treachery. They closed the stretch to Rekinvale with easy and high spirits. The fortified town looked modest, with a concerning lack of masonry, but layers of spiked wooded walls and earthworks galore compensated for any perceived vulnerabilities. Its forest surrounds were a sea of stumps and clearings, while inside was a maze of tents, firepits and training grounds. Industry and the industrious were making means by any means possible. Even the outstretched wounded whittled away with scraps of wood for all matter of parts, from tent pegs to burial cross.

It was a case of low morale and the same old same old as Sir Bradfrey’s forces arrived at Rekinvale. Fresh recruits for the endless grind and insecurity, they varied between the extremes of mundane patrols to willful prey of insurgent ambushes.

Only an overly joyful friar with a patchwork tunic welcomed them with praise as his cumbersome frame limped over. ‘Oh, what great blessings the lord has brought us today,’ It was Weddle. His neck bore the cross while his hands bore the weight of mulled wine pitchers, which he graciously distributed among the new arrivals. ‘What a surprise,’ said Weddle.

‘Should I be suspicious? Weddle of all people. Out here … and a … what’s this … you’re a friar for the church?’ queried Sir Bradfrey as he offloaded his horse to Agrippa, before bear-hugging his old friend. It was a tactful ploy, because he led Weddle out beyond the ear distance of Amos.

‘Well, they say suspicion is a sign of alertness,’ said Weddle, able to keep his pleasant demeanor, despite Sir Bradfrey’s strong-armed domineering.

‘And left unchecked becomes paranoia.’

‘I’ve never known you to be paranoid.’

‘I’ve never had the need until yesterday,’ said Sir Bradfrey as he watched for a particular wagon to approach the barrack’s gates.

‘What’s changed in all these years?’ Weddle asked.

‘See that girl over there?’

‘Ah, yes. She looks familiar.’

‘That she should be. And be sure to find out who else might find her familiar?’ said Sir Bradfrey, embracing Weddle one more time within chewing distance of his earlobe.

‘I thought you were too honest a man to resort to secrecy?’

‘Perhaps it’s the paranoia … perhaps you should serve up some more wine. Enough to keep such red-crossed knights occupied till morning?’

‘Oh, oh yes. But who is she?’ said Weddle, still unable to put a name to the face.

‘The lady of the rainy cave.’

‘That she is, and that I will do,’ said Weddle. His brain synapses were firing on all cylinders as the prevalence of The Blood of Templars made obvious the implied danger. He then brushed his increasingly sweaty hands against unclean leggings until the stale-faced Sir Bradfrey locked his stare with another old friend, separating them to their impending responsibilities.

For Anneliese, it was a surreal journey. Agrippa had laid her body snug inside the commander’s cabin beside a dwindling fireplace, but her soul sat adrift across the room. There she stared at herself, unsure how to reconnect with her own body—

‘It’s not so simple,’ said the ghostly pagan heir that was draped in a king’s attire, younger, but still old. The aging process acted in reverse. He stood with regal prestige just outside Anneliese’s peripheral vision. His spiritual figure had become mobile since their first encounter, and he shifted and disappeared with every turn of her head, to remain outside her range of vision.

‘You’ve had your fun. Now let me go,’ said Anneliese, merely tolerating his present through a façade of stoicism.

‘Why? I have an invested interest in your survival. I was even generous enough to save your friends. Twice,’ said the ghost-king, intent on keeping his young subject’s focus away from herself and towards her source of irritation.

‘I don’t have any friends. They all seem to disappear for reasons I’m sure you’re across.’

‘Then next time, we’ll just disappear into our cave and let the real play out as it should.’ The ghost-king resided at a fixed point above her cataleptic body, looking towards the doorway as a limp-legged Weddle shuffled in …

He carried an arm full of towels, warm water, and he kneeled with uncoordinated caution. At first, he tried dabbing her forehead as he searched for signs of consciousness. The usual pricking hairs and smelling salts were all drawing blanks to her unresponsive body while he whittled down every known stimulus from tickling toes to the immediately regrettable half-handed slap to the face.

It would take a gulp of wine and a couple of sighs of self-loathing before he grabbed Anneliese’s hand and discretely chanted old pagan prayers. Within a few whispered verses, he paused and peered up, allowing instinct to see what his eyes could not comprehend.

He too was face to face with the ghost-king, like a blind man to a stranger.

His right hand drew the cross from head to heart, and his left hand slid up his shirt front to the low-hanging silver piece of the same delineation. ‘By the love of God, release this girl or I will release you into oblivion.’

‘Hmm. You have interesting friends, girl. You should be thankful for that,’ said the ghost-king. His presence then evaporated from spiritual existence with a solitary clap.

The force dissipated through a whiff of the fireplace as a rejuvenated Anneliese came too. Her startled body clenched at the bedframe with cold sweats running down her forehead. ‘What did you do?’

‘That which should not be spoken,’ said Weddle with whispered haste while he held her steady with a firm grip upon her shoulders.

‘What shouldn’t be spoken?’

‘Anneliese, you are in more danger than you understand. Those soldiers with the red crosses are zealots of the Church of the One True God. They hang innocents on suspicious of heresy, and you’re not innocent.’

‘What am I guilty of?’

Weddle looked towards the cross she wore around her neck. ‘Is this your cross?’

‘It belonged to a dear friend of mine, so … yes.’

‘Good. This is your armor. It is your sword. Your past is poison. When in doubt, you are a child of the lord. You live by his mercy and no one else’s.’