Weddle’s journey wasn’t one of immediate haste. After all, Sir Bradfrey’s orders were to deliver the message, nothing more. And the born-again student of the cross preferred to exercise his learning with a vagrant mentality. One of detours and scenic routes, through towns and outcrops, to survey the kingdom at the grass roots. To where the Lord’s word guided him through the local nuances, allowing him insight into inward communities who’d rarely even shared their uncommon knowledge.

For the mundane lives of the peasantry, though individually trivial, when they combined across a vast sway of cities and towns, they told a story of the kingdom. The optimism of one area to the conniving dog-eat-dog lives of another. The disparity of prosperity among regions, to professions, to the mindset of the people.

However, the pattern most striking to Weddle was one of silence on subjects previously spoken freely. A narrowing of thought and the repetition of religious cliches that felt ignorant or unnatural. Where the size of one community too easily predicted the outwards symbolism of their devotion, which afforded disproportionate influence and prestige to a priesthood. A priesthood that wielded such influence in ways that reinforced this narrowing of thought – the thoughts of the pagan threat, and suspicious of those less desirable within their communities. A blurring of truth from rhetoric, where fact and fiction were told with equal reverence.

The news of Sir Tristan’s defeat had spread thick and fast, with undertones of fear and uncertainty driving questions to the queen’s authority. As the broad discontent swelled in flavor of the church and the need to cleanse out what remained of the old guard, whose hesitation allowed the Pragian tumor to grow and fester within their kingdom. It all coalesced under a cohesive narrative, from the unrest in the west to the northern trade routes. A sense of converging evil was pressing in on them.

It was not Weddle’s job to convince them otherwise, or correct mistruths that cemented people’s beliefs. Rather, this was a fact-finding mission. One that directed him to the derelict and dangerous parts of the kingdom. The northern trade routes near Rekinvale, that not even Lord Hendricks could ensure safe passage through. Where armed companions were a must, Weddle carried himself without protection or concealment. An open target, longing to be set upon by the wayward and dishonest; his sacrificial designs coming true upon a bridge over an impassable river, where a wiry figure, more tendons than muscle, blockaded his path with spear in hand.

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‘Spare a coin, dear honest folk?’ asked the bandit like a casual fiend who was turned complacent by expectations of compliance. His friends were well hidden amongst the surrounding shrubs and roadside ditches, but not well enough to avoid Weddle’s better instincts.

‘I am not much for gold, but I can lead you in that direction,’ said Weddle with kind, full-hearted eagerness to help the misguided soul.

‘Aye, and where might that be?’

To which Weddle replied with a single finger to the sky. ‘Eternal salvation. Richer than gold, sweeter than honey.’

‘Aye, you call yourself a joker man.’

‘Hardly. I’m Weddle, the son of Burtrew and the Lord. What’s your name?’

‘No son of Burtrew carries the cross.’ His tone dropped deep, quiet stillness replacing his once casual demeanour.

‘And no child from Husah was ever said to be worthy. But I can tell you now, you are,’ said Weddle as he dismounted from his horse, holding out his arms with godly grace, offering only passivism to the bandit’s hostilities.

‘How do you know I’m from Husah?’

‘I’m the son of Burtrew, and I carry this cross because of people like you. Because a priest goes to church to teach faith to those who want it. I look to the outcast to find people who need it. Salvation is real. Perhaps you will give me a chance to prove it?’

‘You don’t want to go this path,’ the bandit suggested.

‘More bandits?’

‘No, Kulum is that way.’

‘Oh, I haven’t met him in years. How is he? A wizard yet?’

‘He’s better, but you don’t want to cross him right now.’

‘Why would … Uh … Ooooo … Rekinvale.’

The bandit nodded with seized jaw, gulping at the acknowledgement that he lived to pilfer the unwary, before leading unwary travelers on to Kulum where they would receive a far graver fate.