It was a feast for the victors, but for Amos, the long build-up of adrenaline mixed with the uneventful capitulation of Keesh had him sicker than starved. From a makeshift barracks outside the city walls, the templar general hunched himself over an untouched goblet, staring down rows of fresh-cut bore and garnishing, to an equally fasting Sir Bradfrey. His superior’s lack of appetite had him thinking like a conspiracy theorist as he tried to rationalize their recent run of luck into something that aligned with his world view.

‘What if it were poison? A finely concocted sedative. They will take us in our sleep.’

‘Cheer up, my lord. There will be plenty of plunder with Keesh out of the way,’ said Boris ‘the Bear’. He was Amos’ excessively hairy knight, whose body looked indistinguishable from a thick rug. A dirty one at that, as Boris’ feeding habits often left half his meal hanging from his beard. His night’s entertainment came from standing over the firmly tethered Bjarke, spitting wads of gristle at the captive’s red raw feet and watching as the hounds bickered and fought over the miniscule offerings.

Bjarke was present, keeping his head down, mentally retreating as he tried to escape the bruising and humiliation, knowing there was still worse to come than being bound to a central pillar within the templar’s dog pit. He remained unresponsive, even as Boris showered him with mead to attract the hounds once more in a liking frenzy upon the demon slayer’s shirtless body.

‘Where’s that mythical axe of yours?’ asked Jeremiah, the drunken, red-bearded degenerate of Amos’ court.

‘I heard it could slay a dragon with one strike, suck the soul from a serpent and down the devil in his own domain,’ said Jarabis, who was Jeremiah’s more sober and well-groomed brother. He kept his red beard spotless, with a constant stroking from his clean hand.

‘Aye, but once we’re done with ya. The devil will be your last worry,’ said Jeremiah before breaking out into a screeching laugh.

Meanwhile, in her usual isolation, Anneliese brought the quiver to parchment. Protected within Sir Bradfrey’s guarded confines, she toiled with recollections of the day’s events. Her daily routine now also included the odd toil of her magic, as she flicked the quiver out and into existence. Incrementally pushing her boundaries, she was finally game enough to dip her off-hand into the inkwell, trying to teleport the black liquid from finger to quiver. All without an ink stain upon her skin.

Yet the feeling of unrestrained magic gave her the chills of foreign indecency, coupled with traumatic visions of the pagan stronghold. Enough to induce an anxious attack that felt like a large marble lodged inside her heart, trying to force itself from artery to vein. Until white-knuckled teething eased the mental anguish, replacing it with the jarring bite marks upon her fist.

Suddenly, the brash Agrippa stumbled in, a belly full of liquor and a sack of rations that he haphazardly lobbed in Anneliese’s direction, meaning for it to land flat upon her table, but it missed severely and thudded against the tent skirting. ‘Not to worry,’ he said, slouching himself over Sir Bradfrey’s high-back chair’s armrest before looking up and becoming mesmerized by the sight of Anneliese teleporting the sack into her grasp. ‘That is not natural.’

‘Either is that intoxication ruining you aim,’ she said, the increased freedom bringing out her younger, more defiant self.

‘I mean summoning the undead, manipulating the physical world. There are things that shouldn’t be. You understand. Like I can … I can understand conjuring fire and talking to spirits, but such abilities. They’re …’

‘Almost godly.’

‘I wouldn’t say that, but after today, you’ve got people talking.’

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‘I know. Try growing up in an orphanage of the church and being literate enough to know what they’ve done to witches.’

‘You’re not a witch, are you?’

‘Do you see me riding broomsticks and abducting children?’

The thought of a witch had Agrippa’s imagination running wild, and he leant forward with an inebriated grin and a wayward pointing finger. ‘No, but … now you’ve got me wanting to ask Mother Simonet about missing children.’

‘Don’t you dare,’ said Anneliese with an abrupt seriousness, bound to provoke the further inquiry.

‘Oh, is there a bit of truth to this?’ asked Agrippa with an accent of a posh elitist.

‘He was a bully, so I trapped him down a well to teach him a lesson.’

‘Wait … WHAT?’ His snickers near made him regurgitate his liquor through his nose.

‘I am not a witch.’

‘Not anymore, you’re not. That is … WOW. God must have had a bad day when he made you.’

‘You’re terrible,’ said Anneliese, throwing the rest of the food sack at his head with enough accuracy for it to hit the backrest and spray exploding breadcrumbs across Agrippa’s face.

‘Terrible? By the sound of things, I’m the angel. In fact, I’m going to commit such debauchery that maybe, just maybe, God overlooks your sins,’ he said. And then with crying laughter and a limp hand, he spilled the hard liquor upon Sir Bradfrey’s floor.

‘Stop it,’ said Anneliese, her ears perked and senses blaring towards the sound of an argument between the guards and stragglers outside her tent.

‘Sorry, Anneliese, but I think we need to …’

‘No, stop it,’ said Anneliese. She then summoned a dagger into existence.

Outside, sounds of twining steel of the assassin’s blade made quick work of the guards. Their gasping exertions preceded the thudding of heavy bodies against firmly anchored fabric.

The knights made jesters by their own fruition throughout the night. Their drunken antics gave Sir Bradfrey a much-desired excuse to leave the feast. A consortium of armed guards followed his every step as he opted to walk the thin-lined camp walls while the specks of winter’s snow trickled down.

‘You really think this peace is genuine?’ asked Amos from behind the wall supports as he looked out towards the templar-flagged bridge. Being only lightly clothed, he embraced the cold upon exposed skin.

‘I think fear makes subjects of men, but cowards of allies,’ said Sir Bradfrey. A thin layer of icy flacks was amassing upon his thick fur collar cape.

‘Wise words. Who told you that?’

‘One of a half-dozen mentors I’ve had the luxury of serving under.’

‘Must be good, not having to figure it out firsthand. All the answers are laid out in front of you.’

The nebulousness of their conversation brought an irritability to Sir Bradfrey’s demeanor. ‘Is there a point to this, Amos?’

‘Not really. I’m more thinking things through, trying to make sense of what Anneliese is.’

‘A devoted child of the Almighty?’

‘Such strides take longer to make, but I’m coming around. It’s hard when you’re a soldier for the church. Things appear black and white. Then there are times I struggle to reconcile the inconsistencies with my belief. Is this really God’s purpose? Was she sent here to convert the north to the cross?’

‘And if she delivers that without a drop of bloodshed?’

‘I will cease to be needed, in Keesh at least,’ said Amos. He was a man coming to terms with his increasing mediocrity, alone as the pre-eminence of Sir Bradfrey passed him, leaving only a trail of footprints as evidence that their paths intersected.

But the night was young …

Suddenly, the horns gave sobering warning through the camp. Calls brought Sir Bradfrey and his finest to witness weighty smoke permeating from his tent entrance. The smell was retched, well beyond the lung-choking belch of the fire. The stench lingered like a net holding back their advance. Until the initiative of a few cut open the rear skirting to release the bulging gas upon the greater surrounds.

‘Verivix?’ questioned one knight.

All eyes squared on their beloved leader, but Sir Bradfrey was unconvinced. And he withheld judgement until he saw the bellowing black dispersed below the guards’ scattered bodies to reveal a ransacked interior of his tent, with no signs of Anneliese or intruders, only the deceased body of Agrippa lying limp across Sir Bradfrey’s overturned chair. It was enough to paralyze the young noble into shock.

He needed a strong tug to bring him back to reality, and when he finally came to, he found himself surrounded by the collective swell of grave indignation.

His most loyal knight looked up to him like a ravenous dog, longing for the hunt. ‘My lord. It doesn’t need to be said, but we are without orders. Give the word and it shall be done.’

‘Bring me Gulgamore. Tell him, friend of foe, if we don’t find Anneliese alive and well come sunset tomorrow, the city burns,’ he said with the devil in his eye and such intensity that it echoed through his knights.

‘My lord, my lord,’ said a foot soldier from the rear of the gathered nobles.

‘Speak true and be brief,’ said Sir Bradfrey; his face was red and his heart racing.

‘It’s Bjarke. He’s escaped.’