There was a foulness in the air. An icy silence permeated all conversation. The queen’s mother was lost. For months, there had been no word, just rumor. Talk of the high seas and doomed voyage, and the knowledge that her ship, The Rising Crescent, never arrived at its destination. What foolishness compelled her to take such a pilgrimage across the treacherous seas rather than the placid coast?

For Queen Marguen, there were only memories of her mother’s parting words, which echoed through tearful mourning. All that she had loved was gone, all that brought happiness and meaning to her reign had been lost to the wilderness. She was truly alone; a hollowed shell of a monarch whose only means of coping was to shut herself off from the world. Not even the thudding sound of halberd butts against the floor could break her from her stupor, as the royal guard announced Cestmir’s arrival into the royal court.

The stone-faced quartermaster strolled in, fully armored, helmet under his arm, every bit prepared for a war. ‘Queen Marguen. My condolences for your loss. Venessa was a beloved leader, as I’m sure she was an exceptional mother. But unfortunately, tragedy has a habit of striking twice, and I must inform you that Sir Tristan’s forces were decimated at Pragian.’ His words carried the mourning of a thousand widows and the guilt of responsibility for his lost soldiers. He should have been there, not in some backroom organizing the battlefield logistics.

Cestmir’s sense of purpose was not matched by Queen Marguen, and she looked towards her sole royal adviser, Davos, and asked, ‘Where’s my fool?’

‘No longer with us, my queen. Now please, Cestmir brings important news,’

‘Oh, of course. Please, Cestmir. Tell me what brought about Sir Tristan’s defeat?’

‘Hubris. Sir Tristan was always one who was conditioned to procuring outcomes. In this instance, gold and silver may raise an army, but it’s no substitute for experience and tact.’

‘And you will succeed where he failed?’ interrupted Davos. The suggestion was thrown around like a death sentence.

To which the quartermaster reframed from all acknowledgements, preferring to devote his entire focus upon the queen. ‘Sir Bradfrey has arrived from his campaign in the north.’

‘He wasn’t called upon?’ said Davos.

‘That is for him to answer. My duty is to ensure the preparation and provisioning of our armed forces. A task that is never finished. Queen Marguen …’

‘Thank you, Cestmir. That will be all,’ said Queen Marguen, not wanting a needless debate between two institutions she could ill afford to be at odds with.

To Cestmir’s unfortunate timing, his exit through the adjoining corridors coincided with the crossing of Sir Bradfrey’s path. The favored knight arrived with a hefty entourage of his finest loyalist – the newly admitted Amos, and one elegantly dressed Anneliese.

‘What is the matter, Cestmir?’ Sir Bradfrey asked. He was a good head and shoulders taller than the quartermaster, but given his recent achievements, he grew to dwarf his counterpart in both stature and authority.

‘I hope you do better than your predecessor, else God save ya,’ said Cestmir – abrupt and backhanded.

And yet his words rang hollow among the servants and dignitary who saw Cestmir as a dimming flame cursing the rising sun.

It was a similar disposition felt about Anneliese, as they overlooked her to the greatness of Sir Bradfrey. For where Anneliese was a local hero of the northern folk, her achievements were non-existent among the established houses of Vasier. In their eyes, she was merely an appendage of Sir Bradfrey greatness.

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

However, Anneliese ignored the court member’s disregard for her as she took in the surrounds: the riches of royalty, the beautiful drapes and art that adorned every wall, the myriad servants around every corner. It was a world beyond her imagination.

Then it hit her hard …

The soft wind of no direction.

The red glaring eyes from the abyss slowly opened from their slumber.

Anneliese acknowledged its presence, which only her eyes could see.

‘Oh, Lascivious, we meet again,’ said the glaring red eyes. The creature’s presence was unseen but felt through Anneliese’s sixth sense as she walked in, side by side with Lascivious, the now-named ghost-king. The magical and physical realms now intertwined in a halfway limbo as Anneliese and her tormentor confronted the smoky cloud demon known as Id. It was a demon of no form that encircled it’s subject, the Bishop Arcadius.

‘You’re the creature from the abyss?’ Anneliese said to the demon through her mind’s whispers.

‘I am the bishop, I am the church, I am God,’ said the demon Id.

Bishop Arcadius, like Anneliese, noticed their intervening presence while he discretely perused from the distant corner to bear witness to the rumored ‘Angel of the North’.

His demon’s whispers communicated clearly across their collective consciousnesses. ‘Are you lost, child?’ Arcadius asked.

The demon Id then added, ‘Devour, embrace, bring her our salvation.’

‘I’m a child of the cross. I mean you no harm.’ Anneliese’s body continued to act in unconscious conformity to the deliberations between Sir Bradfrey and Queen Marguen.

Arcadius said, ‘But your spirit says otherwise.’

Lascivious then forced himself in front of Anneliese, shielding her from the demon Id’s gaze. ‘It is an ancient born of impulse and corruption. A nihilist who services only its own desires.’

‘Poor Lascivious. You rise to fall to fall again. Have you not learnt your place?’ said the demon as it caressed the walls and fixtures, trying to find a line of sight to Anneliese, not obscured by Lascivious.

‘I will build again what you took from me,’ said Lascivious.

‘That is fine … build your palace in the nothing of the magical realm,’ said Arcadius. ‘We shall rule the real world and displace all unfit for our paradise.’

‘Build your grave and be forgotten,’ said Id.

‘You’re trying to erase paganism,’ said Anneliese.

‘I’m correcting the wrongs of our past,’ Arcadius replied.

‘There can only be one,’ Id hissed.

‘Who’s in control? You or the ancient?’ Lascivious asked Arcadius. He was defiant where Anneliese remained calm; her ghostly figure walked out from under Lascivious shadow, distancing herself from his protection, but keeping her distance from the ancient demon.

‘Neither. We are the collective memories of pagan percussion. Victims of their atrocities, both living and spiritual,’ replied Arcadius.

‘The scorned and vengeful,’ said Id.

‘Then we are not so different, you and I,’ said Anneliese. She then walked towards the bishop without fear or consideration for danger. ‘There are those who have wronged me, Lascivious included. But unlike you, I’m in control.’

‘Oh, the fire. The hatred,’ cried Id.

‘Says the girl who came to prominence on the back of pagan magic,’ said Lascivious before his eminence of control dwindled to forethought. Lascivious’ words echoed into oblivion …

Anneliese’s consciousness then drifted back to the mortal plane to hear out Sir Bradfrey’s closing argument and Davos’ reply, ‘We are well beyond the point of negotiation with Draconian.’

‘It is a great disservice to our cause that we should waste our efforts on the lesser evil. He only wishes Pragian to be left alone. We can afford him that much if it allows us to bring Kulum to justice.’ said Sir Bradfrey.

‘I will save them,’ said Anneliese, out of order and beyond appropriate conduct. ‘Permit me to Pragian, and I will bring justice upon them and all who resist our cause.’

‘She speaks,’ said Davos.

‘My apologies, Anneliese is …’ said Sir Bradfrey.

‘A saint who’s come to save the souls of Pragian,’ said the bishop, emerging in physical form from his corner to place himself at the far left-hand side of the queen. He then gazed blissfully upon Anneliese.

Anneliese, lacking any sense of gratitude, replied with a stubborn resolve, ‘If I can covert Pragian to the cross, will you spare their lives, your majesty?’

Her words of passion left Sir Bradfrey speechless; his plans of a measured response were then rendered inadequate as the queen came to her decision.

A sense of despondent apathy emanated from the queen when she rose from her lofty throne, arms limp with her royal scepter dangling by her side. ‘I don’t care. Sir Bradfrey, I grant you full authority to do as you must to absolve me of these troublesome pagans. Convert them, kill them. Make a desert and call it peace. Just spare me the inconvenience of another failed campaign.’