It gnawed at you, like hunger in your belly when you’ve been marching too many days and there’s nothing but half rations. No mistake, those were the worst days of my life. A man isn’t men to go without being touched by the sun. It makes you sick - in the body, and in the head.

* The Life and Times of Legionary Titus Nasica

☀

15th Day of New Summer’s Moon, 297 AC

Claire frowned when she saw that Tystie, like the other horses, was frightened by the days that had passed without a dawn. The palfrey danced sideways, eyes wide, away from the groom who led her out into the torchlit courtyard, and did not calm until Clarisant stepped forward to comfort her.

“Hush, now,” Claire murmured, her breath frosting in the air, feeding the skittish mare a carrot from her hand, and then stroking the horse’s velvety nose. She wore a winter cloak of thick white fox fur from Kimmeria, purchased from a merchant three years ago.

“None of the animals are taking this well,” Dame Etoile observed, pausing for an extra moment to settle her own rounsey before pulling herself up into the saddle. It had taken two days of the King’s men harrying Sir Moriaen and his army north, followed by a great deal of scouting, before Gareth had agreed to let Clarisant ride out to the Ardenwood, and even now he refused to let his sister go alone. Etoile wore her plate and chain, dented and scratched from days of hard fighting, as did Sir Lucan, who had agreed to accompany them.

“I can’t blame them,” Lucan commented. “I’m not taking it well, either.”

Overhead, there was no moon, only stars, and a thin white ring where the sun should have been. Both knights carried torches, instead of lances, with spares strapped to their saddles. Still, if their journey took longer than expected, they would run out. Clarisant made a note to herself to allow only one of them to light a replacement when the first pair burned out, so that their supply would last longer. Her own saddlebags were filled with food, the copy of the Marian Codex she’d taken from the Cathedral, and needles and silk thread for sewing wounds, as well as clean linen wraps and herbs for poultices.

“I still don’t like you going yourself,” Gareth commented, from where he stood next to their father and mother, as well as Lucan’s wife, Miriam, who held a sleeping infant against her shoulder.

“I am the only one here who was present when the bargain was made with the Horned Hunter,” Claire reminded them all. “They will be expecting to see my husband, so it is only proper that I go in his place. And these are our vassals - it is our duty to protect them, and to bring them here.”

“All of which,” her father rumbled, “I have agreed to. And yet it still leaves me ill at ease.”

Baroness Blasine stepped forward. “Are you certain you have recovered?”

“I was never injured,” Claire assured her mother. “And you cannot expect me to stay in my rooms, simply waiting. In any event, we will be back shortly. I spoke to General Ismet this morning, and she assured me that the route has been well scouted, and remains clear.”

Baron Urien looked to the knights, mounted to either side of his daughter. “My daughter’s safety - and the safety of her unborn child - is your greatest concern. Whatever else may happen, bring her back.”

“Do not let anything frighten her,” Blasine added. “Nothing that might cause her to lose the baby. Stress can do that.”

“I swear it, my lord, my lady,” Lucan assured them, and Etoile nodded, though Clarisant noticed she remained silent. At that, the three riders turned their horses north and rode out of the courtyard and into the streets of Roche de la Garde.

A fortnight past, this had been a bustling port city, one of the wealthiest in the Kingdom of Narvonne. The docks had been filled with ships, not only from Lutetia and Cou Rocheux, but also the Skandian March, and from Raetia and Kimmeria to the north, and before the war, even Pārsa and Maʿīn. People had filled the streets, and with them the sounds of hammers ringing in the forge, the smells of fresh bread from the bakeries, the cry of fishmongers and the laughter of children.

All of it was gone, now.

Where the docks had been were only splinters of wood and wrecked ships. The King had set men to clear the harbor, but it was slow work in the dark. Soaked lengths of timber and shattered masts were piled up on the sand to dry, so that they could be used as firewood.

A third of the city’s population was dead, whether to fire, bombardment from Sir Moriaen’s siege engines, the fighting atop the walls, or abuse at the hands of the Kimmerian mercenaries who had finally gotten into the city on the last day.

Now, the burned out quarters of the city played host to an encamped army, along the outer walls where the enemy’s pots of burning pitch and oil had shattered. The infantry and baggage train had arrived the day before, too late to participate in the siege. As Clarisant and her two guardians rode north, they passed rows upon rows of tents, along with cook-fires and lines of horses, spread out to either side of the cobblestone street. At the north gate - still broken - the King’s men allowed them through with a salute, having been informed of their mission.

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As soon as they were out into the open, Claire clicked to Tystie and flicked her reins, sending the palfrey into a trot. She rode sidesaddle, with the wind in her face and smiled for the first time since her husband had disappeared. Lucan and Etoile kicked their horses into motion just behind her, and the three riders sped north toward the Arden.

“Who goes there?” a voice broke out of the trees. With no light from the sky, the forest was as impenetrable to Claire’s eyes as ink spilled on vellum.

“Lady Clarisant du Camaret-à-Arden,” she called back, reining Tystie in at the edge of the forest. “With Sir Lucan and Dame Etoile accompanying me. Who is that - are you from Camaret-à-Arden, and do you know my husband, Sir Trist?”

“M’lady? Is that you? I can hardly see,” a man said, and came out of the woods, carrying a longbow with an arrow nocked. The light from Lucan’s torch touched his face, and Claire recognized him.

“Henry!” Dame Etoile said, beating Claire to it. “Put the damn bow down! I’ve missed your cooking, so I hope you have a pot on the fire.”

Henry smiled, and lowered his bow. “It’s good to see you both again,” he admitted. “We’ve had a bit of fun, here. I thought you might be more of those traitors.”

Claire flicked her reins, urging her palfrey forward. “Did they attack the forest?” she asked.

“Not as such,” Henry said, with a grin and a wink. “They tried to log it, for their siege engines. But we got them every time they came, and eventually they gave up. Do you know why the sun’s gone, m’lady? And is the young lord back at the city?”

“You had better lead us to the camp,” Claire said, her stomach feeling a bit sick. “Is Master of Arms Granger there? And Yaél, is she safe?”

“Safe in spite of herself,” Henry said. “Come on down, we’ll have to lead the horses,” he said, stowing his arrow in the quiver on his back. “That girl was the first in every charge. You’d think she was an Exarch, too, for all the caution she has.”

Claire and the two knights with her slide down out of their saddles, took their horses by the reins, and followed Henry into the Ardenwood.

After five days in the forest, the camp set up by the people of Camaret-à-Arden was well established. Firepits had been well dug into the forest floor, and ringed with stones. Makeshift tents had been raised, using bed sheets and blankets. Freshly cut green wood had been used to raise fences, within which pigs and cows slept. Chickens wandered the camp, pecking at whatever fallen crumbs they could find. Everywhere, torches were thrust into the ground, casting circles of orange light.

“Claire!” Yaél shouted, and leapt up from the log where she’d been oiling her sword. The girl ran across the camp and wrapped her arms around Clarisant, the enthusiasm of the hug a surprise to both of them. “We were worried,” the squire admitted, after backing off a step. “No one knew what was happening in the city, but we could smell the smoke. See it, before the sun went away.”

“I’m glad to see you, also,” Claire said, with a smile. “Is John Granger here?”

“Aye, m’lady,” the Master of Arms called out, striding across the camp. He was not the only one to approach: in fact, it seemed the entire village population was edging toward her. “What news of the battle?”

“The Siege of Rocher de la Garde has been lifted,” Claire said, raising her voice, to address the entire crowd. “The King’s cavalry rode ahead of the main force, took the rebels from behind, and broke them.” A ragged cheer rose from around her. “Sir Trist destroyed the daemon Zepar at the west gate,” she continued, “And killed the Kimmerian commander on the beach.” The cheer that followed that was louder.

“But I must tell you,” Claire continued, and the villagers quieted, “That the enemy betrayed us during the parley that followed, under flag of truce. The Serpent of Gates, a daemon that can open portals from one place to another, tried to seize King Lionel. My husband,” she said, and swallowed, refusing to let the tears begin again, “threw himself in the way, and saved our king.”

“What happened to Sir Trist?” Yaél asked, urgently. “Is he still alive?”

“The daemon took him somewhere,” Claire answered. “We don’t know where. But I have faith that he is still alive, and that he will come back to us.” She clutched one of her hands in the other to keep from wringing them.

“You don’t know, then,” one of the woodsmen broke in. “The lord could be dead.” A panicked murmur of voices spread through the crowd.

“Shut your mouth,” Hywell, the smith shouted. “I saw Sir Trist when he came back from the ruins on the hill. He braved that place before he was ever an Exarch. And you all saw him fight the daemon that attacked the village. He’ll come back to us, m’lady, you have no fear of that.”

“That’s right!” Yaél shouted, spinning to run her gaze over the crowd. “Trist killed Adramelech, the Prince of Plagues, and he fought the Stormbringer, too! There’s no daemon in the kingdom can beat him!”

“We will all pray to the Angelus for our lord’s safe return,” John Granger proclaimed, with a voice of authority that had the villagers nodding. “Until then, Lady Clarisant rules in his stead. What would you have of us, m’lady?”

“The route to Rocher de la Garde is safe from enemies,” she spoke clearly. “I have just traveled it, with these two knights you see before you. We will pack our things, load the wagons, and make our way south to the city, where you will be under the protection of the King’s army. Bring all the Iebara lumber you have saved, for King Lionel’s army needs it urgently.”

“You heard my lady,” Hywell called, his voice booming across the grove. “Break camp and load the wagons!”

“Thank you,” Claire said to John Granger, when he stepped close enough. “I do not know if they would have listened to me, without you three. They do not know me as well as they know Trist.”

“They would,” he assured her. “They’re good folk. We just helped speed things along.” He grinned.

A growl came from the edge of the torchlight, and villagers pulled back in fear, scrambling away from a great, yellow-eyed wolf that paced into the clearing. Behind it, astride his six-legged horse, came Cern the Hunter, spear in hand, face elegant and pale.

“You,” the Horned Hunter called, his cold eyes fixed on Clarisant. “Mortal wife of my king’s knight. Tell me where my sister is.”