Hark now the drums beat up again

For all true soldier gentlemen

So let us list and march I say

And go over the hills and far away

* Traditional Narvonnian Army Song

☀

7th Day of New Summer’s Moon, 297 AC

It took Lionel Aurelianus just under two days to organize the march east to Rocher de la Garde, and the entire process left Trist somewhat flabbergasted. He hadn’t been with the army on the march to Falais, having joined the muster late, and he’d already been up in the mountains when the men marched south to make a stand at the Tour de Larmes against the Caliphate forces.

The efficiency and organizational prowess of the young king was simply beyond Trist’s ability to to follow. Orders flowed from the Baroness’ solar like water gushing from a mountain cascade, carried by a seemingly endless series of squires. When the squires were in the yard practicing during the morning, knights were pressed into service instead. Everywhere Trist looked, the town of Falais was in motion: laborers were carrying food to the supply wagons; barber-surgeons were sorting the wounded into those who would be staying behind to heal, and those healthy enough to march; and smiths were pounding dents out of armor, riveting new mail into rent shirts, or shoeing horses.

For his part, Trist found there was little enough to do. He had responsibility only for himself, Henry, Yaél and Clarisant, and they would be traveling with his liege and father in law, Baron Urien, who had a good deal more to worry himself over. By virtue of his station as one of only four Exarchs with the army, Trist was not expected to handle any of the more mundane tasks a low-ranking knight would have been saddled with. He had only one new duty, and it was explained to him by Sir Bors and Sir Guiron over cups of watered wine, off to one side of the Baroness’ solar, where King Lionel was presently engaged dividing up the remaining troops from the Champs d'Or.

“Our first duty,” Bors began, “Is the life of the King. One of us must be present with him at all times, fully armed and armored, to stand guard. In Cheverny there would be at least six Exarchs to split the watch, but we’re running short, which is going to make it a pain in the arse.”

“A third of the day each,” Guiron said quietly, “Not even counting the overnight. Every day.”

“Aye, but that long at a stretch is too much for a man to keep his focus,” Bors grumbled. “We’ll alternate six shifts, instead. That gives everyone time to take a piss and eat a meal. Evenings are the most troublesome,” he continued. “If it were just based on Boons, or even tenure, I’d throw our greenest at it and be done.” He grinned at Trist. “Those eyes of yours are a perfect fit. But I’ve spoken with Baron Urien, and he’s driven a hard bargain.”

Trist frowned. “What bargain is that?”

“You’re still technically his vassal,” Bors elaborated. “Normally, he’d have to give you up to the King; Exarchs in the service of the crown aren’t permitted to hold lands or to wed. But you’re already wed, lad, and your father’s only heir. So right now, the Baron’s relieving you of all other duties to join us on detail, but we have to make accommodations for the fact you’re not going to do this forever. When the war is over, you get to go home with your wife. Angelus willing, by that point, we’ll have another few Exarchs to work with, but they’ll all be green as spring grass.”

“In the meanwhile,” Trist said, after chewing on that for a moment, “How are we splitting this up?

“You rise at dawn and get something to eat,” Bors explained, “And then come relieve me during prime. If you get to us early enough, you can breakfast with the King and I, and then I’ll head off to drill the squires. This lad,” he slapped Guiron on the shoulder, “Sleeps like the dead anyway, so he’ll relieve you at terce, midmorning. Then I’ll take the shift until evening supper, which covers us from breaking camp, the day’s march, and then making camp again. After supper, Trist, you take a shift while His Majesty is doing paperwork in his tent. Guiron relives you, and when I wake up in the middle of the night to piss, I’ll relieve him. Mark me and make certain you die in battle before you get old, boys.” He chuckled.

“Now, what this means, lad,” he said to Trist, “Is we’ve kept you free during the middle of the day, which is most of the march. That’s on purpose. Leaves you time to attend to the Baron, or your wife. Time to teach your squire. And it means that if His Majesty needs something done along the route of march, it’s likely going to be on you.”

“Fair enough,” Trist said, with a nod.

“I’m not certain you’ll agree,” Guiron said, chuckling, “when the King has you running all up and down the line of march. Whatever problem comes up, is likely to be on you. I assume you’re trying to get him Tithes?” He asked Bors.

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“Aye,” the older Exarch said. “You’ve got promise, lad, but you haven’t had time to build up your threads. We need you to grow into the Boons you’ve earned, if we’re to use you against these daemons. So if we find brigands on the road? Expect to be leading a group to deal with them. Or wolves, what have you. Anything that needs killing for the army to pass.”

“I understand.” Trist took a drink, finishing what was in his goblet. “Your plan makes sense to me, Sir Bors. While I am here,” he continued, “Do either of you happen to know if Dame Chantal is marching with us?”

Bors shook his head. “She’s still recovering from the loss of her eye, and she’s had the command of the Tower of Tears for years. The Prince will send her back south to get the garrison there in order, and to oversee repairs of the wall. To much risk of her wound worsening on the march.”

“Oh.” Trist frowned. “I had asked her to take my squire through-” he caught himself before using the word ‘her.’ It wasn’t his secret to tell, but he also didn’t wish to lie to his fellow knights. “I thought Yaél could stand to learn something from someone who fights differently than I do.”

“It’s a pity Dame Margaret is dead, then,” Guiron said, looking away. “The speed of that woman was beyond belief.”

“Aye, she might have been as fast as you, Trist,” Bors agreed. “Not as strong though. If you really want the boy to get a taste of how a woman fights, you could talk to the Exarch of Epinoia.”

“The southerner?” Guiron frowned, turning back to the other two. “I mislike how much time she is spending around the King.”

“You can trust her,” Trist spoke up, defending Ismet. “She came north to fight the daemons, not to fight us.”

“She’s an Exarch of the Caliphate,” Guiron said. “No, we cannot trust her with our King. She needs to be watched closely whenever she is in the same room as him.”

“And this is why the lad isn’t sent to conduct diplomatic missions,” Bors said, tossing back the last of his goblet with a chuckle. “Then again, neither am I. Alright boys, I’ve got the King until supper. Get yourselves off to do something useful. I’ll be waiting for you to relieve me, Exarch Trist.”

“I will be there,” Trist said, rising from his seat.

Trist found Ismet ibnah Salah with Fazil, her second, and one other man he recognized among her escorts: Shīrkūh ibn Asad, whom he had accepted an oath of surrender from up in the mountains.

The Exarch of Epinoia was touring the medical tents set up to the south of the town, along the pass between the banks of the Durentia and the cliffs that rose to the west. It had been decided, Trist recalled, that the Caliphate wounded would be safer with the walls of Falaise to the north, and the remaining fortifications of the Tower of Tears to the south.

Trist paused at a distance from where Ismet was speaking with what must have been her barber-surgeons, and waited rather than interrupt her. When Shīrkūh approached him, however, Trist greeted the man with a smile and an extended hand.

“Trist du Camaret-à-Arden, Exarch of the Lady Acrasia,” Shīrkūh said, with a smile, accepting the hand. “It brings me joy to see you again.”

“I am glad to see you, as well,” Trist said, and it was true. Though they had been enemies in the mountains, he wanted men like Shīrkūh beside him when it came time to fight the daemons. “You and your men were able to get all your equipment back, I hope?”

“We did,” Shīrkūh assured him. “Though I find myself exceedingly in your debt. My family will not even have received my letters, yet, to gather a ransom.”

Trist shook his head. “We are no longer enemies,” he said simply. “We need all the good men we can find for what is coming. I cannot accept a ransom from an ally.”

“If it will ease your heart,” Ismet said, approaching them now with Fazil at her side, “We can consider the ransom Sir Trist owes me paid in exchange for the ransom you owe him.” If Trist had not come to know her over the past weeks, he might not have taken the joke for what it was, but her eyes twinkled above the red veil that concealed most of her face.

“There,” he said, to Shīrkūh. “You see? You have done me a favor, in the end, for I have no doubt that General Ismet could demand a high price of my King for one of his Exarchs.”

“As you say,” Shīrkūh said, with a shrug. “We shall consider it done, then.”

“Though,” Ismet continued, “Now that Sir Trist has suggested it, perhaps I should push King Lionel for more.” Fazil said something to her in the language of the south, of which Trist did not speak a word; but he observed that there was the slightest flush at the top of Ismet’s cheeks, just above the veil, and that the two brothers chuckled at the words.

“Enough of that,” the southern Exarch said. “What brings you here, Sir Trist?”

“I know that you must be very busy,” Trist said, “And now that I am here, I think you have even less time than I had thought.” Indeed, he was already reconsidering her request; it was selfish and rude of him to press upon the woman’s time, when she had an entire army to manage.

“Please,” she insisted. “We have fought together side by side on the field of battle. Tell me what you seek.”

Trist sighed. “I came to ask whether, during the march to Rocher de la Garde, you might find time occasionally to practice the sword with my squire. I believe Yaél would benefit a great deal from someone with such a different style of fighting than my own.”

Ismet considered him for a long moment, and then nodded. “I like your squire, and so I will do you this favor, Sir Trist. But I do ask for something of you in return.”

“And what is that?” Trist inquired.

“A favor,” the southern general said. “One, single favor, to be named at a time and place of my choosing, on your honor as a knight.”

“If it is within my power to grant,” Trist decided, after a moment’s thought. “And does not conflict with any of the oaths I have taken, then yes.” He offered his hand, but Ismet bowed instead of taking it.

“We are not family,” she explained. “It would not be proper.”

“As you say, then,” Trist agreed, and offered her a bow in return. They exchanged farewells and parted: she back to her army, and he to the town, both with preparations to make before the march.