Twenty miles a day, we used to march, and we broke camp every morning and built a palisade every night when we stopped. There’s nothing like it now. I sound like an old man when I say it, but an Etalan Legion would have broken these new knights as easily as I slice my morning bread. But I’m just a crippled old writer now, what do I know?

- The Life and Times of Legionary Titus Nasica

☀

7th Day of New Summer’s Moon, 297 AC

“You want me to get to the city first, and make certain it does not fall?” Trist frowned, considering. “With no Exarch in Rocher de la Garde, they have no way to defend against a daemon, or someone like Valeria.”

“You have the general thrust of it,” Lionel said. “Come, take a look here.” He pulled a roll of vellum out from his pile of letters, books and tiny, rolled message scrolls. Using a few polished stones left on the desk for just such a purpose, they unrolled the scroll and weighed down the corners, revealing a map of the Kingdom of Narvonne, with the western sea off one coast and the Circum Mare on the other. The map included the upper portion of the Caliphate to the south, Trist noted, but did not extend as far as the Maghreb Waste. At the top of the map, he could see where the Skandian March met Narvonne’s border at the river, north of the Barony du Champs d'Or.

“We will march the army east along the inland-road to Rocher de la Garde,” the King explained, tracing the route with his finger. “I expect it to take us seven to eight days to reach the city.”

“Eight days?” Trist squinted at the map. “It only took us a week to come from Camaret-à-Arden, and half of that was through the Ardenwood. Should it be a faster journey along a good road?”

“For a handful of men, certainly,” Lionel agreed. “But your question makes it clear you’ve never marched an army before, Trist. We’re moving three thousand fighting men, along with wagons of supplies, spare mounts, engineers and blacksmiths, all along a road that’s only wide enough for a wagon going each way to pass each other. Our column itself is going to stretch at least a mile and a half. Check my math, if you don’t believe me.” He indicated a piece of parchment with enough figures on it to make Trist’s head dizzy.

“I will take you at your word,” Trist said, with a sigh. “A line that long seems like an invitation for the enemy to strike us during the march.”

“Hence the scouts and skirmishers ranging out,” Lionel said. “But the point is, Trist, the last man in line can’t even start walking until the first man has covered a mile and a half, maybe two. And the first man doesn’t start marching until everyone in the army has broken their fast, struck camp, and packed all their gear. At the end of the day, it’s all in reverse: we need to leave time to make camp and cook dinner, and we need to stop the front of the army early enough that the last man in line can catch up to where we’re making camp.”

“This is all much more complicated than I had realized,” Trist admitted.

“Which is why we will be lucky to make ten miles a day, with a good road,” Lionel circled back around to his earlier point. “Whereas you alone, on that fine destrier of yours, could do this in no more than two full days of riding.”

“Putting me at Rocher de la Garde five or six days ahead of the army,” Trist reasoned. That math was simple enough for him to do.

“And leaving us down an Exarch for just as long.” Lionel frowned, then stabbed his finger at the halfway point between Falais and Rocher de la Garde. “Here. This is where I’ll have you leave us. You march with the army until the halfway point, then you rise early with a small, select group, all on horseback, and you ride hard enough to get to Rocher de la Garde by nightfall. Once there, you coordinate with Baron Urien’s son, Gareth. He will have a better idea of the situation than we do, and you’ll send a rider back to me with the details. Gareth has command of the city until his father and I arrive, but I want you to use your discretion - particularly when it comes to Camaret-à-Arden.”

Trist looked up from the map. “It should be west of the enemy’s line of march,” he said. “Those Kimmerian mercenaries will have all of the same problems we do, correct? If they stray off the coast road south from Lutetia, they’ll move even more slowly than we will. And then there is the Rea, between the sea and the Ardenwood - not to mention the forest itself.”

“Aye, your home has a good bit of geography in the way of natural defenses,” the King agreed. “But daemons, as we have already seen, need not always play by mortal rules. What happens if the Sun Eater diverts from the line of march to wing its way west over the river and fall upon Sir Rience and his men?”

Trist swallowed. He knew the answer to that without having to think about it. “Everyone in the village dies.”

“Just so. Which is why I want them evacuated. Gareth may have already given the order, and I sent the last pigeon Urien had in order to give the command myself, but there’s no guarantee that it's actually happening.” Lionel’s finger traced the road north from Rocher de la Garde into the Ardenwood. “If it hasn’t already been done, and is at all practical, I want you to ride home and evacuate the entire village, as well as every bit of Iebara lumber they have on hand, south to the city. Food, as well, if you can.”

If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

“As you command,” Trist said.

“Good.” Lionel sighed. “Now, I am going to write another letter to the Grand Duke of Kimmeria protesting the use of his mercenaries in Narvonne. Put another log on the fire.”

By the time Sir Guiron knocked at the chamber door, Trist was feeling the weight of his armor in the small of his back. The King was still working through his pile of letters, figures, and maps.

Trist’s concern must have been writ plain on his face, for the other Exarch murmured, “This is what he is like. I’ll make certain he gets to sleep soon, don’t worry yourself.”

“You have the watch, then,” Trist said, with a nod, scooping up his helm and closing the door behind him when he left. The absurdity of the situation was not lost on him: any loyal man in the kingdom would fall to his knees when the King of Narvonne passed, or throw himself into battle at Lionel’s command, but apparently it was accepted as a matter of course among the Exarchs that the man needed to be hounded in order to get him a decent night’s sleep.

“Or perhaps he simply needs a wife,” Trist told himself, with a smile, as he took the stairs up the north tower two at a time. When he opened the door, he found Yaél and Anais sleeping on their cots in the sitting room, windows open to let in the breeze, and crept past them as quietly as he could. There was a sliver of amber, flickering light through the gap between the door to the bedroom and the floor, and so Trist was not surprised to find that Clarisant was still awake when he entered.

His wife looked up at the swinging of the door, smiled, and set down the book she was reading by candlelight. “How is the king?” she asked, in a low voice so as not to wake the two children in the other room, then slipped out of bed to join him.

“Well,” Trist answered her, making certain the door was closed snug, and setting down his helm on the side table. “I never realized he stays up so late working, until tonight. I do not know how he keeps all the numbers straight.” He pulled his gauntlets off, then unbuckled his sword belt.

Clarisant, already dressed for bed in a linen chemise, came around behind him. “Here, let me help. I thought it a waste to keep Yaél up.” Her fingers proved just as nimble with the fastenings of a gorget as with a needle. Between the two of them, piece after piece of armor was stripped off of Trist, then placed in a neat row along the floor, in turn.

“Thank you,” Trist said, holding himself still as she worked. “The King wants me to ride with the army halfway to Rocher de la Garde, and then take a small group and go ahead.”

“He’s worried, then,” Clarisant guessed.

“About several things,” Trist confirmed, leaning forward to wriggle the chain shirt over his head and down his arms. It rattled, then thumped onto the wooden floor, and he straightened to an audible crack in his back. “That they have no Exarch in the city to fight any daemon that comes, chiefly, and also that Camaret-à-Arden be evacuated.”

“I want to ride with you,” Clarisant said, standing up from where she’d been working on unbuckling his sabatons from his boots, to face him nearly eye to eye.

Trist frowned. “I had assumed,” he said, after a moment, “that you would remain here, with the Baroness.”

“No,” Clarisant said firmly, “I will not.”

Trist chewed on that for a moment, then bent down to do the last buckle himself so that he could get off first the remaining sabaton, and then his boots. Finally free of armor, he walked to the table where his helm sat next to a carafe of wine, lifted it, and poured a gobletful. Once he’d had a drink, he looked his wife over. The candlelight flickered over her pale skin and shone in her eyes, and lit the thin fabric of the chemise so that it almost glowed.

“Perhaps you could talk me through what you would prefer to do, in that case,” he said finally. Then, he set the goblet down and pulled his padded gambeson off, enjoying the breeze from the cracked window.

Clarisant nodded, then began, her voice calm but firm, never looking away from him. “I was left behind once, Trist, and it was horrible,” she said. “Every night I woke up while the rest of the manor was asleep and wondered whether or not you were going to come back; whether I was going to be a widow all over again. I wondered whether I’d give birth to a child that never knows her father, or whether I’d have no child at all and simply be sent back to my parents’ castle to just grow old all alone. I can’t do the waiting again, the not knowing. It’s why I came here as soon as word reached us the battle was over. I know other wives do, but I just can’t. Maybe it would be different if Percy hadn’t been killed,” she said, shaking her head.

“A lot of things would be different if my brother were alive,” Trist said, and took a drink. “I understand that it has been hard for you. I know it, but perhaps I have not felt it,” he admitted. “You have always known what to do, as long as I can remember you. You had an entire argument prepared for why we needed to wed, while I was still bedridden and bleeding.”

“I wish that I had a better argument for why I need to do this,” Clarisant said. “But it’s all based on how I feel. I know we were clear, when we spoke of marriage, that we did not love each other.”

Trist’s stomach felt heavy, as if a cold stone or block of ice had settled in it. “We said it,” he agreed. “But I do care for you, Clarisant. I feel we have gotten to know each other more, these past days here at Falais.”

“And that is why I do not want you to leave me here,” she murmured, taking a step toward him and raising her hand to rest it on his chest, over his heart, with only his shirt between their skin. “I tried to learn about you from your chambers at Foyer Chaleureux, did you know that? I flipped through your sword manuals,” she admitted, with a grin. “Because they were yours, and I could imagine you as a boy reading them.”

“I read them half a dozen times each,” Trist confessed, returning her smile, and placing his hand over hers.

“Don’t leave me alone when we are just becoming fond of each other,” she asked again. “You know I can stitch a wound. I can ride, as well. I can make myself useful. I know that some soldiers bring their wives.”

“It is not like living at a castle,” Trist warned her. “It will be exhausting, and dirty, and dangerous. There will be days we do not eat more than a mouthful of pottage. There will be nights you are so tired you can hardly move.”

“But at least I won’t be left alone,” Clairsant whispered, her eyes wet.

Trist raised her hand to his lips, and kissed her knuckles. “Very well,” he said. “Now let us put out the candle and go to bed. Tomorrow we march with the army.”