Fuck that. We fight anywhere and everywhere that people are being attacked by daemons. I suppose that’s why I’m not a general.

* The Life and Times of Legionary Titus Nasica

☀

9th Day of New Summer’s Moon, 297 AC

The stars were out, but the moon had not yet risen, by the time they had finished packing their saddlebags with supplies and made their way to the north gate of the wall that protected Rocher de la Garde. Trist and Clarisant were settled once again on Cazador, and he had foregone lance and shield in the interests of not burdening the destrier more than he had to. He would fight with his longsword, whatever they encountered. Henry sat awkwardly behind Yaél on a gelding; the girl had been enthusiastically receiving riding lessons with the rest of the young squires the entire time they’d been at Falais, and Trist trusted her to keep up.

“M’lord, I can’t open the gate without Lord Gareth’s permission,” a guard in the blue and white livery of the Baron’s family protested, clearly uncomfortable. “Orders, you see?”

“Not even on the word of his sister?” Clarisant asked sharply.

“Apologies, m’lady,” the guard said, but made no move to unbar the gate or to order the other guards to bend their backs to the winch.

“My mission is on the order of the King,” Trist attempted, but the man wouldn’t even meet his eyes.

“Bill Thatcher,” a woman’s voice broke into the argument. “What in the name of the Angelus possesses you to do a fool thing like stand in the way of an Exarch?” Chain mail rattling, Dame Etoile clomped down the stairs from the ramparts at top of the wall, one hand on the hilt of an arming sword.

At the word ‘Exarch,’ the guard - Thatcher, apparently - paled and straightened, eyes wide in panic. “I’m sorry, Exarch,” he said. “I didn’t know…”

“Open the blasted gate,” Etoile shouted at him, and the man scrambled over to the winch with the other guards. “I take it Gareth doesn’t want you to ride north,” she said, lowering her voice, and stepping up between the two horses.

“It would seem not,” Trist agreed.

“Well, I can’t say I blame him,” the blonde knight admitted. “We’d all feel better if you stayed. I sure enough don’t want to try fighting a daemon.”

“With any luck, you will not have to,” Trist tried to comfort her. “I expect them to come for me at Camaret-à-Arden, which should draw them away from you.”

“Let’s hope so,” Etoile said, glancing over her shoulder to where the gate was rising. “Hurry back now, and don’t let this one get killed,” she said, jerking a thumb at Henry. “I want to try some of that rabbit stew he’s been on about the whole way here.” She grinned, and Trist was amused to see Henry gulp.

“Thank you,” he said to the other knight. “Keep yourself safe here, as well, and the city.” With that, Trist pressed his heels to Cazador’s sides, and rode out through the gate. As soon as Yaél and Henry had followed him under the wall and out the other side, onto the road north, the guards reversed the winch and began lowering the gate again.

“Does she make you nervous, Henry?” Clarisant asked, with a laugh in her voice.

“She makes me feel like a stag, and she’s the hungry wolf,” Henry admitted.

Trist drew Caz to a halt, then reached over to lay a hand on the gelding’s neck when Yaél reined up next to them. He closed his eyes: while he’d followed the burning thread of the Hunter’s Boon in a time or two before, he’d never tried to extend its effects to another steed. He knew it was possible, because he’d ridden with Cern himself when the Horned Lord did it, but he also knew that he was a long way from being as practiced at the trick as the leader of the Wild Hunt must be.

“Rience du Camaret-à-Arden,” Trist murmured, and let the orange-hot cord unspool from his chest, reaching out into the night. He felt it lock onto something - his father, his target. But that was only the beginning of what he needed to do. He let the orange glow vibrate through him, warm his muscles and fill them with power, washing away fatigue. Then, he let it sink into Cazador through his thighs and calves, where they rested against the destrier. Pressed against his body, Clarisant gasped, and he was dimly aware that the orange heat was warming her, as well. He pushed, with an effort, and the gentle warmth finally flowed into the gelding at their side, like a river current that had finally teased a caught branch loose and carried it away. “There,” he said, opening his eyes. “Now, we ride. Stay close on me; I can see better than you can in the darkness, Yaél.”

“Let’s go!” The dark-haired girl said, with a grin.

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“Ha!” Trist cried, kicking his heels into Caz’s flanks, and they tore off into the night.

“Angelus,” Clarisant half-shrieked, clutching at the saddle. It was one thing to be told what the Hunter’s Boon did, Trist knew, and another entirely to experience it. Just like that night galloping through the Ardenwood with Cern, nearly two moons past, this ride was a mad rush. The fat moon rose overhead, lighting the Etalan cat’s eye stones in the road north so that they shone like earthbound stars beneath the hooves of the two horses. The wind ripped Clarisant’s hair free of her pins, and it tickled his face until she gathered it in one hand and held it. Caz ran like he was a yearling again, a full on sprint that Trist didn’t even try to hold back.

The moon was high in the sky when it came time to break through the enemy line. Trist sighted the Kimmerians before they saw him, of course; the Boon of the King of Shadows parted the night for him so that he could see as clearly as at noon on a cloudless day.

“A barricade on the road ahead,” he shouted so that Yaél and Henry on the other horse could hear him. “Half a dozen men. We jump the barricade and outpace them if they try to follow. Sword out!” Trist drew his own longsword in his right hand, and as they came up on the barricade, where the Kimmerians in their conical helms were scrambling to get in position with their spears up, an arrow whistled past his ear from Henry’s bow. The mercenary in the center dropped with a black Iebara-wood shaft planted squarely in his eye socket, and then Caz was in the air, hooves just missing the top of the hastily-constructed barrier. Trist swung to his right, and a second man died, head severed cleanly from his neck and hitting the stones of the road with a metallic clank, before rolling off in the helmet. Trist chanced a glance back over his shoulder to see the gelding make the jump, his hooves just clipping the wood. As soon as her horse landed, Yaél’s arming sword flashed out in a thrust, taking a third man in the neck, and then they were all gone again, racing north in an orange haze of vigor. Once the muscles in his arm had stopped twitching from the Tithe he’d taken, Trist sheathed his sword.

“That one for Auberon,” he counted, to himself, since Acrasia wasn’t speaking to keep track. Clarisant shot a look back at him, brow furrowed, then turned back to the road ahead. He wrapped his sword arm about her waist, clutching her body tight to his own.

They rode without pause or rest, to get as much distance from the horses as they could before the sun rose. At some point, in spite of the rushing speed, Clarisant fell asleep, cradled against Trist’s chest. The northern road swung closer to the River Rea, now that they were far above where it flowed into the bay just east of Rocher de la Garde, and that was the first sign they were coming home. By the time Trist could see the dark shadow of the Ardenwood in the distance, the sky was light, though the sun had not quite yet broken the horizon. He slowed the horses to a walk when the first golden-orange ray of light broke from the east, and the power of the Boon faded from their bodies.

The change in pace must have woken Clarisant, for she stirred in the saddle. “Trist?” she asked, with a small yawn. “Are we there?”

“Aye,” Trist said, lifting his arm and pointing at the windmill on the river. “See there?”

“I don’t see smoke,” Henry called. “Did we beat them here?”

“We may have,” Trist said. As they got closer, the Monastery of Saint Kadosh came into view, and the shop and forge of Hywel the smith; the two-story building that contained the Chapman’s shop below, and their home above; and atop the hill, Foyer Chaleureux itself, the manor standing proud and unburnt. Trist pulled Caz to a halt in front of the forge, where he could see smoke already rising.

Henry slipped off the side of the gelding. “I’ll run west,” he offered. “Tell everyone on the way to my parents’ farm.”

“Do that,” Trist agreed. He’d come here to save his own father: he couldn’t by any rights deny Henry seeing his own. “Tell them to pack as much food as they can carry, and gather up at the manor.” Henry nodded, and ran off; he was the only one on the streets this early, though by Trist’s guess the woodsmen would just be gathering before walking to the forest.

“Hywel!” Trist shouted. “Come out here!”

A moment later, the bald smith emerged, frowning, but when he saw Trist and Clarisant, his face broke into a smile. “Young Lord! Back from the war already!”

Trist shook his head; best to have it out at once. “The war has come to us. Send for a wagon from the monks, and get it loaded with whatever equipment you can. We are evacuating south to Rocher de la Garde. Tell everyone you see. I must speak with my father. You understand?”

Hywel paled, but nodded. “How long do we have?”

“I do not know,” Trist admitted. “We had to break through a barricade on the road to get here. Not long.”

“I’ll get everyone moving, m’lord,” the smith assured him. “It’s good to have you and the lady here, at least.”

Trist nodded, and turned Cazador’s head uphill toward the manor. They warned everyone they passed on the way through the town, which wasn’t many, but Trist and Clarisant were able to catch two woodcutters on their way to the forest path, who promised to tell the others.

“Remember, cut nothing new,” Trist said. “Load up all the cut logs you have to make the trip south. We need the wood for the war.” The men were clearly frightened, but rushed off to do as he asked without question.

“You’ve gotten better at this,” Clarisant observed, as they came to the black Iebara wood palisade and the limestone gatehouse, where two men at arms stepped out.

“Sir Trist! Lady Clarisant! Is that you?” the first guard asked.

“It is,” Trist said. “One of you run to fetch John Granger and tell him to meet me in the great hall. Then, wake every man you can find and get them ready to fight.” He slid off Cazador, then reached up to lift Clarisant down. “I’ve told everyone to meet here, behind the palisade. And get someone to see to our horses. Yaél, you are with us.”

“Of course.” One guard left at a run, and the other took their reins. “Begging your pardon, m’lord, but did Luc and Henry come back with you?”

“Henry did,” Trist said, swallowing his guilt. “Luc died in the Hauteurs Massif.” He reached his arm out to his wife, and she slipped her own around his. Together with Yaél, they tromped through the courtyard to the manor, and then into the great hall, where the servants were just laying out breakfast. Yaél immediately fell upon the table with glee, ripping a hunk of fresh bread off a steaming loaf, and stuffing her mouth with it. Clarisant, on the other hand, settled herself into a chair, her body nearly collapsing in weariness.

“What’s this? Do we have guests?” Rience du Camaret-à-Arden called, as he came through the door into the great hall. Then, he stopped.

“My boy?” he gasped. “You’re home!”