There are few things more feared in the realms surrounding the Inner Sea than the sight of a troop of Kimmerian mercenaries. It is not that they are particularly well trained, or equipped with the finest arms, or even notably brave. They fight for money, and so they are often lacking in all of those qualities compared to a Narvonnian Knight, a Caliphate Lancer, or even a Raetian Riddersman.

What they are is brutal.

* François du Lutetia, A History of Narvonne

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11th Day of New Summer’s Moon, 297 AC

Sir Moriaen du Arsenault waited for them under a banner of truce, along with a squire to hold the flag, and a Kimmerian mercenary who Trist presumed to be the commander of those hired foreign troops. The Kimmerian wore one of their onion-shaped steel helms, over an exposed bushy brown mustache and beard, and carried a flanged mace at his belt. Sir Moriaen, on the other hand, was recognizable by his heraldry, though Trist had never met him in person before: a gold anvil and hammer, on a field of green. The same colors as the wheat sheaf of the Barony du Champs d'Or, he recalled. The knight was decades older than him, with a close cropped white beard and mustache, a scar on his right cheek, gray eyes and white hair pulled back into a knot, with only a few strands escaping around his forehead.

“Sir Gareth, I presume,” Moriaen greeted them, in a voice that Trist found surprisingly mild. “And Sir Erec I recognize, as well. By your heraldry, sir,” he said, turning to Trist, “I take you for a son of Sir Rience.”

“Trist du Camaret-à-Arden, which is the town your men have lately destroyed,” he responded. “And my father is dead. We burned him yesterday.”

Sir Moriaen sighed. “It grieves me to hear that, Sir Trist, and you have my condolences on the loss of your father,” he said. “I regret the necessity of assaulting your village, and I hope that there was minimal loss of life. Nevertheless, I could not leave it behind my lines, nor could I allow the continued harvesting of a strategic resource by your forces.”

“You regret?” Trist said, aware that he was raising his voice, but somehow unable to care. “Perhaps you should not have given the order in the first place.”

“Peace, Sir Trist,” Gareth said, raising his gauntleted hand. “Perhaps Sir Moriaen would do us the honor of introducing his Kimmerian friend, and broaching the reason for this parley.”

“Indeed,” Moriaen agreed, without losing his composure. “Alyosha Nikitich, here, is the captain of the Kimmerian auxiliaries I have the pleasure of working with.” The wildly-bearded man nodded, but Trist wondered whether he actually understood Narvonnian.

“I have come,” the older knight continued, “To discuss terms of the surrender of the city of Rocher de la Garde. I believe that we can come to an agreement which will prevent needless death, or damage to the city and port.”

This time, it was Sir Gareth who scowled. “You have not won the battle yet, Sir Moriaen,” he shot back. “Do not think us so limp of spine that we would bow to a traitor before even trying ourselves in battle.”

“There is no need for such words, Sir Gareth,” Moriaen protested. “You have your duty, and I have mine. I do not fault you for your loyalty to your father, and I pray you not to fault me for keeping my own oaths. It is an unfortunate circumstance which has brought us to this pass, and I would rather we not need to cross swords.”

“Unfortunate circumstance?” Trist broke in. “Treason? Regicide? Releasing daemons from bindings which have held for centuries? These things are merely unfortunate circumstances, are they? How can you serve a man who would plunge our entire kingdom into war?”

“Enough,” Moriaen said, sharply. “It is no more my place to ignore my liege’s orders than it is yours, Sir Trist. I beg you to remember your oath of knighthood. I tell you now, the city will not hold against our siege. You would be wise to accept mercy when it is offered.”

Gareth laughed. “You cannot starve us out, Moriaen. We have all the bounty of the ocean to sustain us.” He waved his hand to the southwest, indicating the sea and the horizon visible past the city. “You could not stop our fishermen from leaving before dawn, because you have no ships to blockade us. It will be three days, four at most before the siege is lifted by the true king’s army. You have nothing to threaten us with.”

“Ah yes,” Moriaen said. “The fishermen. Squire,” he said, turning to the boy holding the banner, “Give the signal.”

Trist dropped his hand to the hilt of his sword, and prepared to cut their way out, but Moriaen shook his head, and said only, “A demonstration. I will not break this flag of truce. But look at the ocean, I beg you.”

The squire raised a red flag, and waved it back and forth. Trist looked out upon the waves, and at first he discerned nothing more than sea-birds wheeling above the glittering bay. There was a swell, he saw, of some great wave, but nothing that would threaten the ships docked beyond the great seawall of piled stones that protected the harbor.

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The crest of the wave swelled, and swelled, and did not break, and then a great coil of dark scales rose above the water. Trist could not calculate the size of the thing that emerged from the sea: loops of a long body, rising above the seawall, and finally a head, something like that of a serpent. It bore aspects both of Sammāʾēl’s skull, and the longer, flat snout of the Addanc that Trist had slain on the bridge over the lake weeks before.

“Angelus save us,” Sir Erec gasped.

“Forneus,” Moriaen said with a heavy sigh. “Released from its binding off the coast of Raetia. We have no need of ships to blockade your harbor, Sir Gareth. Nor will your fishermen be returning this afternoon. I suspect the next tide will deposit what remains of their boats, but their wives will need to be content with empty graves. The daemon has an appetite. I trust that I have made myself clear? If you do not make terms of surrender with me now, I will send the great serpent to break your docks and every ship at anchor, and kill every man within reach of its neck. I will order Bathin, Sir Trist, to open a gateway behind those stout city walls, and pour through my Kimmerians, just like at your village. I will send my siege engines against your walls, Sir Gareth, and I will release Zepar the Scarlet who, I might add, is quite eager to try his blade against an Exarch for a second time. Once I have loosed him, I fear what he will do; that daemon is known for making women’s wombs barren with his very presence. Truly, sir knights, I beg of you this: I have brought such horrors to visit upon you that it rebels my very conscience. Do not force me to use them. Let us discuss terms, and put an end to this before anyone else is hurt.”

For a heartbeat, Trist wondered if Gareth would do it.

“Fuck off,” his brother in law said, wheeled his horse around, and rode back for the city gates. It might have been the first time Trist agreed with anything Gareth said.

The moment they were through the gate, the men-at-arms working the winch set to lowering it behind them, and before Trist, Gareth and Erec even had a chance to swing down out of their saddles, those watching from the parapet had descended the stairs to speak with them.

“Well? What did they say?” asked Sir Florent.

“You saw the monster out to sea, I take it,” Gareth said, grimly, pulling off his helm. Trist and Sir Erec followed suit. “So you can imagine. He demanded our immediate surrender, lest he unleash that monster on our docks and every ship at anchor. I told him what to do with his terms.”

Clarisant rolled her eyes; Trist got the idea that her brother’s temper was nothing new. “Did he say the name of the daemon?” she asked.

“Aye,” Trist said. “He called it Forneus. Is there a copy of the Codex in the city?”

“If it is anywhere, it is in the Cathedral of Rahab,” Claire said. “I will go and check.”

“Good,” Trist said. “I know you do not like it, but the walls are no place for you. Sir Gareth, can we send someone with her? Perhaps Dame Etoile?”

Gareth nodded. “We can. But the more pressing question,” he said, lowering his voice so that only the small circle of people present could hear him, “is what you can do against those daemons, Trist. All the rest of our strategy must revolve around that.”

Trist considered. “If Zepar wants to fight me again, we take that bait,” he decided. “I am confident that I can defeat it. And if what Moriaen said has even a hint of truth, we want it destroyed as soon as possible. Move all the women and children as far from the walls as we can get them, in any event. Another reason for Dame Etoile to go with my wife. While I fight Zepar, you all will need to hold any portal that opens in the city, come what may.”

“And the monster at sea?” Sir Florent asked.

“Clear the entire dock area of people,” Trist suggested, looking to Gareth. “Get as much in the way of supplies, especially food, out of there as possible, and deeper into the city.”

“You want us to sacrifice the docks, and the ships,” Gareth said, scowling.

“Aye,” Trist said. “I see no other way. If Bors was here, we could each take one, but - I will be honest, Sir Gareth. That beast out to sea has the look of something like the Sun Eater. Until Claire has learned something about it, I am in no rush to fight it blind.”

“In the meanwhile,” Claire realized, “You intend to Tithe the scarlet daemon.”

He nodded. “We can hope that will give me enough power to face Forneus.”

Gareth chewed on that for a moment. “It is not the plan I would prefer,” he admitted, clearly dissatisfied. “But you know your own capabilities better than anyone else, Sir Trist. And you clearly cannot fight both at the same time. Very well then. Sister, get to the Cathedral and learn what you can. Sir Florent, fetch Dame Etoile to accompany her. I will send orders to the docks. And then we will hold the walls, until they send a daemon for us. Once that happens, we rely on you, Exarch.”

With that, Gareth strode off, calling for messengers to attend him.

“My lady.” Sir Florent bowed his head to Clarisant. “I will send Dame Etoile presently. Please wait for her.” He turned, and began climbing the stairs for the parapet.

“As soon as you find something I can use,” Trist said to his wife, “Send word, but do not approach the walls yourself until I have slain Zepar.”

“What is it you are afraid of?” Claire asked him.

“Sir Moriaen claimed that the scarlet daemon’s mere presence can make women barren,” Trist murmured. “I would risk neither you, nor our child.”

Clarisant’s eyes shot wide, and she dropped a hand to her belly. “I will wait for your word, then,” she agreed, immediately. “Be safe, husband.” She stepped closer, reached a hand up to his cheek, and stood up on her toes to brush his lips with her own. Trist rested his gauntletted hands on her hips, and allowed himself the briefest of moments to inhale the scent of her soap, her perfume, her hair.

When he heard Dame Etoile rattle down the stairs from the parapet, Trist released Claire and stepped back. “I am entrusting my wife - and her mission - to your care,” Trist told the blonde knight. “Keep her safe, and no matter what else may happen, keep her away from the daemon Zepar the Scarlet.”

“Don’t have any worries for her,” Etoile said, with a grin. “I won’t let anything past me. Let’s be off, m’lady.”

Trist watched them leave, then turned and ran up the stairs to the top of the wall. If his impression of Sir Moriaen was correct, the battle for Rocher de la Garde was about to begin.