The sky lightened as the sun rose on another damp and dreary day. Camilla opened her eyes to the patter of rain on her canvas tent. For a moment she was prepared to dismiss the strange events of last night as a dream but as she peeled back the flap she saw the grail knight standing guard over her tent. Though he stood in the rain his armor was somehow bone dry, as though the rain drops refused to fall upon him. Camilla jerked her head back into her tent and swore in Tilean, a very un-enchantress like action. Perhaps the man really was insane, the Gods knew that times were hard enough to drive even the bravest to madness, but the reaction of Beaumont and his knights proved that most people wouldn’t see it that way. Pushing the possible problem from her mind, she dressed in one of her tailored blue riding dresses and her tooled leather armor before adding a waxed canvas cloak with hood to the ensemble. 

The camp was quiet, cook fires smouldered under improvised covers and peasants huddled together in an effort to stay warm and dry. As Camilla stepped from her tent the Grail knight turned and went down on one knee with a whisper of ensorcelled steel.

“I am at your command, m’lady,” he declared fervently.

“Stand up and come with me,” Camilla said, more out of lack of a better option than real desire. Peasants fell to their knees as she passed and she cast irritated glances their way. As she passed through the camp she listened to the muted buzz of conversation. The members of her little band had long called herself Mademoiselle Aqua, or Lady Blue but the emphasis had shifted to make the Aqua into its root word for water, now the name the mutered was something closer to The Maiden of the Waters. The obvious allusion to the Lady of the Lake wasn’t lost on anyone. Under normal circumstances Camilla would have been on the first ship out of Bourdeaux, but the grey fatalism that had clung to her since Cydric’s death made the idea impossible.

Over the past few months the senior members of the little band, Camilla, Beaumont, Matis and Leofric, when he was sober enough, had developed a routine. Each morning they met by the central fire and discussed the plan for the day. All three men were already there when Camilla arrived. A sheet of canvas had been strong from spears butted into the wagon to create a lean-to to keep the rain off. All three men looked bedraggled and wet and Beaumont looked grim as death itself.  Matis lounged on an empty wine crate, puffing at a pipe, while Leofric’s face shone with the same devotion as the other peasants. He must have been a handsome man once, even if time and a repeatedly broken nose had left him looking prematurely aged. 

“Contessa,” Beaumont began with uncharacteristic directness. 

“Sir Guillorme rode of during the night. I fear he has gone to spread word of this ...unorthodoxy,” The knight concluded with a glance at the grail knight.

“It is no lie Sir Knight, I Renard de Lucinion, swear it before the Lady,” the grail knight declared in a voice that throbbed with power. Renard, well she hadn’t gotten his name last night. Guillorme had been a taciturn man, more than usually vocal about her liberation of the serfs, it wasn’t hard to figure that the perceived heresy had put him over the edge. It was a shame Matis hadn’t shot him for desertion.

“Well there is nothing to be done about it now,” Camilla said wearily, accepting a cup of venison stew from Leofric.  She sipped at it in the Brettonian fashion not bothering with knives and forks.

“Other knights will come when they hear what has been said about you Contessa, many have been willing to ignore you provided you only have a small band of vagrant serfs, but if they here you are impersonating Morgana L’Fey…”

“She is the Enchantress,” Renard declared in a voice that somehow wasn’t loud and yet had the clarity and carry of a trumpet blast.

“I have seen it, others have seen it,” he said with a scowl at Beaumont.

“Many will not believe Sir Knight,” Beaumont responded stiffly, “They will…” Camilla made a guesture with her free hand cutting off further discussion.

“If a host of knights rides out to crush me then I will have to hope they crush a few of the undead while they are about it,” Camilla responded harshly. It would be typical that they lords of Aquitane had ignored her warnings and the obvious signs of the undead only to ride out when their precious Knightly honor was tweaked.

“Contessa I..”

“Enough Beaumont,” Camilla said wearily. It was the first time she had used his name without a Sir before it and it obviously shocked him. His cheeks colored in she knew not what and he fell silent. Reaching into a leather satchel she withdrew a map of rolled parchment and spread it out on one of the empty crates. Each battle they had fought with the undead was marked with a charcoal X. At first they appeared to be randomly scattered over northern Aquitaine, but as she thought about it over night Camilla had changed her mind about that.

“I think we are finally getting somewhere,” she told the men, who looked puzzled at the confidence in her voice.

“We have, or at least I have, long believed that the undead are searching for something,” she began.

“Afterall, why spread out like this in small groups, why not use a large force and crush those who oppose them?” she continued.

“Because they are not strong enough,” Beaumont interjected stubbornly and predictabley. Camilla fixed him with an exasperated look.

“If you tally up the dead we have destroyed over the past three months, its easily over a thousand,” Camilla pointed out with a touch of acid to her voice.

“More than enough to overrun most small towns and hamlets, even some of the smaller castles.” Beaumont seemed about to raise another object but Matis forestalled him.

“And you said we are finally getting somewhere? Have you puzzled out what they are after?” he asked, puffing at his pipe. Camilla nodded and drew out a stick of charcoal.

“Not what they are looking for no but if you look at when we encountered these forces…” she started at the most recent encounter and drew a line back through earlier ones, then repeated the process with each of the recent engagements. The lines converged close to the edge of the forest of Chalons, on the border of Aquitaine.

“Thats where the bastard is,” Leforic grunted.

“I think it must be at least close to wherever sorcerer or fiend is lairing,” Camilla agreed, it was a testament to her acting skill that her voice didn’t quaver with raise. Whatever monster had been responsible for Cydric’s death. She rolled up the map and tucked it back into its leather case.

“I want everyone fed and on the road in an hour, we will have to back track post Quori Tre, then take the Rue de Magiste north until we lose it at Carasae,” she ordered. It was a long ride, but after three months she felt like she was finally riding towards something, rather than away from it.