Camilla felt a surge of despair that she couldn’t quite keep from her face. The elf seemed to sense this and bowed his head in acknowledgement. After everything they had been through not only had Cydric died for nothing, they had actually made things worse. Grimly she determined that she would stop playing soldiers and just leave this place, head south to Tilea or some other far port and live out whatever life she could. There was no point in pretending like she could make anything better. Let someone else hunt down necromancers, someone better suited to it than a courtesan from Tilea. “What are they looking for?” she asked numbly, although truthfully she didn’t really care any longer. The elf made a gesture that meant nothing to her, his slender fingers spreading into a complicated pattern. “When the Duke was last suppressed, his body was sundered and scattered. Part of him lived in the child whose spirit you released, part of him was sent over the waters. Part of him was hidden in some secret place here in this land. While part of his is free, it will search for the other parts to regain his full strength.” Camilla shrugged, not able to muster up much interest, having already made up her mind to leave Brettonia to whatever fate decreed. “That sounds like a problem for a knight on some quest,” she responded, mentally plotting how long it would take her to reach Bordeaux and a ship that would take her back to Tilea. “It is a problem for a Fey Enchantress,” the elf responded enigmatically. Camilla stiffened at those words, casting a suspicious glance at the way watcher. A slight smile tugged at the corner of the elfs inhuman eyes as he watched her. “I’m not an Enchantress, a Fey one or any other kind,” she snapped. Aldaerion lifted a slender eyebrow at this, as though questioning the statement. “And yet you are bound to a blade sacred to the old gods of the Asur? Those that call themselves the grail knights see you in their dreams? You can see in the dark as well as any of my folk… it makes one wonder.” Camilla shivered, since her abduction by the chaos warriors and their claims that she was destined to serve Slaanesh, she had secretly feared that her new found abilities might be the first manifestations of mutation, the feared mark of chaos. Was it possible it was something else? The sword perhaps? Her hand closed over the weapons hilt and she shivered slightly. The elf merely smiled. “If you seek answers, I suggest that you take your men to the monastery as you had planned, if you prevail, perhaps you will find answers to your questions.” Camilla opened her mouth to ask what questions the elf was referring to but the Waywatcher was gone, having vanished before her very eyes so quick and silent were his movements. Camilla sat for long moments, and then, grinding her teeth, turned and headed back for her camp. They attacked at dawn. The ruined shell of the monastery clung to a rocky outcropping in the middle of the river. The morning mist swirled over the slow moving water concealing the approaching men from mortal eyes, though Camilla wouldn’t have bet it would have worked against the undead. The log rafts they had fashioned from fresh cut timber ground onto the muddy beach and the nervous peasants disembarked as quickly as they were able. Camilla, Matis and Sir Renard came ashore on the first boat. The other knights having been left for later rafts because of the noise they made in their armor. Renard, perhaps by virtue of his quest, moved as quietly as Camilla, despite being encased in steel. The climbed the steep rise and into a scrubby abandoned field. Ancient and dilapidated beehives mouldered in a state of general decay and the long grass was tall enough to brush their calves as they snuck forward towards the crumbling wall topped with ancient rusted fleur de lys in wrought iron. A sudden movement stilled the creeping attackers as a pair of skeletal figures marched along the far side of the wall. The creaking articulated skeletons looked neither right of left, merely marching along their patrol route. Camilla opened her mouth to order her men onwards but Renard’s gauntleted hand fell on her shoulder stilling her for a moment. The grail knight’s helmeted head tracked the direction the skeletons for a few moments longer, evidently blessed with some ability to pierce the mist. He lifted his hand silently. “Come on,” Camilla hissed and the dozen peasants crept forward. From the river came the sound of clanking metal as the knights neared the shore. She ran forward and vaulted over the fence, landing on a floor of weed cracked flagstones. Before her stretched a long cloister that ended at an ancient shattered door. A greenish light flickers from the broken timbers. A scream tore from the throat of someone off in the fog and there was a ring of steel as weapons clashed. “Charge!” someone roared and the mist was suddenly filled with the sounds of battle and a strange terrible laughter.