Ser Lorry stared at the boy as if he had suddenly sprouted a second head, but Dandweel was already on the ground, his boots sinking into the muck with a heavy, indifferent squelch.

Vilon blinked, his puffy eyes moving from the two armored giants to the boy in the silk-sleeved tunic. He looked at the mud-slicked path and then back at Basil’s pristine cuffs.

"You’ll get the earth on you, my lord," Vilon cautioned, his voice cracking. "Are you sure?"

"Mud can be scraped off with a wet cloth, Ser. A burden like this, however, tends to stick if you carry it alone," Basil replied, flashing that encouraging smile he’d seen his mother use on stubborn diplomats. "Besides, it seems you’re not quite a giant yet. Could you not have dug the pit a bit closer?"

Vilon let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-sob. "The notion came to me ten minutes too late, I’m afraid. I thank you, Sers, and your Lordship. I doubt I’d have finished before the moon was high."

"Thank his Grace," Lorry muttered, finally sliding off his saddle with a sigh that could have powered a windmill. "Were it up to me, we’d be halfway back to a warm fire."

The knight took his place at the horse’s rear alongside Vilon, while Basil and Dandweel braced themselves at the front.

"Your Grace?" Vilon whispered, his eyes widening a bit.

Well cat out of the bag, Basil realised.

"Nothing that should concern you, my good man," Basil said, planting his feet firmly in the slush. "Ser Lorry’s mouth is sometimes a few leagues ahead of his mind. Let us be with it. We are just here to help.My lord is enough"

’’Oh!I see... I slipped with my tongue a lot too!’’ he looked as Lorry and nodded as if he understood his struggle. "On three!" Vilon called. "One... two... heave!"

They pushed. For five agonizing seconds, muscle strained against gravity until the beast shifted a grand total of half a step.

"I apologize," Vilon wheezed amidst the struggle, his face turning a plum purple.

Basil opened his mouth to offer a word of reassurance, but his boot found a slick patch of clay. With a startled yelp, the heir of Yarzat went down, sliding face-first into the cold mud.

"My Lord!" the knights shouted in unison.

Basil scrambled up, wiping a thick smear of muck from his eyes and spitting a bit of the field out of his mouth. He looked like a drowned rat, but he waved them off with a sharp gesture. "No need for the panic. That hurt my pride more than my nose.I once fell atop the stair of the court and came out with a sore back."

He sniffed, trying to reclaim some dignity as he leaned back into the horse’s cold flank. "To change the subject... how did you come by this beast? He doesn’t look like a common stable-buy."

Not that it looks like you could afford it, he didn’t say that part aloud.

"An inheritance," Vilon said, his voice straining as they gave another collective push. "My father left me his shield, a few coins, a sword, and his chainmail. Well... a different chainmail. The one I started with I had to sell just to make the voyage south."

"You’re sworn to the Lord of Epietoli, then?" Basil asked. His father had forced Basil to ride with him when they would break camp, claiming the lord was ’fond of conversation.’ Basil had found the experience about as pleasant as a toothache.

Still he recognised the debt he had with the man so he decided to not be a pain in his arse on the road.

"Sworn would be the wrong term," Vilon grunted. They gave a massive shove, and Chestnut finally slid a good meter through the mire. "Employed is closer. I volunteered with the Bull right before he struck the road. I even got into a bit of a squabble with the recruiters."

"Why’s that?" Lorry asked, actually looking interested now that he was covered in horse-hair.

Vilon went silent for a moment, his jaw setting. "They accused me of being a pretender. A beggar in a helmet. I suppose I didn’t look the part, my horse was struggling and seemed to have one last charge in him, I had no mail, just a dented pot and a sharp edge."

"No surprise they took you for a vagrant!"

Vilon’s face went scarlet, but Basil intervened before the knight could lose his temper.

"Enough, Lorry. This man is more of a knight than many I’ve seen in silk. You would have had this poor beast butchered for a few silver pieces. It isn’t the luster of the armor that makes the man."

He noticed Vilon staring at him then.As if struck by a stick.

"Is everything all right, Ser?"

Vilon blinked, shaking his head as if waking from a dream. "No... no, my Lord. It’s just... those were familiar words. Forgive me if I seem queer. My father always said I was as dumb as an ox. Usually right before he struck me for eating too much. I’ve had a giant’s appetite since I was a babe."

"No surprise there," Dandweel rumbled, eyeing Vilon’s massive frame. "I’ve not yet seen a man quite as tall as you."

"He’d give the Legate of the First a run for his money in height," Lorry commented.

"Though he is much thicker in muscle," Basil added, thinking of his Uncle Jarza. "One last push, then? For the sake of my laundry!"

"One last heave!" Vilon roared, his voice filling the empty field. "FOR CHESTNUT!"

They all threw their weight forward in a final, desperate explosion of effort. The mud gave way, the horse’s carcass slid over the lip of the trench, and with a heavy, definitive thud, Chestnut finally reached his resting place.

Lorry collapsed back onto the grass, staring up at the grey sky. "Thank the Gods," he wheezed. "I think my spine is an inch shorter than it was this morning."

Vilon stood at the edge of the pit, looking down at his friend. The conversations had been a nice distraction, but now reality set back in with the thud of an hammer.

"Well, that was a trial," Ser Lorry panted, leaning heavily on his knees and looking like he wanted to dissolve into the mud. "Are we finished now?’’

"Have some decorum, Lorry," Basil snapped, though he was busy wiping a glob of clay off his chin. "The man has just lost his most trusted companion.You may not care if your father were to die, but some of us, as hard as that is to believe, have some hearts with us..."

Vilon stood at the edge of the grave, looking down at the copper shape in the shadows of the earth. "The Ser is right, my lord. I thank you for the kindness... truly. I shall finish the burial now. I have some words I promised to say."

"Would you mind if I stayed to listen?" Basil asked, tilting his head. "It’s not as if I have a pressing engagement and it seems to me you could use the company, and a ride back to camp, unless you plan on walking through this muck."

"I... I wouldn’t want to be an intrusion, your Grace," Vilon stammered, looking at the two knights who were currently eyeing their ruined armor with quiet despair.

"Perhaps the Ser is right-" Lorry began, hopeful for a quick exit.

"Nonsense," Basil muttered, cutting him off with a flick of his mud-stained hand. He walked closer to Vilon, squinting up at the massive young man. "You were the one who gave that big fellow a ride on your horse just before that red crossing, weren’t you?’’

Vilon blinked, his puffy eyes widening. "I... you mean Owen, my lord?"

"I suppose that was his name. He was laughing like a babe in a cradle."

"How did you...?" Vilon trailed off, bewildered.

"I don’t easily forget a face once I’ve seen it," Basil said, a touch of his father’s cool confidence slipping into his voice. "Especially in such a queer circumstance. I recall the beast seemed to be struggling even then, yet you didn’t turn the man away. One of my uncles told me a story of a man with a child’s mind who was built like a fortress during the siege.Maybe it’s the same one.

It was a good thing, I think. Hearing laughter in the air before the iron started clashing.Gods know there were very few of laughter afterward...it was an hard battle."

Basil noticed the three knights staring at him then. Lorry looked perplexed, Dandweel looked thoughtful, and Vilon looked as though he had seen the boy spit fire.

Basil just shrugged. It wasn’t his fault the All-Knower had blessed him with a memory that acted like a spider’s web, catching every stray thread that passed by.

Vilon stepped to the very edge of the pit then. The shovel heavy in his hands. He looked down at the copper shape of Chestnut, whose coat was already losing its luster to the grey light.

"He... he was a better friend than I was a master," Vilon whispered, his voice cracking. "He carried me when I was too tired to walk, and he stood by me when I was too afraid to stand. He never asked for anything but an apple and a dry place to sleep. I hope... I hope wherever he is, the grass is always sweet and the water is always clear."

He took a shaky breath and closed his eyes, trying to summon the words the priest Utton had drummed into his head.

"May the... the Weaver... store the thread she has cut," Vilon began, his voice trembling. "May the All-Knower... judge him... judge him with..." He faltered, his brow furrowing as the next line slipped through his grief-stricken mind like water.

"Judge him justly," Ser Dandweel’s deep, gravelly voice filled the silence. The taciturn knight didn’t look up, but his posture was straight, his hammer resting against his thigh.

Vilon nodded gratefully, swallowing hard. "May the All-Knower judge him justly. May the... Father provide him a roof in his hall."

"May the Warrior protect his soul," Dandweel prompted again, his voice steady as an anchor.

"May the Warrior protect his soul," Vilon repeated, his chest heaving. "And... and may the Sea-God... protect him from the... the outer storm."

As the last word left Vilon’s lips, the mournful whistle of the wind through the lone tree’s branches rang in the air.

Basil stood perfectly still, his boots sinking into the mud, but his mind was miles away. He looked at the grave, then at the two armored knights, and a sudden, violent chill bloomed at the crown of his head, trickling down his spine like ice water.

He thought of his father at that moment.

He thought of his father’s mangled ear, the blood-soaked bandages, and the way the Prince had looked when he’d first came to his bed.

Had the Weaver’s shears slipped just a fraction of an inch, had the Warrior turned his gaze for a heartbeat, it wouldn’t be a copper horse in this hole.

He is a good man, Basil thought, watching the young knight’s back strain with the effort. How many in this army would give so much for a creature that could no longer carry them?

A sudden, icy shiver caressed the back of his neck, settling like a frozen crown upon his head. As the wind howled through the skeletal branches of the lone tree, Basil felt the memory of the dream stir.

He had tried to bury it deep , but in the end it resurfaced, so why now?

Amidst the smell of wet dirt and the sound of falling earth, but the sensation of a cold stone weighted his chest, making it hard to draw a full breath.

His father had won. The banners of Yarzat flew high, the enemies were scattered or burning, and the road ahead should have been paved with the golden light of victory and the sweet nectar of euphoria.

He was surrounded by knights, protected by steel, and destined for a throne, yet he felt as isolated as that lone tree in the green expanse. He felt as profoundly alone as the horse in the dark and the master who stood above it, whispering secrets to the dirt.

Why was it that everytime Basil looked at the young man’s face he just felt so unsettled?So.....sad?