Carl Clawyn believed his eyes were open, yet the world remained a blur of indistinct shapes. He waved his hand experimentally before his face. "Good to see you flailing about already," came Tyler Wynlers's familiar voice from nearby. "How long was I asleep?"

  "The question you should be asking is how long you were unconscious," Tyler corrected. Carl's memory stirred—before darkness claimed him, he had been in battle against Cynthia's reinforcements. "So... how long was I out?"

  "Couldn't tell you precisely," Tyler replied. "We don't exactly carry hourglasses into battle. Judging by the sun's movement, less than two hours."

  Carl attempted to sit upright, but his body betrayed him halfway, collapsing back onto the stretcher. "How goes the battle?"

  "Not in our favor."

  Carl sighed, rolling onto his side and propping himself on an elbow. "And what happened to him?" he asked, nodding toward Simon of Elselar—Bigmouth Simon—lying on an adjacent stretcher, breathing steadily. "Healers say he took a good knock to the head. Helmet saved him from the worst of it--he'll be out cold for half a day, at most. And if you ask me," Tyler grinned, "he's probably thanking the gods for the excuse to lie down."

  "This is the camp's medical area," Carl observed, surveying the chaotic arrangement of wounded and dying men. "Why are you here, Tyler? You're not typically one for hospital visits."

  Tyler Wynlers pulled his tunic aside, revealing a blood-soaked bandage wrapped around his left shoulder. "You're wounded too," Carl murmured. "How did that happen?"

  "Do you remember how you were injured?" Tyler countered. "Your memory seems fragmented. If you recall what happened to you, you'll understand how I came by this wound."

  Carl furrowed his brow, closing his eyes to search the moments before consciousness fled him. Memory fought to surface, but pain came first--a deep, crushing ache in his chest that brought a wave of nausea, and then the feeling of being unable to breathe. "It was... that horse," he managed through clenched teeth. "The Queen's... horse."

  "While it certainly resembled one, I doubt it was an ordinary horse—if it was a horse at all. Remember that peculiar protrusion on its head? I believe it was a unicorn. Though I've never seen one," Tyler added, pulling his shirt back into place, "I'm convinced of it."

  Carl Clawyn recalled how he'd ended up on the stretcher. During the chaotic battle, Devalosfang Dear had led them in punching through Kadenford's encirclement, creating an escape route for the Godman troops trapped on the hill. The broken Kadenford infantry quickly regrouped toward Hilltop Fort, merging with reinforcements from Phyal to prevent the Godman knights from encircling them in turn. As the armies began to disengage, Carl spotted Queen Claire Grace not more than two hundred paces distant. He marveled at the Cynthian Queen's courage—fighting at the front lines—while simultaneously, a dangerous plan crystallized in his mind.

  "We're going in," he told Tyler Wynlers decisively. "We're going after the Queen herself."

  "You mean to kill her?" Tyler deflected a pikeman's thrust; the enemy promptly abandoned his weapon and fled. "Capture her alive, Tyler. As we discussed previously—she's worth more as a prisoner. It benefits both sides."

  "First, you need an opportunity." He gestured with his sword toward the Queen's position. "She's surrounded by at least fifty knights. Just the two of us? Even ten times our number might not reach her."

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  "But this is our only chance," Carl insisted. "Her protective circle won't suddenly disperse like dust in the wind. They'll always be there. We must face them sooner or later."

  Tyler tugged his reins, turning his mount toward the Queen's position. "Even so, what's your strategy?"

  "I don't exactly—" His response was cut short by a bellowing war cry.

  "Charge, Friezs!" A knight astride a gray mare waved the dog-head banner wildly, slashing his sword through the air. "Fuck the Queen of Cynthia! We'll have the bitch for our own! CHARGE!"

  "HAVE HER!" the Friezs roared back in a chorus. "Perfect timing!" Carl dug his heels into his horse's flanks, joining the Friezs' frenzied charge. Tyler followed reluctantly. "Circle behind!" he called, skillfully maneuvering his chestnut mount to approach the Queen's guard from the rear. Approximately thirty Friezs—ten mounted and twenty on foot with various weapons—were already locked in brutal combat with the Queen's knights.

  Tyler Wynlers plunged into the melee before Carl could catch up. A knight spotted his approach, wheeled sharply to face him, and raised a sword defensively. Steel met steel as the two clashed, their mounts performing an intricate, deadly dance beneath them. Blade struck shield repeatedly in a rapid exchange of blows. Tyler's family round shield intercepted a powerful thrust, the force momentarily separating the combatants as their horses instinctively stepped apart. (Thin, but stronger than he looks,) Tyler thought, taking in his opponent—noting the impossibly pale skin despite the sweat, the high-bridged nose, and the delicate, thin-lipped mouth. (Almost looks like a woman...)

  The knight surged forward with a lunging thrust. Tyler anticipated the move, blocking the blade with his shield where it briefly embedded in the wood. Seizing the momentary advantage, Tyler counterattacked, driving his sword toward the knight's face. His opponent wisely abandoned the trapped weapon, arching backward to avoid the strike. Tyler's blade caught the helmet instead, sending it flying. Without the Queen's characteristic long braid but with hair neatly knotted atop her head, Blancheless Liwendell's feminine features were unmistakable within seconds. "A woman?!" Tyler exclaimed in genuine surprise.

  With his sword tip now pressed against her jaw, Blancheless could only swallow her frustration, fixing him with a desperate, defiant glare, a single tear glistening at the corner of her eye—this was, after all, her first true battle. Her sword slipped from Tyler's shield and clattered to the ground. To her utter astonishment, the man did not drive his blade home but instead withdrew it. The mercy was a deeper insult than any wound. She would rather have died a knight's death for her queen than be spared for being a woman.

  A knight from the Queen's guard abruptly curtailed Tyler's moment of chivalry, charging from the left with a powerful two-handed downward slash. Tyler raised his shield to block, but the tremendous force knocked him from his saddle. The intervening knight also dismounted, his bloody sword already drawn, and engaged Tyler on foot. Blancheless hesitated momentarily before retrieving her fallen sword. She could easily have joined the fray—with two against one, the long-haired, somewhat handsome Godman would have stood no chance. Yet she chose otherwise. Remounting her horse, she turned toward the Queen—only to witness a scene that nearly stopped her heart: Carl Clawyn, a Godman knight, had almost reached the Queen's vulnerable rear.

  An elderly knight in exquisite armor and flowing wolf-fur cloak dispatched two Friez footmen efficiently, then rushed to intercept Carl—but Carl deftly evaded him, slipping past to continue directly toward Claire. "Protect the Queen!" the old knight bellowed, his roar thick with phlegm.

  He very nearly succeeded, at least from Tyler's perspective. In his single-minded pursuit of the Queen, Carl had never formulated a clear plan for "capturing" her. (Perhaps I could pull her onto my horse?) He frantically considered his options. (But her knights would respond immediately—if fighting erupts, she might be injured...) His brief deliberation yielded no viable solution. Now barely a horse's length separated him from Claire, who remained unaware of his approach. (I'll simply grab her.) He secured his shield to his saddle and extended his left arm. (Come with me, Your Majesty.)

  In the aftermath, no witness could precisely describe how he was rendered unconscious—only Carl himself would remember the blood-chilling moment. Remedios, the Queen's white mare, turned her head and fixed him with a gaze of startling intelligence and unmistakable hostility. Carl failed to register the warning, his focus entirely on Claire Grace. In the next instant, Remedios reared and kicked with both hind legs, a devastating blow that struck Carl square in the chest and sent him flying through the air like a rag doll.