Sir Beoveld rolled the heavy ogre over onto its back. His sword lay beneath, crushed and snapped by the dead weight of the gargantuan creature. The ogres had attacked out of nowhere, storming into the Bretonnian encampment just before dawn. They attacked with a purpose Beoveld had rarely ever seen in the lumbering beasts, heading straight for the animal enclosures. Their intent was clear; to hamstring the Bretonnians' cavalry. The knight lord seethed with quiet rage at their impunity. The disciple the ogres had shown in the attack was unusual in its own right, that they then ignored the provisions tent to continue the objective even more so. He would have more respect for these brutes in the future.

Beoveld quickly walked towards the hastily erected stables by the edge of the camp. In the midst of the fighting he had seen a number of the ogres moving in their direction, and he feared the worst. If the mounts were injured, or worse, dead, they would have no chance of pursuing Settra in the foreseeable future. As he burst through the door, however, a smile spread across his face. Tempest, his pegasus, stood over the corpses of two ogres, calmly cleaning the splattered blood off its plumage. The smile brought a flash of pain to the knight as its stretched the long gash he had received down the side of his face. Another scar added to the long series, he thought. He had once been considered handsome ' Beoveld the Fair ' until the claws of the werebeast had marred the left side of his face during his erranthood. He patted his massive warbeast, who nudged him in appreciation, then turned back towards the blood-soaked morning. The pegasi were unharmed, and the hunt could continue.

As he left the simple shelter, one of his knights ran up to him and bowed hurredly. 'My Lord,' he began, 'the leader of the ogres escaped! I saw him running off into the forest in that direction.' The man pointed towards the east emphatically. 'Before the Lady, my lord, I swear he had still my lance through his heart!'

Beoveld broke into a run, heading towards the forest where the man had pointed. Along the way he grabbed a sword from where it sat embedded in the ground. It was a simple blade, likely a treasured belonging to a wealthier peasant. Now it would serve his lord well enough, thought the knight. He twirled the blade before him, getting the feel of the weapon. As simple as the weapon was, it would kill the foes of the Lady readily enough. The tracks of the large ogre were clear as they plunged through the forest. There was a great deal of blood along side them, a testimony to the veracity of the knights claim. Beoveld knew the ogre could not continue much farther before it became unable to support itself.

Sure enough, after no more than a dozen meters, he found the collapsed form of the ogre. Its breath was escaping in loud, wheezing gasps. By the red froth that bubbled from its lips Beoveld could tell its lungs had been pierced. Jutting from its chest was the splintered remains of a long lance. One of its huge hands groped ineffectively at the wood, but it lacked the strength to pull it free. Beoveld walked towards the fallen creature, stopping only when he stood above it. All the creature could do was look at the knight weakly, its watery eyes glistening in the morning light. Feebly, it pulled free a large pouch of gold and dropped it at the knight's feet. It looked up hopefully. Beoveld reversed his grip on the sword, so the point pointed straight down, and drove the weapon through the creature's eye. It shuddered once, and then lay still. A quick death was the only mercy the enemies of the Lady would receive.

Beoveld glanced at the bag of gold. He lashed out with his foot, kicking the pouch across the clearing. He would not stoop to accepting the coin of his enemies. It was more dishonourable than the petty land grabbing politics of the coarser nations of the world. The noble sons of fair Bretonnia were above such things. His attention snapped back, however, when the bag hit a tree trunk and spilled its contents over the ground. He had accepted the foul tokens of chaos, or even plundered Imperial coin. However, shining there before him, was dwarf gold. How did the ogres come across such a prize, he wondered. Surely they must have stolen it. Beoveld wondered now whether the ogre had indeed been trying to buy his life, as he had thought before, or if the creature had been trying to tell him something.

Something else caught Beoveld's attention, however. A beautiful sword lay at the side of the ogre. Red and black leather with golden design covered the sheath and handle, with a gold and orange dragon curved down the blade whether it had slid from the scabbard. At the ogre's side, it looked tiny, more like a dagger than a sword. To Beoveld, however, it was a good sized sword. He drew it from its scabbard and hoisted it in the air. The weight was perfectly balanced. Close by he heard the sound of a small spring. Walking towards it, he reverentially laid the blade in the clear water and bowed his head, murmuring a quick prayer to the Lady. He felt the sense of peace within himself that he had long associated with Her blessing, and felt that it was by her will that he found this blade. Sheathing it, he dropped to one knee, and spoke aloud the full Lady's Prayer. As he felt the power of the Lady suffuse him once more, he thought again about laying aside all his worldly possessions and responsibilities to search for Her grail. It was at times a very tempting prospect, but he knew deep within himself that his first duty to her was to continue his quest, and destroy Settra.

Presently, he became aware of another figure standing behind him in the clearing. With a sudden, fluid movement he was on his feet once more. His new sword flew from its sheath, and Beoveld was startled momentarily as flames leapt along the length of the blade. He quickly regrouped, however, as he faced this new threat. There, standing half in the shadows, was a tall lithe figure. Asrai, Beoveld thought, as he noticed the earthy design of the figure's clothing and equipment. He wondered why the figure had made itself known, for the Wood Elves could seemingly disappear within the confines of the forest. Beoveld sheathed the sword, and bowed. Whatever it wanted, it had chosen to make itself know to him. He felt it best to be as polite as possible.

'Bretoni,' it called from the shadows, 'horselord. Crusader, hunter of the dead. You are the one known as Beoveld, are you not?' The elf pointed to the golden cross that hung from Beoveld's armour. 'You are the one that hunts the ancient evil.' Beoveld bowed back in response, but did not say anything. 'Indeed, honourable knight. I see in you the echoes of your just cause.'

The elf tilted its head slightly, and a sense of weight suffused the air. With a start Beoveld realized it was using magic. It stood there for a moment without moving, then lowered its head once more. The sense of power withdrew from the air. 'And blessed, too, I see. Interesting.' It seemed to pause a moment in deliberation. At last, it continued. 'Your quarry is near, knight. In the next village, up the river. Go to it now. I sense the end of your quest is near.' With that, the elf turned and strode back into the forest, disappearing instantly. Beoveld bowed once more, though he could see no sign of the elf, or any others. Then, he turned back towards the camp and ran as fast as he could.

When he reached the camp, he began shouting orders immediately. With a speed that showed both years of training and the prospect of imminently completing their quest, the riders prepared. A rider had flown off almost immediately, carrying word to the forces of Jean Marcel and Cyris deLonse. With any luck, they would converge with the smaller horse mounted elements of Beoveld's army. Beoveld himself, and his pegasus knights, could not afford to wait however. Taking wing, the Royal Bretonnian Air Force sped towards the river.

***