Even though it had calmed, the storm still thundered outside. The first downpour had given way to heavy rain that the wind still lashed and whipped on the plains.
People waited it out as they could.
The moment a headache had started, Brenin had excused himself. He had to watch the road and the bandits, asking no more, let him go. With him the good mood soured, leaving the group waiting in the damp cold.
After a while they wondered if anything had happened. It was normal for bandits to fear betrayal.
It was unusual for them to fear for a stranger.
They would have gone after him had she not dissuaded them. But eventually Brenin came back, so soaked but smiling all the same, with tales of how some cattle had been left agonizing under that horrid storm.
All deplored how he had not brought one back here but without a fire it meant little.
The rest of the day passed but when dusk drew close finally the clouds broke.
People felt a weight removed from their throats.
It still drizzled, but people hardly cared. Everything not held by tall grass or bushes had sunk into a muddy swamp that swallowed the whole foot.
After exploring the hamlet for a bit they came back to find a puddle covered with Joan's mantle and the water inside turned from brown to clear crystal. How she had done that, nobody could get from her.
"She is a pearl." Was all Brenin suggested.
So they drank, let her revive the bonfire with that alchemy of hers while they plucked their chicken. This would be the last of their food but they agreed it was better to wait the night rather than risk the wrath of the sky.
"Why would you go to Cormoran?" One asked.
They understood lost merchants but the obvious destination then was Pivert.
But Brenin remained evasive enough that they let go.
"You don't have weapons, you should be fine. Thieves may just take your mantles while guards won't mistake you for one of us."
"If you fear for your clothes," one man added, "there is a knight errant on the road who gets paid to escort people."
"Does he accept debt?" The woodcutter joked.
"He does! Let him take you to the saintess and friend, they'll sort it out for you!"
"What a devoted fellow, that knight."
At that moment Joan chimed in, her cold voice sending a chill in the conversation.
"Shouldn't all Cormoran knights have died?"
They looked at her and shrugged.
"That one sure is alive, miss. Had we not reached the trees he would have cut us down to the last."
"Who knows, maybe he is not from Cormoran at all. Lucky you who can pay his services, we're on the wrong side of his blade and a knight is no joke."
"You say that but if all he does is escort travellers," Brenin remarked, "he will end up a joke for sure! That equipment isn't cheap to maintain."
"Even if he were to join the bandits, don't send him our way." The young woman among them joked.
With that the bandits asked if really those two didn't want any part of their meal, gave up and ate for eight. As night fell they huddled again to find some sleep.
None thought necessary to keep sentry; no one would come in that weather and a lookout would only attract attention.
But this let Joan and Brenin leave the moment the group was asleep.
He dug out his axe from the mud, worked on turning again and then, a beast in flesh, she forced him to return in the same house the group was slumbering in.
There he stood, awake, watching that pack of preys a few meters from him while she waited outside.
The smell of chicken still floated for them.
Still he didn't flinch. By morning the werewolf had not moved from his spot. Only the ground kept claw marks of his struggle; those on his legs had waned.
It had poured again during the night but come dawn the clouds had turned back to grey, stretched and spread so as to bring some light back onto the land. The ground, riddled with puddles, had regained its consistence.
The bandits wished them good travel.
They would themselves return to poach in the forest, then maybe raid a farm. If things ever got better in Cormoran, they said, maybe the all of them would meet there again.
Brenin watched them leave, weirded out.
"Are they really bandits?" He asked the devil at his side. "They looked like fine people."
She was about to remark how he didn't look like an assassin himself, but held back.
What he meant was that he couldn't help but wish them the best.
"Tomorrow Cormoran will have its new lord. Their banditry will be short-lived."
"Maybe they are still hoping for that."
She was already pacing back to the muddy road, back on track no matter how much the ground still sucked the soles.
All morning they walked, meeting no one in those wilder parts. Woods on both sides were pressing closer, with tiny groves creeping almost up to the road itself.
Rills had multiplied with the puddles to absolutely scar the land. The air was still damp and heavy, close in nature to that of a swamp. All it lacked was insects.
But finally Joan stopped.
She turned to face a troop that Brenin only noticed then. They were still far behind them, three horsemen and a half-dozen men-at-arms escorting two carts and a carriage.
Though calling it a carriage was a bit much. The carpenters had reshaped a hay cart, added benches with feather cushions but also two wooden side walls hastily painted and decorated, with a roof to tie them.
Front and back covered by curtains.
It looked as silly as it was, but this was the best the domain of Pivert could deliver.
What struck her however wasn't the carriage itself but that it had arrived so soon. To get here before noon they could not have fetched it from the sawmill this morning.
She whistled.
At that troop's head was sir Corentin on his white steed covered with a light caparison, wearing nothing but his tunic and tabard. Behind followed the two horsemen, one a knight in chainmail, while the footmen carried no armor but their helmets.
Both carts were filled with weapons, armors, tunics, belts, shoes and so many soles.
"Is that him?" Brenin asked, anxious.
"Yes."
"What do I do? I go into hiding?"
She didn't answer. Joan didn't even look at her companion. Whether he left or stayed was all the same to her.
So he stayed and the convoy stopped two dozen steps from them. Their leader sir Corentin had raised his hand, made sure they would not follow then approached on his horse.
His eyes locked on those yellow irises.
They stood a moment in silence, her standing in the mud while he towered a couple meters in front, his face as cold as hers.
Finally sir Corentin gestured and the footmen went to work. They picked the sack of charcoal, brought it between them before emptying the content on the muddy ground. Another came with resin and flint.
Something stirred in Joan's mind.
A sudden excitement, a flutter of the heart. When she saw the charcoal catch fire, fume and burn her whole body went electric.
Under the son of Pivert's eyes, she started to remove her boots.