The Great Hall in Upchurch. VIII Winding, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Fourteen. Compline.

Sir Aleck Rowland, Sir Galen, Sir Will Garnfellow, Sir Hamral, Father Anselm, Friar Sidrach Landry, Oswald, Renton, Mendelor, St. James, Owen, Old Cerdic, Nym, Bardolph, Pyers, Jacob, Lady Alice Rowland, Maid Martha, [Various Others].

The great hall is hushed: The remains of the feast have been taken away, the chess board put up, and Sir Garnfellow has set aside his viol. The many streams of conversation, which had poured forth so swift and furious earlier in the evening, have since faltered into quiet trickles. Even the hounds have lain down before the fire to drowse contentedly.

“A most excellent meal, my lady,” says Friar Sidrach, addressing Lady Alice.

“Here, here,” says Garnfellow, and several other murmur consent.

Alice sits beside her husband, Sir Aleck, her hand resting in his. “My thanks to you all,” she says, her handsome face brightening at the compliments. “For much too long our Hall sat empty, through much of the fall and most of the winter. You were all so long at Antace… and some of you will never return to Upchurch.”

“Many a good Pentian man fell at the siege,” says Garnfellow, sadly. “And that says nothing of the brave lads lost in the damned ruins of Lorn Abbey—poor Brandon and Dirk! And to think of sweet Mot. It sorely troubles my heart, friends, to think what might have been, should that I had been there during Oreste’s raid. Mayhap Welsung might have turned aside the fatal blow. Alack—but enough! ’Tis folly to dwell overmuch on such matters, I suppose. Instead, let us drink to our absent friends!”

And here the fat knight raises his cup to the rafters, a gesture echoed by all sitting in the hall.

“Speaking of which,” says St. James quietly, “When the hell will the rest of our group arrive? I’m tired of waiting around.”

“Valerius will likely be with the Lady of the Keep for a few weeks yet,” says Mendelor, “and that’s if the weather holds. But then, perhaps such things matter not where witchery is involved. Marcus will likely be in Heremac until spring, and who can say how long Vandoren will linger in Langdale Hall?”

“And young Ruik has returned to Lownell,” interjects Friar Sidrach.

“By the Hammer,” mutters St. James, “I’ll never fathom how the hell can that lad stand the very presence of that mincing bastard.”

“I hear that Sir John has no want for friends, these days,” says Renton, spitting. “Ever since that ruck-lover sent his knights to Antace. I hear that the Seekers now have a large garrison bivouacked in Lownell Manor, with an eye on Derwich.”

“Come spring,” says Mendelor with a wry smile, “I avow that Prince Busirane will have his hands full holding on to that castle. I just pray that Gregory is given command of the offensive.”

“All the more reason for us to take up against Prince Argus now,” offers Sir Hamral.

“Or should you have said ‘King ’ Argus?” says St. James. “How long do you suppose old Tereus will put up with that business?”

“Not long, unless I miss my guess,” says Mendelor. “’Tis hard to believe that silly fop has given Kirke so much trouble. They say that last fall Argus threw himself a huge parade—marched all through his kingdom, riding upon his favorite horse, wearing that golden armor of his. Had his servants running before him, scattering flower petals and such in his path.”

“Argus may be a fop, but he is no slouch on the battlefield,” says Sir Aleck, “Much as it pains me to say that about any ruck-man. His banner of a red horse upon a gold field encroaches further and further south with every passing month. In combat, his great mace has brought low many a brave Pentian knight. And supposedly, his cavalry is quite formidable. Argus himself is a matchless rider. Busirane only ever played at putting rucks on horses: Argus has been doing it successfully for a while now. Mounted patrols make regular sweeps of his lands, and any poor carle to be found by them is brought in irons to Wolfgare, and there left to toil for the rest of their living days.”

“We have heard that Argus keeps beautiful women locked up in a stone tower,” says Friar Sidrach. “Sad it is to think that they are forced to serve such a one.”

“And Argus has some mean bastards under him, besides,” says Renton. “One of his captains, Phoebus I think he’s called, is in command of the garrison at Wolfgare.

“Phoebus had been the captain of Argus’s own personal guard—but in the last big fight with Kirke, Phoebus was thrown from his horse and nearly killed. If not for that, he would have been the one leading the army that destroyed the Ebon Quill.”

“My sons, have there any more visions of Mark and Luke?” asks Friar Sidrach.

“I have heard of a couple more sightings since the Yule,” says Mendelor, “But it is hard to say. Argus has decreed certain death to all who are found keeping the Pentian faith, so naturally folks are a little reluctant to admit to seeing anything like that.”

“And yet, so many of his officers chose martyrdom rather than renounce the Five,” says Aleck. “Argus has ordered so many executions in the past year.”

“Wicked, wicked pride,” says Friar Sidrach, shaking his head in disgust. “In Hell, it is said that the proud are bent double by the massive rocks they are condemned to bear upon their own backs for all of eternity. So shall Argus suffer. Pride is the oldest and greatest of sins. It was the sin of the Shaithim, and was their downfall.”

“May his pride prove his undoing,” says Aleck, raising his cup. And the other men follow suit.