The doors opened, and five new warriors entered the hall.

Over the din came a low rumble that shook the mighty long table, which ran the full length of the feasting hall. The ground trembled, and the gnarled timber creaked.

At the far end of the hall, close to the new arrivals, the table was changing. The earth split as roots forced their way up, twisting and knotting together to form beams the height of the bench. Then, they branched out, looping over and over a thousand times to create the table top.

As the last green-cabled root threaded itself into the end of the ancient table, the fresh growth rapidly aged and hardened to the strength of old oak. To either side of the new length had grown from the earth in the same fashion, a low bench.

When the doors had opened to admit the five, the closest had stopped to witness.

The hall was vast, and the table was long. By the time the rumble of the table extension had finished, silence had flowed the full length of the hall. As it did, it crested like a mighty wave, with the figure at the head of the table rising to meet it.

All heads turned as one.

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The hall was longer than any voyage, wider than any battlefield. The smoke haze of a hundred thousand cook fires hung low and heavy about pillars measuring 50 men around the base. The pillars were carved with scenes of battle stretching out of sight and time, supporting a ceiling so high it was lost in the stars.

But all could see, and all could hear.

A stentorian voice boomed through the ages, whispered in the ears of the dying, echoed in dreams and half-glimpsed visions: "There is not a seat at the table for everyone, and not everyone deserves a seat at the table."

The hall resounded with the thump of fists innumerable, the toll of war drums throughout the ages.

When he spoke again, it was the rustling of leaves down empty streets and the crunch of gravel under a shod hoof: "It is not the oaths sworn or the deeds claimed."

The hall rang with the clash of steel on steel. Sparks and blood splashed the table, currency of the battlefield.

He disappeared, the grim specter he was. He was everywhere and nowhere. The wings of ravens marked his passing.

All stood and faced the five.

The great vaulted doors slid shut, and on their closing began the stamping of feet, the crash of weapon on shield, the thump of fist on chest—the cacophony of war.

His voice was the chill wind, the cold corpse touch—the death's whisper of last breath: "It is not what you lived for, but what you died for."

A raven's caw, and he was at every man's right shoulder.

The five took their places at the table.

Each man drawn in, the spiral swirls and knots pulling them down and down.

Thunder clapped and shook the hall—a raven's gurgling croak.

Five more names burned into the oak.

Five fewer places at the table.