Ezril studied the cassock on his bed. He had a decision to make. Wear the black cotton shirt and leather trouser he always wore beneath his cloak or honor the Lord Commander’s dinner with his cassock.

It is not a dinner deserving of any honor, he told himself.

He returned the cassock to the wardrobe present at the corner of his room and shrugged into a leather trouser and strapped on his boots. He covered his torso in a grey cotton shirt, concealing the few scars on his body. He often found it funny how most of his scars came from his time in the seminary rather than the brief days alone as a child or the few months since his time spent here. He strapped on his Sunders. His bow laid on his bed, its black as polished as the first day he had held it. Not a single sign of the labors he had put it through was present.

Ready, he left his room.

The hallway was cast in a warm golden glow from the candle lights on the walls. Save them, the place would have been drowned in darkness, credited to the absence of windows.

Ezril climbed up the stairs, making his way to the Lord Commander’s chambers. By his estimate, he was at least ten minutes late. He hoped Darvi proved a better guest than him. If he did, it would reduce the rancor of his tardiness.

Ezril had long grown accustomed to the weight of his Sunders. So much so that he could barely feel them on his back as he elevated the stairs. They still weighed down on him, and he still found the weight of them in his hand less than tolerable. Still, the weight was now a part of his life, like a limp becomes a part of the life of a man who’s broken his leg irreparably.

He hated going for occasions like this. They demanded he leave his bow behind which kept his hands twitching. He could always feel the metal in his grip. A phantom. He smirked, must be proud of me, Venin.

Earlier, he had found Olufemi seated in his own room as Takan had predicted. If only the priest had had a bottom coin. Olufemi hadn’t said much. He never said much after a kill, like he was mourning his victims and not the comrades he lost. Perhaps he didn’t consider the soldiers of the fort as such. Sometimes Ezril wondered if his brother considered any of the priests his comrade. He feared in the years that would come he would wonder if there was much he could have done differently.

The smell of freshly baked bread and well cooked meat welcomed him when he opened the door to the Lord Commander’s chambers. The men sat around a rectangular table, all the seats occupied, save one. The fact that it was positioned beside Darvi was enough to lead Ezril to it.

Darvi on his part wore his white cassock for the occasion. It filled Ezril with an unnerving sense of disrespect in his choice of clothing. Apparently, they had been waiting for him. Now that he was here they found their way into the meal before them.

The dinner before them was more of a banquet than anything. Ezril would’ve felt a tinge of guilt if he hadn’t learned the soldiers were having their own merriment at the tower grounds as he ate.

Lord Oddor had deemed it fit to allow the men their fill of wine and rum and as much as the kitchen could offer them tonight. Tonight, the men would celebrate their lives. The lives they had escaped the Arlyn forest with. It was a defeat they would soon not forget.

And yet they drink and get drunk after it, Ezril thought. An unsightly practice.

“Do you know how long you’ll be remaining with us, Father Tenshaw?” Commander Vardil asked between bites a while into the meal.

Darvi shook his head. “The seminary is yet to call us back.”

In truth, the seminary had given them their command. They were to remain another six months in the fort and survey the actions of the Merdendi horde. Apparently, the bishop had a feeling they weren’t just savages trying to pull down the realm.

The horde was like a pyre at the edge of the realm just waiting to be lit, and Ezril worried at what would happen if the case was so dire when there were no flames yet.

Ezril raised the cup of wine before him to his lips and sipped from it. Its contents were alcoholic but not so much that it stung on its way down. He could manage brief sips with relative ease. He turned his gaze, surveying the inhabitants of the table.

Ricktar seemed the unhappiest of them all. Vardil seemed unperturbed by the day’s events now. Save the Lord Commander, and Darvi, there sat three other captains he identified from the war meeting. However, one man was missing. The man who had objected to his presence, Captain Arlnoc. He had finally come around to learning the man’s name. Is he dead? Ezril pondered. It was as useless a thought as it turned out learning the man’s name was.

“You will both be present for the transference, I take it, Fathers.”

Ezril turned. Oddor was addressing Darvi, so Ezril took another sip of his wine. He was well aware that the infirmary was done arranging the bodies that returned with them and understood that the Lord Commander sought to make a ceremony of their burning. However, he didn’t require their presence for it.

He spared Darvi a discreet glance and caught him doing the same. Darvi was in no hurry to speak for him or the rest of their brothers. So Ezril spoke for himself.

“I may be preoccupied with Shade,” he said. “But I will be present if I can make the time.”

Vardil turned to him, his expression curious. “Your Atle wolf, I take it.”

“Yes.”

Vardil took his wine cup and drained it of its contents. “I noticed one of my boys is especially wary of you, Father.” He reached for the wine jug. “Should I be worried?”

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“Ah, the bearded one,” Oddor interjected. “He has quite the unseemly beard, that one.” Now he turned his attention to Ezril. “Is there a reason the young blade should be so wary?”

“We grew up in the same place.” Ezril answered, returning the meat in his hand to its bowl. “Then we met at a tavern the night before your arrival. He was unaware of my position at the time.”

Vardil sighed. “Lord Oddor,” he said, clearly in need of changing the topic, “when do you think the news of this will reach the king?”

“I have already sent the report,” Oddor answered, unbothered. “He should receive it by the morning.”

Vardil nodded his approval. “And how do you think it will affect his decision?”

“I doubt anything would change.” Oddor’s lips creased in a frown. “Not if our benevolent prince doesn’t say anything about it.”

The atmosphere in the room took a sudden dive. It was no secret among those who had been in the fort during the prince’s visit that the Lord Commander didn’t like the man. However, it seemed to be news to the commander of the King’s guard, and the man, it seemed, clearly liked the prince.

“And why is that?” Vardil asked.

Oddor studied the man’s expression then proceeded to waving the topic aside with a simple snort. “Suffice it to say, commander,” he assured Vardil after he had swallowed the contents in his mouth. “The king has no need for a new plan. He has chosen to send Dragmund to us.”

Oddor ate like royalty, with the decorum of the most refined table manners, never speaking with his mouth full. Most at the table did. But the news incited a few dropped cutleries and open mouths.

“Ah.” Vardil twirled a drumstick between his fingers. For a man so well-groomed, table manners seemed non-existent to him. “The hero. He must already consider it pretty dire to make such a decision.”

Oddor dabbed his lips with a white napkin. “Perhaps.”

“It is said…” Vardil raised his voice so the table would hear him clearly, though it was unnecessary, “that there is a belief that heroes fight when hope is dim…”

“…And gods, when hope is gone,” Ezril completed before he could stop himself.

“You know of the Nornavoth dissidents, Father Antari?” Vardil asked, clearly surprised.

Ezril wondered where he had heard it. Oh, he remembered. The winter test. Most of his odd knowledge came from a single man; a single old man.

“No, I’m afraid I do not.” he told the commander. “I simply knew a person who took certain interests in the ways of the dissidents.”

“I see,” Vardil observed, his words muffled by the food in his mouth. “Well,” he continued. “They also believe that their gods should not be asked for help, but that their actions should honor them.”

“Heathen nonsense,” Oddor snorted.

“True,” Vardil admitted, then laughed. “They also believe in a man who fights with a hammer and calls down lightening from the sky.”

This time Oddor laughed. “A hammer in battle? A mere weapon for the forge. Hilarious.”

Ezril sipped his wine. “Perhaps it is a belief founded in some truth.”

All the heads at the table turned to him and a shocked silence fell.

“It is the way it is, even with rumors,” he continued without missing a beat. “There is usually truth, if one cares to look. Perhaps somewhere in their history there was a blacksmith who was Tainted and could call down lightening from the sky.”

“Yes.” Ricktar laughed bitterly. “And the king can summon the trees from Vayla.”

Ezril looked at the commander in a daze, somewhat disappointed at the man’s choice of words.

Lord Oddor turned to him. “I didn’t take you for a Polymath, Father Antari.”

And we wouldn’t have pegged Salem for an exorcist, Ezril thought, but said, “No, My Lord. I am an Evangelist.”

“Oh.”

There was a brief silence. When Oddor spoke again, he seemed slightly excited.

“After this, we will have the famous Amnifat soup,” he informed them. “We have a cook that hails from that region. And she is excellent at making it. I assure you all, one taste, and you will want more of it.”

They remained seated a while longer, eating in silence. Only when the plates on their table were empty did the Lord Commander ring a bell he extricated from beside his chair.

Three maids trooped in, amongst them was Loren. They cleared the table in a practiced speed and disappeared from the room. A while later, Loren returned carrying a tray with seven bowls of soup on it, each she placed before each man. Ezril spared her a questioning look, unable to comprehend why she had lingered while setting his. However, she moved on, oblivious to his gaze.

Finally, Oddor asked the question that had been on Ezril’s mind since he stepped into the room.

“I do not see Captain Arloc. Is he still with us?”

“No,” one of the captains who Ezril identified as Fulrik, a man of Tarc heritage, answered. “We lost him in the ambush. Rest assured, those Merdendi savages will pay for what they have done.”

We killed theirs and they’ve killed ours. Ezril sipped his now almost empty cup of wine. There is no payment to be made.

…………………………

The Amnifat soup was a swampy green but was not without its appeal. It possessed no aroma of its own. Even as Ezril observed it, he could smell nothing to hint at its taste. He took a spoonful, lacking expectation, and swallowed.

For all the Lord Commander’s praise it proved rather disappointing to him. However, it did bear a taste nostalgic to Ezril. He took another spoon. And then another, trying to place the taste. It was something he hadn’t tasted in a long time, a time even before he joined the seminary. It wasn’t a sweet taste; neither could he call it bitter. It was just a taste he was fond of. It brought to mind old memories of forest nights, and rustling trees, and chirping birds, and croaking frogs.

“I know it’s quite palatable, Father Antari, but do try to take it in strides,” Oddor joked.

Ezril stopped himself, unaware of how he had drained his bowl half way. The others didn’t seem to have taken more than four spoons of theirs. Perhaps they’d barely even had a chance to taste it.

Then he realized the soup had something of an aftertaste.

It was wrong and completely disturbing. It had been a while since he had felt anything similar to it. Ezril reached for his cup of wine as his stomach churned. Darkness clawed at the edges of his vision. The light from the oil lanterns in the room did nothing to dissuade it. Somehow, the cup seemed farther than he remembered. His surroundings slowed. Before he reached his cup, he heard the first thud. His gaze turned. Sluggish in its transit, it met Captain Ricktar’s head face down in his bowl.

Ezril didn’t need to turn to know who had fallen when the clattering came from another part of the table. It heralded another thud.

The Lord commander had gone down, sprawled out on the floor, knocking his bowl down with him.

Darvi tried to rise, and stumbled. “W…what is this?” he sputtered, knocking his bowl aside. The action seemed to take all the strength out of him. “P… poi… poison,” he managed, then went down with his words.

The door burst open, immediately, and Loren rushed in.

“G… get Doctor Nixarv,” Ezril commanded, rising from his seat with difficulty. Whatever poison it was made him strain. “T… there w… was something in… in the soup.” His breaths grew labored and made speech a tasking ordeal.

Loren stood there, watching him, a bit confused.

“L…Loren—”

He smelled it then and it silenced him, strong and choking in the air…

Blood.

He focused his attention on her. There was no doubt in his mind. The smell came from her, strong and putrid, yet she bore no stain of it. He staggered back, knocking his chair to the floor.

“You should not be standing,” Loren said, her voice venomous, slow.

She surveyed the rest of the table. Seeming pleased with what she saw, she returned her attention to him then pulled a dagger from a slit in her gown.

When she spoke again, her voice was a piercing guttural shriek and she was nothing of the maid who took care of his room. “You should not be standing!”