The supper began at sunset, and lasted well past midnight. There was plenty of food; smoked fish and roast pork and bread baked fresh daily by the castle's own bakers, boiled eggs and sweet cream and honey cakes. Wine flowed freely. There was an echo in the hall as they chewed their food. There was no music, unlike the great feast they had had only a week ago when Ser Mahdek arrived at Edenfell. No singers or dancers made merry amidst the tables and chairs; only silence and the sounds of chewing.
Lord Ghultramort was the host of the evening meal. A small round man with thinning gray hair, he had served as commander of the Grayguard for twenty years now. Even after all this time, he still took pains to look impressive, even if he never quite managed it. He wore a chainmail hauberk studded with silver coins, and a jeweled dagger hilt protruded from his belt. He walked stiffly about the hall like some huge armored beetle, his head held up proudly and his gaze fixed firmly ahead. Yet somehow he found the courage to make speeches.
"We are gathered here tonight because we share common cause," he declared. "I would speak briefly of the history of the Grayguard, lest any doubt how far removed from the world these mountains have kept us. It was four hundred years ago that King Hharald Ironheart led his people across the narrow sea, seeking new lands where none had gone before. We the Grayguard, and built a fortress atop the crags overlooking its harbor. From those heights we watched over the seas around us, keeping watch against the enemies who sought to destroy us. But we were not content to stand alone. Two centuries later, we joined hands with the High Lords of Westmere and Northmere to build a mighty fleet to protect our precious realm. Twenty ships sailed forth to join forces with Prince Rholf the First. Together we raided deep into the heart of the old islands, laying waste wherever we went. Our plunder filled the coffers of our Prince, while the glory of our deeds spread throughout Westmere and The Land of the Real. That was two hundred years ago, yet the fame of our exploits lives on today. Many think me mad when I tell them my forebears set sail aboard the Gray Ship, but then they do not know her tale."
Ghultramort paused. His pale blue eyes glittered fiercely as he stared out over the faces of his guests. "That ship carried us through the night, sailing under stars brighter than any seen since the dawning of days, until she came to rest beyond the reach of mortal men. The ship stands there still, black and forbidding beneath the cold north wind. Three times the Grayguard Fleet sailed westward. The Gray Ship did not come home. Her crew died on the sands below the Fist of God, and the Grayguard banner was left floating above their graves. Those banners fly still, high overhead. As long as we live, we must remain vigilant. For war comes sooner or later, whether we seek it or flee from it. If we are wise, we shall choose the former course. Tonight we feast, drink wine, and enjoy ourselves. Tomorrow morning our swords shall be unsheathed once more."
He raised his goblet in salute to Ser Mahdek. "For you, Ser," Ghultramort said, smiling tightly, "we give thanks for your many victories and your wisdom.”
Mahdek nodded gravely.
After everyone had spoken, Lord Ghultramort cleared his throat. "If I might ask..."
"By all means, My Lord," Mahdek replied.
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“Have you had the curse of crossing paths with a Half-Dead in your days?” asked Lord Ghultramort.
“A few.”
“And how big of a threat would you say the Half-Dead are?"
"They eat flesh, drink blood, and their breath is of shadows."
Lord Ghultramort glanced over his shoulder nervously at the two priests standing behind him. He saw that neither was moving. Neither was breathing either, nor speaking, yet somehow they managed to convey the impression of listening intently. His gaze returned quickly to Ser Mahdek, whose voice sounded oddly flat and lifeless.
"What should be done?”
“Nothing can be done.”
“There are ways to destroy them for good,” Lord Ghultramort said. “They are only half-dead, afterall. By my math, they can be half-killed.”
“The best we can do is protect the land of men from the Half-Dead King,” he said. “The rest of the Half-Dead who live in The Land of the Real beyond the islands are like shadows. There is no finding them. Nothing to be done.”
Lord Ghultramort considered for a moment before starting: “Once you become a Lord, you'll find yourself faced with enemies everywhere. Enemies of all kinds. Some will attack you directly; others indirectly, perhaps by using someone close to you. In such cases, the first step is to identify those who wish you harm and cut off their heads. Then, when you think about it, you may decide that you don't really need them anymore. After you make sure they're dead, you can look back on your life and wonder why you ever needed anyone at all. And if you happen to discover that you never truly knew the people around you, well... well, maybe you just haven't been paying attention. If you do find out later that you were wrong about anything important, then you can always start again. Maybe you can learn more before making another mistake. Or maybe you'll finally understand that there isn't any way to avoid mistakes entirely, except through death. As long as you keep living, sooner or later, you'll end up regretting the past and worrying about the future. What else can you expect? Life goes on until the very last second comes, and then it ends. All you can hope for is that you did enough right to pass on into the afterlife, leaving behind no regrets. Otherwise, you're left with nothing but a body to rot and bones to crumble. You could try to hide, run away, deny reality, and pretend that you aren't dying, but eventually you'd be forced to face facts. Your own mortality, and the fact that time is running short. Death doesn't wait for you. Time has no patience. It moves too fast, and once gone, it's lost forever. So you must accept whatever happens. Even if it hurts, you mustn't flinch. For better or worse, you must go forward boldly, knowing full well that you are mortal, and therefore limited, and thus destined to fail. Only the gods know what awaits us in our final moments, but we can prepare ourselves for it by trying to leave behind a legacy of deeds and words worthy of remembrance. And if you manage to accomplish something great, then you might even get to meet your maker! I doubt that most mortals will ever come near meeting Him, however, unless they have achieved immortality. Such a feat would require far greater strength than mere human flesh possesses, especially considering how weak we are compared to other creatures. Still, I suppose it's possible."
He paused briefly, allowing himself a satisfied smile. "I believe that’s enough wine for me."
Ser Mahdek nodded thoughtfully
"So long as they abide by our laws," said Lord Ghultramort, "they can be ignored; forgotten. A shame, though. One day they will kill us all, once they have their chance."
Mahdek smiled. "Then there can be no law."
Somehow, Lord Ghultramort found that difficult to believe. But then, he reflected later, how could he possibly prove otherwise?