Dion found that she was smiling, because abruptly she did not feel judged. Here was a champion of the Light who cared about ends more than means. It felt weirdly refreshing to come here to the blood-slicked gears and workings of the war between Light and Dark, where strict adherence to dogma was a luxury they could not afford.

Perhaps I will retire here, when this is done. In the unlikely event that is an option.

There was a mess room they were taken to, a windowless chamber where a mob of off-duty soldiers were drinking beer, singing, fighting, and exchanging lewd propositions. They were living, Cyrene thought. They might be dead in a few days, they would very likely be dead within a month. Here, away from the walls and the Bone Vice and the threat of the Dark, they were doing their best to wring a little more joy from this grim and desperate posting.

She found a table tenanted only by a couple of soldiers whose drinking had carried them past consciousness, nudging the occupants until they slid away to the floor. Dion was not with them, needless to say—she had gone to their chambers to meditate after giving them all stern instructions to keep an eye on Enth. Penthos, whose eye that should have been, had stated he was going to cast mighty divinations to determine the disposition of the enemy but, as far as Cyrene could tell, was actually just mooning moodily about the battlements, no doubt trying to pluck up the courage to go and see if Dion knew any meditations made for two. The rest of them had repaired for a drink. After all, if anyone was facing almost certain death in the very near future, it was them.

Cyrene sat herself down gingerly, hoping that the damp was at least mostly spilled beer rather than body fluids. Enth perched himself on a stool, flinching from the roar and bustle of the place, hood still defiantly up.

“We’ll head out with their scouts tomorrow at dusk, they say,” Harathes said, pushing in beside her. “They’ve seen some new musters outside the walls of Cad Usgath, and they need to go take a look. This could be it, they think.”

Cyrene nodded. “Probably, the way our luck’s gone.”

Lief arrived then, cutting through the press by using his elbows as crowbars. “Beer for the heroes!” he announced, his hands full of mugs. “And blimey, but I feel like I’ve arm-wrestled Darvezian just getting this to you.” He slid the mugs out.

All around them, the defenders of Cad Nereg drank and danced and punched each other in the face in a comradely way, and Cyrene was content to sit back and watch it, save that Harathes would keep coming out with pronouncements about how doomed they were, usually after finishing a mug.