Guardsman Harren had drawn gate duty on the worst night of the year, but he was determined to make the best of it.
"The way I see it," he said, stamping his feet against the frozen flagstones and pulling his heavy cloak tighter around the mail underneath. "Is that every man at the feast tonight is going to eat his fill, drink till heâs blind, and leave half of it on the table."
"Noblemen always do, Harren said sagely. "They take three bites of each course to show theyâve got taste and leave the rest for the dogs."
"Weâre not dogs, Harren," his companion said from the other side of the gate. The other man to draw the short straw tonight was a younger man named Pol, whose nose had gone red from the cold and whose breath rose in thick white plumes that caught the torchlight.
Heâd only joined the Lothian Guard this summer when his mother told him that she was done feeding a child whoâd grown taller than her, and he could either come home with a wife and a grandchild on the way or a job to pay his share. Of the two, heâd rather have found a wife, but few women were interested in a penniless boy whoâd failed out of three apprenticeships before heâd turned twenty.
The Lothian Guard, however, had plenty of opportunities for a young man who knew how to take a beating and get back up afterwards, and Polâs mother had given him plenty of practice at that.
"No, but we know people who are," Harren said with a grin that showed a gap where a drunken knightâs fist had knocked out two of his teeth five summers ago following a spectacular tournament loss. "My wifeâs cousin works in the kitchens. Sheâll set aside the best scraps for us so long as I keep my promise to give her boy a go with the practice swords in the training yard next week."
"Thatâs bribery," Pol said, staring at his older companion in disbelief.
"Thatâs initiative," Harren corrected. "You want to stand here all night freezing your tackle off with nothing to show for it, or do you want a plate of whatever the lords didnât finish and a warm ale to wash it down?" the veteran guardsman asked.
"Because Iâll tell you, lad," Harren continued. "The men who drew the inside posts are going to pick the tables clean before weâre even off our shift tonight."
"I suppose," Pol conceded the point with a miserable nod and went back to blowing on his fingers.
The night was quiet beyond the usual sounds of a city preparing for a celebration. Distant music drifted from the alehouses near the market square, and the occasional shout of revelry echoed off the stone walls, but the streets around the manor were deserted.
Everyone who mattered was already inside, dressed in their finest and jockeying for position at the feast tables. Everyone who didnât matter was either at home or keeping their heads down in an alehouse while praying that Lord Owainâs men didnât find a reason to notice them.
"Did you hear?" Pol asked, deliberately changing the subject away from thoughts of food and warm, comfortable places where ale flowed like the water of the River Luath. "They say that anyone caught makinâ trouble is getting pressed into service to fight the demons this winter. Thatâs why theyâve rounded up so many since Lord Bors died."
"Hogâs spit," Harren said with a snort. "Press a bunch of drunkards and troublemakers in and expect âem to fight in the cold? Theyâd break ranks at the first sight of a demonâs horns peeking over a bush. Stupid nonsense. Lord Owainâs harsh, but heâs a demon-slayer, through and through. He wonât throw fresh-pressed men into battle unless he wants chaos on his field."
"No," Harren said, losing his ability to be cheerful as a cold settled over him that had nothing to do with the weather. "If anyone has to fight the demons this winter, itâll be lads like you and old salts like me," he said with a heavy sigh that turned into a cloud of frost that slowly drifted away from him on the gentle winter breeze.
"I, Iâve never fought demons," Pol said, clinging tightly to the spear in his hand as if he needed the support to keep his knees from buckling at the thought of fighting demons instead of drunkards.
"Is it, is it true that theyâll eat a manâs flesh while heâs still alive to feel it? And that they carve off his m-manhood to take as a trophy?" Pol asked, pretending that the cold was to blame for the tremble in his voice as he struggled to get his words out around the lump that formed in his throat.
"Pfft, who told you that nonsense?" Harren said. "Itâs winter. Demons starved enough to come and raid might be desperate, but they wonât devour your foul hide. They might spill your guts on the snow," he added, as if that was somehow reassuring. "But youâll die a man, thatâs for sure."
"Th-thanks," Pol said, even though it wasnât that comforting. "I j-just hope we donât have to fight this winter... Iâll take night shift for a year if I donât have to go to war."
"No one gets to choose that, lad," Harren said, doing his best to console the new recruit. "Best you can do is to find yourself a pretty lass to spend your silver on and hope that when the time comes, you do well enough to earn a sovereign or two."
"A bit of gold in your purse can be enough to start a family, you know," Harren added. "Buy yourself a little place outside the city walls and go home to a good woman and a warm bed on your free days... You just have to get through the fighting and keep yourself from dying first, and then you can live a right good life."
"I, I donât know if I can do it," Pol stammered before dropping his voice low. "Not now that Lord Owain is in charge. He... he might be the death of me before the demons are."