the Thursday before Whitsun, at Vespers
The new sergeant docked my pay for a speck of rust on my blade. Captain Michael never would have done that. I freeze up on the mint wall all day watching for Hungarian banners, and this is the thanks I get. God's wounds.
Nota scribaeThe boy could not stand still while he spoke, shifting from foot to foot like a startled horse.

Michael was a true captain. We all feel his absence.
I will buy you an ale tonight, lad. Keep your head down.