They laid the bodies in the great tomb that Nisrioch had erected over a decade ago, after all the fighting, and covered them with their black cloaks. Grizzel looked at his fellows, then shut his eyes. "Lady, guide them to thee."
The other members of the Guard gave a formal nod, and several of the Ogres began to sing an old chant of theirs in the variation of the Dark Tongue that their sages and priests called their own. Grizzel let the tones wash over him, and felt old. Another one dead, who joined in the heady days when the Cthoniques had been recovering from Lord Shaddad's misrule, and Grizzel was still here.
The Goblin shook his head. Where else was he going to be? He had fought for this family, and he was willing to keep on fighting for it--for the family and what it believed in. And he was needed now. Even if the Guard was bigger than it had been in years, they were still so few, spread so thin, needed in so many places...
Sacripant walked quietly to his side. "So... we going back over the river after this?"
Grizzel nodded. "Yes, but not to Montalban. Something's happened in Talossa."
The Marsh Erl frowned. "That's one of the ones without some nobleman in charge, right?"
"A councilar city," noted Grizzel. "They're sort of like Things. Only... smaller. And generally they don't have terms."
Sacripant shook his head. "Milesians are so very weird."
"Just don't mention that to them," said Grizzel. "I knew them both, you know. Especially the Ogre."
"You know all the Guard, Serjeant," said Sacripant. "It's why you're in charge."
"Yes, but, Hymir was... well, not a friend, exactly..."
"You're feeling old," said Sacripant quietly. He sighed. "Come on, I'll get Quiet, and we'll head to the Folly for a drink, if you don't mind."
Grizzel considerd things. "I don't. I really don't."