“It’s good when one’s people can exalt and amuse you at the same time, eh, Peregriff?”
“Truly, Lord.” Debating which expression would be suitable for the moment, the general settled on a slight smile.
There were no further interruptions, mirth-provoking or otherwise, as they descended the rest of the way to the main floor. Exiting the great hall, they emerged into another of the warm, spectacular days for which Ehl-Larimar was famed. Below the mountain to which the fortress clung, the city and harbor and ocean beyond spread out in three directions, a vision of consummate municipal harmony over which Hymneth the Possessed wielded unchallenged dominion.
Drawn up in three parallel lines before the castle entrance was his household guard, a small regiment of cavalry maintained by him and kept separate from the realm’s regular army and police. As soon as his tall, overawing figure appeared in the arched portico of the castle’s entrance, horns and drums struck up a welcoming tattoo.
With Peregriff hurrying to keep up, Hymneth strode forward to inspect the first line of fighters. Watching his master, the general could not help but feel that he was preoccupied.
Nevertheless, Hymneth moved down the first line of mounted soldiers with his eyes set left and not wandering. Peregriff noted that he scrutinized each and every individual fighter from boot to crested helmet. In any emergency or ultimate showdown, these were the men and women who had sworn to lay down their lives for him. There was no place in the household guard of the Possessed for slackers.