Minas Tirith, the Lord's Manor.
The former temporary command post had been transformed into a grand, lavish banquet hall.
The sounds of lutes and bagpipes echoed through the hall, woven together with the melodies of harps and hand drums into a hymn to the warriors.
The air mingled with the smoky aroma of fat dripping from whole roasting sheep, the rich malt fragrance of rye beer, and the sweat of several hundred grown men.
Blazing torches mounted on the dais lit every inch of the room as brightly as daylight, their flickering flames making the shadows seem to celebrate the victory.
Thirty long tables had been pushed together, stretching from one end of the hall to the other.
This naturally divided the hall into three sections.
At the outermost tables sat the merchant guild members and junior civil officials who had contributed money and effort but had not taken the field. They raised their cups and talked and laughed loudly, their faces brimming with joy and anticipation of future wealth.
The middle section held the knights, officers, and vassals of Dawn Territory who had fought in the battle. Fresh from a resounding victory, they gathered to boast of their valor on the battlefield or discuss how to divide up the captured Many-Armed Folk laborers. The atmosphere was exuberant, the noise deafening.
"To our lord!"
Someone shouted the first toast.
"To our lord!"
Hundreds of copper cups rose at once, clanging together and spilling drink everywhere.
They had every reason to be happy.
They had survived, they had won, and they had won magnificently.
Those terrifying, savage monsters of the deep were now fertilizer in the mud.
There was no reason for anyone not to rejoice over that.
Yet in the innermost section, closest to the seat of honor, the atmosphere