Asag squeezed his hand onto the crenelated stone of the battlements, the roughstone biting into his palm. High above the valley floor, the winds howled and yelled, snapping the silk banners of the League with a sound like rhythmic whip-cracks.
Ahead of the Legate's vision, the horizon was a forest of enemy heraldry. The Golden Sun of Oizen burned with a false heat; the Cock of Ezvania sang a silent, arrogant tune; the Charging Bull of Kakunia strained against its poles; and the Twin Towers of Habadia stood like a looming promise of subjugation.
They were like mushrooms sprouting on a green field of grass. So many it seemed they spread from the very ground.
Asag deigned to look at those banners with the same cold indifference he reserved for the contents of his chamberpot at the day's end. It mattered little how proud they flew; they would all end in the same gutter.
This castle was not theirs. They had no place here and they were not welcomed.
