Their numbers had been reduced to so few after the battle. The Crows were never a great force to be reckoned with, but now, by Shlomo's calculations, there were less than a hundred of them.

Worse yet, they had no master anymore, neither was Giradin around any longer to take his place. Shlomo wondered if maybe there were few enough Crows remaining that they might not need a leader. But the more he thought of it, the more he recalled the arguments and chaos of his hometown whenever the rabbi was away. Men with opinions fought constantly, especially if they had no authority to look to.

It's like herding cats...

On the plus side, the food and alcohol stored in the cellars under the monastery (which had miraculously remained untouched during the battle) were now more than enough to ensure that every member of the order got his fill.

So, as Shlomo sat in the quiet dining hall with the few remaining Crows, he helped himself to an extra loaf of bread, three extra wedges of cheese, and four mugs of dark beer. Yes, it occurred to him that he could try to ration the food and drink in case they had a particularly rough winter, but he hardly saw the point.

"Enjoying the perks of losing so many people?" Fulk asked as he plopped down into the seat next to Shlomo with a modest plate.

"We find enjoyment wherever and whenever we can," said Shlomo with a smile. "Yes, countless good people died recently, including the greatest goy I've ever known. But, for the moment, that just means more booze for us." Shlomo raised his mug. "L'chaim!"

Fulk had neither mug of beer nor bottle of mead before him. His cup was full of well water.

Not like Fulk to refuse a drink... what's wrong with him?

Shlomo took a good look at Fulk. The burn scars were as disfiguring as ever, making an already ugly face that much uglier. But the blackness in his veins, which always showed through his skin, appeared to be mostly faded. It was now just a light gray.

Now that Shlomo thought about it, it had been a long time since he'd seen Fulk eat anything. Sure, his plate was modest, but he was eating nonetheless.

Was he still Fulk inside?

"I imagine we'll have to start recruiting again," said Shlomo. "Probably conscripting, really. I doubt people will want to join us willingly after... you know... the battle. We can conscript a nice young man for you to bugger."

Shlomo prepared to dodge should Fulk take a swing at him. Normally, Fulk would.

"That's not funny," was all Fulk said, tearing off another piece of bread and eating it.

"Oh? Would you prefer to bugger old men?" Shlomo asked.

Fulk rolled his eyes. "You're trying to pi... to get me mad. Stop it."

Shlomo leaned back from his friend, giving him a skeptical look. He just wasn't Fulk without coarse swearing and a fierce temper. Shlomo might have just shrugged it off as an emotional reaction to recent events, were it not for the fact that certain recent events included people becoming possessed by spirits.

The doors flew open and all eyes turned while Sir Emeric and Sir Cristoff walked into the dining hall. Sir Emeric continued to the front of the room while Sir Cristoff took a seat next to Shlomo and Fulk.

"You're still here?" Shlomo asked. "I thought you two would have gone back to Templar headquarters by now."

Sir Cristoff shook his head. "We've been re-assigned. I'm still keeping record of these events, Sir Emeric is..."

Now at the front of the room, Sir Emeric reached into the pouch on his belt and produced a scroll of paper with the Papal seal on it. "Good day, everyone. As of this moment, by order of the Pope, I, Sir Emeric of the Knights Templar, am the new Master of the Order of St. Giradin of Elekvaz."