The Cruellest

"April, she is here," announces Stearns. Wolff looks up. Indeed, April is here. It is time, and reluctantly, slowly, he draws the crystal-clear blade of the Dauntless.

"Don John's haunting, and his hounds have strayed," says Keith. Wolff sharpens his sword. It once belonged to Bishop William of ancient fame, and its name is Perdurias.

A decapitation strike, Wolff thinks. It must be that, or nothing. Who is complicit? All, especially the river-horse and the periwinkle. The magnates have agreed. It's time.

"It's time, boys, it's time," sings Stearns through the barrier. "And many a one grows witless in his acquired room in hell," replies Keith. Wolff nods slowly; it is time.

"Only on a crownless throne, a nameless," whispers Keith. "Fear in a handful of dust," hisses Stearns. It is time it is time. Trumpet that sayeth ha! Domino gloria! Donjon.

I shall break their bonds asunder. I shall break them with a rod of iron. Lean and foolish knight. Human voices waking. Echoes. Datta, dayadhvam, damyata. Cervantes, sultans.

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Note: The fictional adventures of Sir Wolff do provide much that is of interest. You can find them linked here. Just ignore the one about earwax. That was an accident.