Count Bernat de Montdiable hasn't had a good hunt since the start of this accursed war, and you can't expect a man to put it off forever, not when there's boar in the wood bigger than horses. He has his priests and wizards bless him before he goes, and he takes his guards and his better wizards off with him, he's no fool. Since those guns came in, a man needs protection if he's not to be shot in the back by his own serfs. It's his great passion, after thirty-second century statuary. (Every man has his tastes.)
It's a fine haul he brings back, three wagons of pig corpses with lance- and arrow- wounds over their hides. A slave tells him the latest statues he ordered have arrived, the crate's in the great hall by the door, and he waves the corpses over to the kitchens and rides in - it's on a palanquin, padded so the crate didn't slip, and he nods and with his wizard a step behind him walks into the hall.