The Fallen Camp

“I'm in.” you resolve, taking the proffered the bottle and supping from it. “Tell me what we're doing.”

“You know what?” Roland decides suddenly. “Perhaps I'm better off showing you.”

-

Under cover of night, you and Roland slip out of the castle, taking Roland's steed, a sturdy workhorse, just about the only thing that could support a man of his size, and moving inland.

“So Madeleine got what was coming to her.” Roland remarks. “Allsire, that shit got me actually respecting the giantess, so it did.”

“I imagine Madeleine'll think twice before taunting someone so much bigger than her.” you admit. “You still want her as your ****, when Arinum's taken over?”

“Maybe.” Roland shrugs, the reins loose in his powerful hands. “She always talk that much?”

“Indeed. It's rather her thing.” you tell your cousin.

“Hmmph. Maybe I'd be better off finding me another consort.” The Shark decides. “Besides, I'm growing fond of that southerner, Solla, lately.”

As you ride into the night, Roland regales you with tales of his conquest of the war-mistress, how he had fucked her for hours before the battle...

-

Roland guides the horse into a wooded area, revealing a modestly sized Deanian camp. The place was liberally sprinkled with dead raiders.

“What's so important we had to come all this way?” you ask, as Roland dismounts and helps you down carefully.

“My warband stumbled on these unfortunate fuckers on the way back. Cut them down, to a man!” The Shark begins to explain. “Don't know if they were stragglers, cut off from Hjordis' forces or just didn't fancy continuing to serve in Einar's little crusade, but we dealt with them.”

“Very impressive.” you respond glibly.

“Ah but don't you see? Look at all this armour, the weapons of Deanian make. The ship.” Roland gestures down to the river, where one of the unique Deanian longships, complete with its serpentine figurehead, is anchored.

“I'm sure a man of your... upstanding character's heard of a false flag attack before.” Roland grins.

“That I have. But... who exactly would we be targeting, dressed up as raiders?”

“I heard tell that just a few miles up the river, there's a Beathan stronghold. Something like a temple to one of their gods. Word in the camp is, the White Torch took it back off the Deanians as we were heading back. Plenty of relics and other religious treasures for the taking.”

“The Spirits aren't gods.” you correct him.

“How the fuck would you know?” Roland chuckles. “What, just cause you're married to a Beathan you're suddenly an expert on their culture?”

“I-I know what I'm talking about, trust me.” you slur, thinking back on your expedition into the mountains. “They have power, but they're certainly not gods.”

“Fine, gods, spirits, whatever.” The Shark shrugs.

“Hjordis didn't have this temple picked clean while her forces occupied it?”

“Ah, you know the giantess, cousin.” Roland responds. “Kind of treasure Hjordis prefers walks and talks, can work a field, not just glitter. She focused on shipping off thralls to her lands, or selling them to Haakon in the north, from what we can tell.”

“Sounds like she'd get on well with Aunt Arvha.” you quip.

“Heh. Makes you wonder if we're on the right side of this war, doesn't it?” Roland guffaws. “Deanians seem far less soft than the Beathans.”

“Too late to change sides now.” you chuckle.

“Corinne's up there already, scouting the place out, seeing how many men the White Torch've left behind. She'll tell us before we attack.”

“I don't mean to spoil your plan cousin, but I'm not sure the two of us could sail this thing.” you say, nodding to the longship.

“Won't just be us. I've got some men on standby, should be able to pass for Deanians well enough.”

“I'm not sure I like the idea of non-family members seeing me do something like this.” you protest.

“'Ave no fear, Edward.” Roland says confidently, slicing his thumb across his neck. These blokes'll never tell another soul.”

-

While Roland briefly departs to bring his men, you pick through the camp. The raiders had seemingly fought well, but had not been able to withstand Roland's strength. Venturing into a tent, you find carved whalebone figurines, beset with runes, displayed with prominence throughout the dwelling.

You pick one up, running your fingers across it, tracing the fine lines and intricate craftsmanship. Given the Deanian's tendency towards ancestor worship, you surmised these were representations of raiders past, the forefathers of the men killed in the camp.

You toss the totem into the dirt and continue on your way. Eventually, you find a black cloak, replete with a hood, that should do an adequate job disguising your fine clothing.

“You boys'd better be ready for some bloodletting!” you hear Roland announce, as he strides back into the camp with four men at his heel.

“Watch out, one of them still lives!” One of the mercenaries calls out in panic upon seeing you, going for his blade.

“Peace lads, he's with us.” Roland declares. “Find yourselves some armour, something to whack the Beathans with, then we'll be off.”

As you hobble over to Roland, you catch the newcomers eyeing your peculiar gait.

“Always knew that Edward was a wrong'un.” One of Roland's troops, a squat man with thinning ginger hair whispers to his nearest comrade as they set about looking for disguises

“Aye, must be why the gods gave 'im that limp.” the other, a shifty sort with fewer teeth than fingers responds.

“Truly brought along your finest, hmmm?” you whisper to Roland.

“My most expendable.” The Shark counters. “Corinne and I'll be doing most of the killing. All we need these mummers for is sailing the river and loading the loot into the ship. Then...”

Roland mimes slicing his throat once more.