A frozen wind nagged at the flaps of the square tent. The sudden storm spat gobbets of ice against the canvas walls, accompanying the crackle of the small fire with an incessant drumming. Though pegged to the ground, the walls of the tent lifted a finger’s width, admitting a zephyr that glided across the floor.

Maelgrim sat on a camp-stool, massaging a bruise on the side of his face. His mail—rent and twisted in many places—lay at the foot of his sleeping pallet. Snowflakes slowly turned to dull dewdrops across the steel rings, promising hours of polishing later. The Welshman glared at the offending flakes, as if by his outrage he could somehow prevent the rust.

A procession of discarded armor in various states of abuse trailed the hauberk until it met with another set of armor—this one composed primarily of stamped and riveted leather. From Maelgrim’s battered greaves to Cynara’s now-dented halfhelm, the floor of the tent was a disarray that told the bellicose story of the preceding day as plainly as if a minstrel perched in the corner and sang in rhyming couplets.

Maelgrim glanced at his wife’s sleeping pallet, where Lady Cynara lay bandaged and sleeping—in convalescence. Though her hurts had not been as grievous as some sustained that day, she had been stricken by no less than three Azathoth hordesmen who had seen their chance to dispatch a lone archer before her demand for parley.

Grimacing, he pushed cold-stiffened feet into his boots—plain black campaign boots rather than his tall crimson riding footwear. His arming doublet, now shredded throughout, had been replaced by a plain linen shirt and a pleated houppelande the color of evergreen needles. Throwing a grey, fur-trimmed cloak over his shoulders, he took a last look at his wife and stepped outside the tent.

A page—shivering with both cold and exhaustion—buckled Bitterthorn to the Welsh knight’s side as he exited the tent. Maelgrim’s searching eyes found Lantz’s pavilion not far away, and he strode across the frost-cracked ground towards it. Touching a cluster of bells at the entrance and waiting for a few heartbeats, he stepped inside.

There he found Herr Lantz, Ser Owen, and Conrad Hohenstaufen. Rain stood in the corner puffing on a short pipe. Tiny streamers of smoke trailed towards the ceiling of the pavilion. Rain himself—bandaged across the torso and displaying an angry scar on his sword arm, stood bare-chested as if he disdained the cold.

“Late as ever, I see,” gibed Owen. “Were you asleep?”

Maelgrim rolled his eyes. “Let us begin, then.”

Conrad placed his hands flat on his knees and looked at each of the knights squarely in turn as he spoke. “It is plain that neither of our peoples would benefit by these continued hostilities,” he began. “Though we will not subject ourselves to your rule in these lands, neither will we seek further war.”

Silence reigned for several moments before Owen spoke. “How may I sleep secure tonight upon your word alone?” His tone grew harsher. “As I recall, a messenger of ours went missing when we delivered our terms to you before. The people of Sanctus Azathoth have not proven themselves to be the flower of nobility.”

Hohenstaufen’s visage hardened for an instant, but relaxed. “As to your messenger, I truly say that I do not know what happened. It may be that some of our colonists proved over-zealous in defendse of our new home. But it is not usually our way to attack a man under flag of truce.” He arched an eyebrow. “Else I would not sit here.”

“Peace,” Lantz answered. “We accuse you of nothing in this matter,” he said, with a pointed glance at Owen. “And it is true that we desire no further battle between our two peoples this season.”

Maelgrim nodded. Already, the more enthusiastic warriors from both sides were claiming victory in this struggle—as if such a word applied to the bloody standstill in which the colonists and the mercenaries had found themselves. But those few were far outnumbered by the rest, who wished nothing more than to return home, rest and feast.

“Very well, then.” The Lord Castellan extended a hand. “Let this moment mark the beginning of our truce. We shall send word to our kingdom in the east that we have negotiated peace for the time being.”

All present answered their assent, and the two hordesmen left without further discussion.

*          *          *          *          *

Rain shook his head as he left the mercenaries’ encampment. Not far away, his horse waited, ready to carry him back to his own tent, and some measure of comfort.

“How can you abide it?” he finally asked Conrad. “What a nest of over-stuffed popinjays! Never in my life have I met men so in love with their own knighthood! Better to kill them all now and have done with it.”

“That may prove more difficult than the mere speech of it,” Conrad answered easily. “No, we will hold to our agreement and send word to Praelia.” He frowned, then. “If nothing else, these folk make good use of their armor. When next we travel to Praelia, we should speak with an armorsmith.”

Rain snorted. “Very well. I’ll meet you back at camp.” So saying, he sprinted the remaining distance to his horse and was soon lost to sight, galloping to the east.

*          *          *          *          *

Owen waited for several moments, sipping mulled wine and gathering the sleeves of his generous red houppelande around himself before he finally spoke. “Do you think they truly mean to have peace with us?”

“Now?” Maelgrim asked. “For a certainty. Next week? Who may say? Who knows what the future will bring? I suspect they are right now discussing the best way to defeat a hilltop-testudo. As for us, I have some thoughts on how to proceed from here.”

Lantz and Owen shared a knowing glance. “That comes as small marvel to us. Speak on—as if we could stop you with less than a noose.”

At that, Maelgrim grinned, drawing a book and a box full of small wooden figurines from underneath his cloak. Placing the figurines in formation positions upon a low table, he began to speak. “Now, Tacitus says of the Romans fighting the barbarians of Germania--”

Owen rolled his eyes and settled lower on his cushion for a long night.

Finis