Setia had grown up in camps like these and had coped with the intrusive uncles, the strenuous training, and the stress of war. It was her world, something she was familiar with.
From the graying tent, which had probably once been green, a dark-haired woman ran out, right in front of Setia's horse, clutching her cheek. Blood seeped from between her fingers; with her other hand, she clutched the shreds of her blouse, trying to cover her bare breasts. Setia reined in her mount to prevent her from being trampled. A young man with long, curly hair and a scar on his cheek emerged from behind the tent. He was wearing only trousers. She knew him; he had been with Rosnar in her castle. He glanced at Setia and bowed courteously. Setia continued on, ignoring his gesture. She stopped her horse in the main square, and Rosnar emerged from the tent, his shirt unbuttoned, revealing his hairy torso and slight paunch. Setia dismounted, handed the reins to the soldier behind her, and gestured with a look for Moros to follow her. Her guards lined up at the tent entrance, as she had previously arranged. The tent contained wide tables of light wood and benches. In the center of the tent, behind the table, stood a high chair upholstered with a silver fur of a white wolf. Setia took her place there without hesitation.
"Call all the commanders," she said, settling herself comfortably, "and bring some good wine."
I'm not some inn wench to run your errands girl," Rosnar hissed.
"You are now, I'm paying you for this." Setia yanked the wolf skin from under her ass and tossed it behind the seat. "Yes, Rosnar, I remember you carrying wine to Patri. Willingly and obligingly, before you killed him."
Rosnar silenced with a deep frown appearing on his forehead.
"I'm sure we know each other, I'll recall it." He rubbed his chin. "Zaran, get the other four commanders here."
From the corner of the tent emerged the green-eyed mercenary with the scar, whom Setia had just seen. He was already fully dressed. He smiled and gave her a wary look. She hadn't noticed him before, and that observation had spoiled her mood.
"Setia," Moros whispered in her ear. "Maybe it's not worth teasing them?"
"They should know right away that we're afraid of them?" " she replied, keeping her eyes on Rosnar, who was standing at the entrance.
The unit commanders were slowly entering the tent. She only knew one. Komer, she remembered, he had around 200 men under him. He was aging, his once-black beard now streaked with gray, and the hair at his temples was considerably thinner. His large red nose didn't add to his charm, and the weight accumulated on his belly gave him a heavy look. However, Komer was a cunning commander, and as you can see, he had held power in his own unit for many years, so he shouldn't be underestimated. Behind him entered a tall, bald mercenary with an earring and a tattoo on his cheek; he might have been in his early thirties. She didn't know him, but she remembered the name Warang; his unit had a similar number of mercenaries to Komer's. They called themselves the Brothers of Kreii, Rosnar had told her. She didn't know the other two. The rock-like blond in the studded vest reminded her of an Orchard resident. The man behind him had dark, slicked-back hair, a small beard, and gold chains around his neck. Only an idiot wears gold in a mercenary camp.
"Are they all the commanders, Rosnar?" she asked, not rising from her seat.
"That's all of them," the mercenary confirmed.
"Then, gentlemen, I invite you to the table. It's time to discuss a few details and introduce the unit commanders."
The mercenaries exchanged glances and slowly approached the table where she was sitting. Setia knew she had taken Rosnar's place. Wine and goblets were brought to the table from behind her, brought by Zaran. She didn't hear him, though he almost brushed against her. She felt uneasy.
"If you've brought it, pour it," she said to Zaran, who wordlessly complied and then disappeared behind her again.
Rosnar cleared his throat, looked around the assembled group, and, gesturing to the individual commanders, presented the most important information.
"Komer 340 men, Tralan," he pointed to the burly blond, "over a hundred men, Warang 280 men, Daremon over 300." The gold-clad commander bowed slightly.
Setia nodded and reached for the cup of wine, which she placed in front of her without taking a single drop.
"Gentlemen, in two days we're leaving for Fenigrid. I brought a rough map of the capital with me today. Don't expect much resistance..."
Why?" interrupted the well-oiled Daremon.
"Because there is no ruler." Setia calmly replied, unrolling the map she had brought. "The discussions of the eight haven't concluded yet, and the lack of a decision-maker will make our task easier. Hold on," she said to the bald Varangian, and unrolled the map on the table, placing cups on its edges to prevent it from rolling up. "After passing through the city, which isn't protected by a wall on the southeast side—because due to the flat terrain, the entire city was being expanded and the defensive wall was dismantled—three wide entrances lead directly to the castle, unprotected by any gates. Theoretically, it's a walk, but in the city's alleys, the inhabitants might put up some resistance. It all depends on whether the commander of Fenigrid's forces will use his few advantages." She looked at the faces of those gathered. A short silence fell; they were impressed by the makeshift map she had arranged for. "All that remains is to divide the army into three groups to attack simultaneously from several sides." "With that, she pointed to the three approaches. "I'll leave that to you."
"I think women aren't suited for combat," Daremon leaned forward and rested his hands on the table, bringing his shaved face closer to Setia. He smiled provocatively at her, flashing a gold tooth. "Women should provide entertainment after a victory march."
The mercenaries involuntarily smiled knowingly looking at each other. Setia pulled a dagger from her sleeve and before anyone noticed, plunged it into the hand of the still-laughing Daremon, who howled in pain. A brief silence fell in the tent, broken by a roar of laughter from Rosnar. After a moment, the other commanders joined him, except for the wounded Daremon, who was red-faced, as he was trying to draw his dagger. Setia pushed his hand away and drawing her weapon, wiped it on the furious Daremon's sleeve.
"As I mentioned," she continued, looking the wounded man straight in the eyes, "we have three approaches. My bodyguards and I will take the main road." The dagger landed in her sleeve again. She pulled a lace handkerchief from her jerkin and handed it to the wounded man. "No offense, but I don't like being told what I can and cannot do."
Daremon ignored her help, simply gave her a furious look and left the tent, clutching his bleeding hand. "Raise your cups," Setia said, raising her wine goblet. The rest of the commanders did the same, and the map spread out on the table immediately rolled back. "To victory!"
"To victory!" they repeated after her, drinking the wine in one go.