The air inside the tent was thick, the heavy fabric trapping the mingling scents of sweat, damp wool, and the faint acrid stench of burnt wood from the nearby campfires. Two men sat on the ground, backs resting against a wooden crate, their armor scuffed and dirtied from their escape. Though they still wore padded gambesons and metal shirts, they had no weapons—not even a belt knife. Their swords had been tossed away in the chaos of the route, and whatever was left had been stripped from them the moment they stumbled back into the main host's camp.
A few soldiers stood near the entrance, watching them with uninterested expressions, but their hands never strayed far from their weapons.
One of the man exhaled sharply. "You think we're the only ones that got out?" His voice was hoarse, as if he hadn't had a drop of water since the battle or better yet the massacre, that the mercenary band they were enlisted in marched into , alongside many others.
