The firepits crackled, their flickering flames casting ominous red light across the field. Here and there the light flickered back eerily where it caught on metal – the fixing points on tents, the bright wickedness of a spearpoint or the sinuous grace of a hauberk. In the uncertain light it cast, men moved, shadows and silhouettes against the embers. Songs rose from firesides, punctuated by cheers – hard, feral barks of exultation accompanied by flourished tankards and blades. Their tabards, now worn with use and campaigning, still showed flashes of blue on the undyed grey overlain with individual badges and devices.

By rights, the night should have been a dark one. The moon was obscured by clouds of smoke, and was waning besides. The images of the men should have been impossible to distinguish, much less their color. The men themselves should have been indistinct shades flitting between pools of light thrown up by their firepits. Instead, they stood bathed in an eerie glow.

Behind them, a city burned.

The fires glistened in the moonlight, reflecting off the clouds looming high over the valley. The red glow threw strange shadows into the cauldron below, where silhouettes flickered and flitted against the uncertain light. The whole image looked like some tapestry, an artist’s idea of one of the Hells and the damned denizens therein. The echoing cheering, chants and songs only added to the perception of lost souls. Behind it, running in undertone to the raucous celebration, faintly came the screams of the injured and trapped, the wailing of the dispossessed. Above it all ran the drumbeat of the flame as it consumed the close-set houses. The cacophony mingled together into a single great sound as a dying city shrieked its pain to the uncaring gods.

Andries Falkenrath steepled his fingers and stared narrowly at the sight. The towers of the wall and citadel stood dark against the blaze, their crenellations a gap-toothed grin. The gates lay smashed and broken, their hinges and locks a twisted ruin. Through the portal, the ghastly light of myriad flames flickered and shone out onto the plain. The view was striking, even to one who had seen it before.

“Whichever idiot started that blaze, I want him tied to a stake by this time tomorrow.” He said it idly, gaze still fixed at the sight. Behind him, figures shifted uncomfortably. Eyes flickered from side to side, appraising their fellows.

“It may be hard to find out exactly who is responsible,” a voice noted. The speaker was younger than his commander, reclining easily on a folding camp chair. His gloved hands traced across a map pinned to the table, skimming the detailed parchment. Rivers, roads, towns all passed under that grasp. “It was, at the end of the day, a siege. Some indiscipline could be excused, Andries.”

Lord Falkenrath sighed and straightened, turning to face his subordinate. “If this was a long campaign, Wilhelm, I might even agree with you. After a campaigning season and a hard storm, even the most disciplined men will forget themselves.” His face was handsome despite the first signs of age. Now, care and exhaustion showed what he would look like when he was sixty. “But it wasn’t. There was one general engagement – the garrison here barely offered resistance at all.” For a moment, the tight control on his features slipped and frustration snapped through the mask. “Damn it all, I wanted the citadel intact! That, and this will cost us a great deal of goodwill.”

Wilhelm Hoffman shrugged. The plates of his harness clinked with the motion, sliding across each other with an easy, oiled smoothness. “They’re a conquered province, my Lord Marshal. ‘Goodwill’ was never going to be a very reliable commodity.”

Falkenrath nodded, conceding the point bitterly. “Since you’re so sanguine about that, my lord, you can have the pleasure of suppressing the inevitable pockets of brigands in this region.” Hoffman winced, but nodded as his superior continued. “Gentlemen, gather around.” The figures shuffled forwards, surrounding the expensive map, squinting in the candlelight. The tallow burned bright with a yellow softness into the omnipresent molten glow. The Landgraf of Falkenrath glanced from one to another, his eyes measuring.

“Today, we have won the first stages of the war. The kingdom of Waccewald is henceforth reunified under the crown of Stanmark. To us, my chevaliers, falls the more difficult task of making the conquest fact rather than a matter of lines on the map.”

The conversation turned to logistics and areas of responsibility as in the command pavilion, the assembled peerage of Stanmark carved the map of their conquest apart. Beyond the pavilion, the sounds of their retinues’ jubilant celebrations roared into the night.

And beyond them all, Waccewald burned.