The riot of colour from the flags of the pavilion looked out of place in the desert. The Waster tribes tents were much smaller and blended in with dunes. The Ilaci and Dutchy’s campaign tents were a stark crisp white that could be lost in the haze of the sunlight. But this? This was a cacophony of numerous house colours and coats of arms.
The men and women milling about in gleaming and immaculate armour, which in the current climate must have been unbearably hot, tended to their wounded comrades, repaired equipment and set about preparing a long feasting table through the middle of the camp. The battle had been won, tonight they would celebrate then be away to Camelot come morning.
The activity in camp stopped suddenly as a shout reported a figure shambling through the dunes and several hands went to hilts and bows. The figure collapsed from exhaustion.
“Hold! ‘Tis Sir Gwydion. Attend him now he is wounded and his harness shattered!”
Sir Gwydion the Brave, awoke a few hours later, his wounds dressed and a goblet of wine pressed into his hand almost as soon as he was conscious.
“Ah, we had thought we had lost you in the sandstorms but t’would seem thou art made of sterner stuff!” A large warrior with the cloak of the knight commander stood by the bed. “but you return to us in such disarray! Come now, tell me how this came to be? It must be quite the tale”
“Aye, that it is, “ Gwyidion replied, drinking deeply from his cup “ It t’would appear demon spawn is not the only corruption that effects these fair lands. There are Forgotten One’s here.”
The knight commander looked sceptical but nodded for the knight to continue.
“ T’would appear they are merely banished to a land called Drengfold. However ’tis even worse than that. There is a stone thief I crossed paths with. She carries Serpenterra.”
To that the knight commander almost looked afraid.
Solveig came up the passes of the Stennetberg’s as fast as her legs could carry her, a heavy sack of bandages and medicines banging against her side. The hunter’s hut was not too far away, his son had said, but even as he rounded the path to the small hut they called home ahead of her, she wondered if she would be too late.
The maiden lay in a cot filled with fur pelts, her chain shredded to ribbons and imbedded in her wounds. The hunter had managed to stop her dying at least, but these wounds would take time to clean and stitch properly.
As she worked, the hunter told her how he had found her with Johan, the rock collector at the bottom of a scree slope. She had been rambling about the benevolent spirits that had been guarding her since the second seal broke and the wicked man in gold who struck her.
She had told them he passed her in the strange camp of crystal they lived in, when suddenly he reached out and her armour exploded. He seemed surprised but uncaring and continued to walk, but the maiden had found herself compelled to flee. She was exhausted and thirsted when they found her. She had no fever they could discern so sent for the physik.
Solveig could find no illness in her either. Wherever she had been since the three nights of darkness she had been well cared for, save her recent injuries. She could only wonder at the things she’d seen.