Camilla and Cydric spent the afternoon with the count and his surviving captains. A tent was stuck from the little surviving bagage to serve as housing for the count and his retainers. She couldn’t hear all of the whispered conversations but it was clear the butcher's bill was fearfully high. The grim mood was underscored by the groaning of the wounded and the curses of the barber surgeons as they plied their bloody trade.The coun’ts retinue included a single priest of morr and the acolyte had a haggard and exhausted look the few times Camilla saw him.

Most of the discussion revolved around what the new strategy would be. The consensus among the captains was that they should fall back to Salzenmund and preserve what was left of the force in the formidable defences there. The Count steadfastly refused arguing that to do so was to abandon his people to the reavers and that more tribesmen would flock to the banners of the invaders as word of their success spread. Despite this conviction the Count could offer little in the way of practical suggestion.

For her part Camilla watched the map and tried to fit the information together in her mind. Something tugged at the corners of her mind and she frowned trying to find the thread that would pull the dissociated ideas together. Cydric handed her a bowl of thick venison stew which she drank greedily nearly burning herself in her haste to satiate the hunger that had been growing this past few days.

“My Count, I appreicate your zeal we simply cannot risk it, the winds of war may…”

“Wait!” Camilla interjected the bowl paused halfway to her lips. All eyes in the sparsely furnished tent swiviled to face her. Most were dismissive and some were openly contemptuous. The count, eager for anything that might support his own desire arched an eyebrow at the Tilean.

“Venti…” she mused in Tilean, setting the wooden bowl down beside Cydric and sashaying her way over to the map on the improvised table. She tapped a finger to a small notation on the map a few miles from the sea.

“What is this place?” she demanded. There was a long silence before the count glared.

“Well answer her damn your eyes,” Gaussen snapped, his patience with a seemingly impossible task evidently well worn. One of the younger officers, an artilleryman judging by the powderburns which pocked his hands, stepped close and peered down at the faded leather map.

“It is Kronsdtat..mmm.. My lady,” he said stumbling over what to address her. Camila placed both hands on her hips with some asperity.

“I can read,” she informed the man tartly and the young canonner blushed at the uninteded insult he had given.

“Uh.. of course… what I meant to say is that it is a small town far enough from the coast for folk to flee too when raiders are sighted,” the man expanded. The coast of Nordland was littered with such settlements. Not an obstacle to raiders really but enough of a deterrent to dissuade every roving captain from trying his luck.

“This is preposterous we cant defend Kronsdtat or any other such place!” one of the more seasoned officer objected, earning a murmur of approval from his fellows.

“My Count I appreciate that these mercenaries have helped…” the objection was cut off by a thunderous belch which would have shaken the slate if they had been inside. Ivan Petrovich stood up and set his empty ale mug down. He glanced around the shocked silence with the kind of calm that usually preceded a berserker rage.

“We Listden to vat da Laydee hast to say da?” he said pleasantly, his eyes cowing the murmuring crowd. Camila nodded her thanks growing excited as a plan began to coalesce in her mind. She caught Cydric’s eye and saw the glimmer of understanding beginning to kindle there. The veterans approval was enough to spur her own.

“What will the Norscan’s do if we go to Kronsdtat?” she asked. There was a moments silence that was broken by the count himself.

“They will follow us there, half of them are blood cultists more interested in slaughter than plunder and the other half are too smart to miss the chance to wipe out what is left of my force.” The Count was polite enough, interested even though he clearly struggled to see what point she was making. Camilla snapped her fingers.

“Yes but HOW will they follow us?” she pressed. The cannoneer tapped a finger to a large inlet maked as Windbighter’s Bay, the closest such inlet to Kronsdtat.

“They will sail their ships into the bay and march overland to the town.” Camila smiled triumphantly.

“And what will they do if, while they are attacking the town, a small group of mercenaries slips in and sets their ships on fire?” she asked directing a sweet smile at those who had been detractors of the plan. The Count stood suddenly straigher, his eyes very bright as he looked at the map.

“By the Hammer,” the Count breathed, “They’ll run for the ships, try to save their only way home. Then we can sally and catch them between two forces.” The Count seemed a new man afire with purpose and possibility.

“Fetch ink and paper, it will take some doing but by Sigmar and Taal we will crush their balls like chestnuts! Begging the ladys pardon.”