[h2][center]Baltian Chlotar Great-Camp[/center][/h2]

[i]“My friend, you hold it as if you expect it to bite!”[/i]
The small gathering, a mixture of Chlotar soldiers and Baltavigocs, burst into another bout of good-natured laughter at the fumbling attempts of a flustered Chlotar to follow the instructions of a Baltavigoc who had lent him his accordion. 
[i]“Show some mercy, Viigoc!”[/i] A Chlotar chuckled, clapping his embarrassed comrade on the shoulder. [i]“All he was ever taught was the one-two beat of putting one foot in front of the other!”[/i]
Vetericus was more than happy to partake in the joviality, this group of Chlotars well past any awkwardness of associating so closely with a Paladin. Sitting in the same circle he tried to offer his own advice now and then, though whether it had any actual practical effect was hard to say. At any rate, Vetericus thought, it was a good thing the Chlotar had been started off on a simplified version of a tune every Baltavigoc child knew well, or he wouldn’t have ever even tried. Glancing up for a moment, the sound of cheering near the gate to the encampment caught his attention, standing up and leaving the group largely unnoticed save for a few respectfully nodded heads. 

First Captain Crocus acknowledged words of congratulation and welcoming as he slowly walked into the camp at the head of a few warriors, some Chlotar, some Baltavigoc, and all unusual in the fact that they bore no banners, symbols nor warpaint. This was, of course, the entire point. Past those who came to greet their return at the gates Crocus noticed Vetericus coming his way in a similar situation to himself, a man or two walking alongside him for a moment to say something before splitting off back to what they were doing before. Nonetheless, it didn’t take long for them to be facing each other with their customary forearm handshake.  
[i]“Back so soon?”[/i] Vetericus asked with a wry grin, glancing towards the men who had returned with him. [i]“I was afraid you would stop to rest your old bones!”[/i]
[i]“Bah, you’ll sooner find one of these young ones asking for a rest than me. Are we all back?”[/i]
Vetericus switched his gaze to a nearby member of the garrison, figuring him to be more likely to know exactly. 
[i]“Of those who left this morning?”[/i] The youthful Chlotar confirmed. [i]“Almost. By my reckoning just a few more yet.”[/i]
Crocus nodded. No surprise, they had staggered their leaving the camp and all taken different routes so as to not draw attention. It was only natural for the journey back to be similar. Certainly, they had not incurred any losses raiding the Laelae River. Vetericus gestured sidelong further into the camp, imploring Crocus to walk with him as he spoke.
[i]“Quintus will have his excuse to leave the city with his men now. We need to move to meet them as soon as the rest arrive.”[/i] 
[i]“In that case, I will see to preparations at once.”[/i]
[i]“No,”[/i] Vetericus shook his head. [i]“I have made them already. In the meantime, Fridigern is trying to teach a Chlotar to play the Ostro-Waari.”[/i]
Crocus stopped for a moment, an eyebrow slowly raised towards Vetericus. Vetericus, once he noticed Crocus was no longer beside him, stopped and stared back at him.  
[i]“I was wondering why the rendition sounded so ill. I suppose then I shall…”[/i] Crocus coughed. [i]“Go observe the morale of the men.”[/i]
Vetericus found himself now chuckling as Crocus headed towards the same group he had left just moments ago. 

A small horde of Tautans now filled the field, roughly five hundred, being shouted orders to Vetericus wasn’t close enough to hear from his concealed spot in the surrounding woods. He couldn’t spot Quintus amongst them. Perfect, the lack of their most prominent officer would do them greater harm. Only he and a token scouting force observed them, the bulk of their troops, which in total matched the Tautans, was a ways further back to complete the element of surprise. The Tautans soon began to set up camp, stripping their polished armour and beginning to dig firepits. Lowering their guard. 
[i]“Crocus, take the left flank. Ataulf, the right. I will vanguard the centre. Crush them between us and kill them all.”[/i] 
Commands whispered, the three men broke off back to their commands, leaving behind a few scouts with banners in their possession. The five hundred between them would be spread thin, but fighting outnumbered had become something of their speciality. Besides, every advantage an ambusher could hope for was now on their side; Quintus would have to be thanked for delivering his men so thoroughly. 

The three groups had all done their best to ensure they could get close as quickly and quietly as possible. Each had abandoned all but the lightest of armour and a single weapon, the arming sword each carried as a secondary for most, scabbards not included. Even their warpaint. Nothing scraped, jangled or hung loose. If no scouts had been posted, blood would be spilled long before they realised what was happening. Skulking forward independently of each other, the five hundred’s formation got looser and looser until it almost met in a large ‘U’ that encompassed the Tautan camp, coming to a short halt until the banners left with the scouts were raised in unison, the signal to attack. The Baltavigoc preference to join battle with chant and song was forgone for a march-turned-run in near silence on a course for the utterly oblivious Tautans. 

A Tautan warrior busied himself with the gathering and occasional chopping of wood, absentmindedly wondering for how long they would be led on this fool’s errand to protect some river from what he could only assume were petty Chlotar barbarians. As if that wasn’t redundant, he thought. None of the Tautavigocs ever had to have their time wasted on things like these, they knew it was better and much happier to stay within Tautom, and they never had busybody officers like Quintus ordering them about on whims constantly. A grumble in his belly turned his mind to hoping someone had at least gone hunting to make use of the wood he now carried in his arms, hatchet balanced atop the stack. The sound of a twig cracking made him stop. Came from somewhere behind him. Dinner? Another crack. The bandits? He quickly turned to face where he guessed it came from. The sight of a sword-wielding maniac, soon joined by a line of his fellows, tearing through the underbrush just a few feet away made him drop what he was carrying in surprise. Before he could lean to grab his hatchet, draw his dagger or think to shout a blade through the gullet caused his breath to catch. A moment later and his blank eyes stared up at the shining sun as his blood stained the leaves, though saw nothing.

Like a bolt of lightning the Baltavigocs flew down the forested hill, tree-trunks and rocks passing by. The few Tautans foolish enough to try and gather food or lumber were cut down as they went and before long all that was left was the camp waiting out in the open field. Fingers reaffirmed grips on sword-handles as anticipation came close to bursting. Sudden shouting from the Tautans made it clear their presence was known, though it would have taken officers with skill far surpassing theirs to try and create some semblance of order out of the panic with the time they had been left. At best, the Tautans were underarmed and underarmoured; at worst, they had to scramble for whatever was nearest at hand. With satisfaction Vetericus noted his wings were to smash into the Tautans at nearly the same time as his vanguard. A pathetic attempt at a rank was formed by men who looked as if they were hiding behind their weapons rather than intending to use them opposed Vetericus, not even the slightest hesitation entering his step. 

Deftly swatting aside the spear brought against him with the head of his axe, he stepped into the man’s guard and brought his axe’s haft around to smash him in the jaw. The spearman’s disorientation was brought to an end by Vetericus’ axe slicing into his neck with such force it nearly cleaved through. His corpse fell back, spine severed, and Vetericus seized the initiative to cause chaos with the gap he created, assisting those nearest. Soon, the Tautan resistance here was shattered. 
[i]“Forward! And forward again! Into battle we march, with God by our side!”[/i]
On the left, Crocus was leading his men similarly. From the vanguard he heard a shout followed by cheering, and then a chanting that grew out along their line. Knowing Vetericus was breaking through, Crocus spurred his own men on. 
[i]“Cut them down, sons of Baltia! Don’t let them regroup!”[/i]
Crocus’ sword tasted flesh in the rare occasions he engaged, instead preferring to direct where and when to fight, the Tautans before his wing rent asunder by the ferocity of their attack. Before he knew it the ground between himself and the rough centre of the camp opened up, blocking his view of the third wing across from himself. He could only assume they too had broken through. 

Vetericus saw the right flank stall for a moment longer than the left from where he stood but it soon joined the now universal charge. Those within the camp had had longer to prepare, the occasional pocket of resistance popping up, but never enough to hold. Any time the rampage through the camp was halted, the other wings would wrap around and surround. The number of Tautans surrendering began to mount, though most fell before they even had the chance to. The most valiant amongst them were the officers, some miraculously scraping together formidable resistances which, upon briefly beating back a few overeager Baltavigocs, taught the attackers a degree of respect for their foe. Nonetheless, between presences of Crocus and Vetericus, all within the camp were either dead, or had thrown their weapons aside. 

Vetericus and a few others, now echoing the events of the past year uncannily, went about deducing the faith and loyalties of those surrendered. As it had been, most were executed where they stood. This time, the rest were imprisoned and a few Baltavigocs marched them back to the nearby Chlotar garrison. Crocus meanwhile assessed their losses, pleased to hear of nothing irreversible; light woundings primarily, but a few which cut deeper and would keep some out of any further immediate fighting.  
[i]“Vetericus!”[/i]
The shout of a Baltavigoc suddenly drew his attention. Wiping his blood-coated axe clean on the unsoiled portion of the tunic of a dead Tautan, he stood to watch those nearest the source of the noise part to let a man pass. Vetericus found himself, axe in hand, staring at the only survivor from the city left on the field; Quintus, once again surrounded by the hundreds of corpses of his subordinates, and hundreds of Baltavigocs.