"I still say its soft hearted," Gunir muttered but it was clear that the dwarf didn't really have the heart to run down the fleeing brigands. Given it was midwinters night and they had nowhere to go but the forest it might not have been the more ruthless option. The snow was already beginning to fall more heavily and the temperature was dropping fast enough that Camilla wished she hadn't left her cloak back in the carriage. Camilla had met a wizard a few weeks ago who had told her that Archaeon's forces had used sorcery to control the weather and that the backlash would make this winter a particularly bitter one as the spell crumbled. The blonde wizard had seemed rather a dizzy libertine to Camilla, but perhaps she knew her business.

"I don't want you out here any longer on that leg," Camilla scolded Cydric, fussing over the wound for a minute. The big Ostlander smiled patiently.

"Then by all mean lets finish up here and find a fire," he suggested.

"And some beer," Gunir put in from the side. Camilla nodded and drew a length of burning timber from the fire, holding it close and savoring the warmth.

"Fine lets get to it," she agreed. A brief search of the camp turned up little in the way of loot. A few skins of questionable wine, a poorly concealed lock box with a handful of silver and a second rate ruby, and some sewing needles and other odds and ends pillaged from traders. The biggest find was made by Gunir who rolled out two kegs of what appeared to be smoked herring and a sack full of barley. Camilla was pleased that they had made no promises regarding loot as the food would certainly have been taken. The coming winter was going to be a hungry one. With most of the manpower of the Empire campaigning in the north for the long harvest months, crops had withered on the vine for want of labor to bring them in. Armies on the march and the accompanying looting had destroyed fields and orchards and granaries and stockpiles had been emptied by Imperial Order or by pillage. Worst still the enormous casualties which had been sustained meant that even after the bitter winter passed, there would be a serious shortage of men to replant in the spring. Hunger and the accompanying horror of disease would carry off as many as Acheron's horde had done, probably more. Camilla could understand the contempt in which men of the Empire held southerners who had not suffered the scourge of the Chaos invasion, and who through no efforts of their own, would go to be with full bellies.

"We best be getting back," Camilla decided as Gunir hefted a keg over each shoulder and kicked the sack of barley to Cydric. She hefted her still burning timber in her hand and then tossed it underhanded onto the thatch of one of the nearby hovels. Methodically she repeated the act for each of the other structures until the crackle of burning thatch and timber filled the air. The winter winds fanned the flames hot enough that the snow didn't douse them. Destroying the structures meant the bandits had nothing to come back to and that Dounkebruk would be safe from bandits, at least until the spring.

"Aye, a heroes welcome awaits no doubt," Gunir chuckled as they turned and headed towards the waiting carriage, the flames growing behind them.

Dounkebruk was a peaceful looking place. It was nestled on a small knoll beside the river that ran through the center of the small valley. The half timbered buildings had high peaked that were now covered with a crip layer of snow and a palisade wall of stout ashwood encircled it, with watch towers thrusting up at regular intervals. Bough of holly hung from doorways in celebration of the festival, although most families were already inside around their fires by the time the Gräfin's coach clattered up the stone cobbled streets. Predictably the highest point of the town was the seat of power. A stone temple to Sigmar stood on one side of a square, facing off against the ornately carved façade of the guildhall of the towns burgermisters. A third building, less prepossessing than its neighbors covered the northern side of the square. The great hall was the center of government for Dounkebruk and the surrounding valley and though the Gräfin had a private house of considerable splendor, she lived and worked in the rambling two story stone hall which had grown up in earlier times. Rumor had it that the Graf, now in advanced years, had lost his mind entirely and that his younger, though not young, wife preferred to avoid the town house. It was surrounded by a stone wall with an imposing set of wrought iron gates, kept meticulously free of rust by the efforts of the Gräfin's servants. Armed guards, older men smoking pipes and with handguns leaned against the stone wall watched them approach without comment.

"Home sweet home," Gunir observed with a chuckle that sounded like rocks grinding.