On a cold winter night, I sat in front of a campfire, taking my ease in its warmth. Back in my own territory, it wouldn't have mattered whether I lit a bonfire or threw a whole cookout, but here we were, smack in the middle of enemy land.
Sitting around a fire in a place like this, relaxing as if we owned it, was flat-out insane. The Hungarian riders, who knew a thing or two about raiding, clicked their tongues and said they couldn't hope to match my nerve.
After Vandred, we'd plundered two more villages, Pollen and Bizi, in exactly the same way.
Quarrels broke out among the villagers over who had handed things over and who hadn't, and a few men who resisted got roughed up, but remarkably, we hadn't killed a single one of them.
Herto had gone out on patrol. There was no major threat in the area, but keeping watch anyway was the mark of a fine officer. Barosi, warming himself at the fire with me, kept stealing glances my way.
