The Golden Company's camp, the command tent.
The heavy canvas flap was swept aside, letting in the hot, humid wind and dust of the Disputed Lands.
Harry Strickland stepped inside, his stride heavy and the exhaustion plain on his face.
He casually set his helmet, adorned with lavish golden plumes, on the long table covered in maps. It landed with a dull clunk.
"Myles Toyne's job certainly wasn't easy." He grunted, sank into a high-backed chair draped with animal skins, and raised a hand to his attendant.
"Wigin, see to my feet."
"This rule is pure torture. Why must the commander inspect the camp himself? Don't my feet get tired too?"
A dozen officers followed him inside and sat along either side of the long table, long accustomed to their commander's complaints.
An officer with graying temples and a stern face frowned almost imperceptibly, but said nothing.
Some of the Golden Company's century-old traditions carried more weight than the man seated at the head of the table.
As everyone gradually arrived, a brief military council began, its topics as scattered as the stones across this land.
"...The Myrish are stepping up their activities," said the officer responsible for scouting the eastern front, idly scoring the tabletop with the tip of a dagger. "Newly launched galleys line the harbor, and the shipyards' fires burn well past midnight."
"They clearly want us to hold the east firmly and keep the Tyroshi, or anyone else, from interfering before their fleet is ready."
"They just want us to guard their door." Harry waved a hand, signaling his attendant to keep kneading his aching calves.
"We do that often enough. As long as their gold arrives on time, we can guard it for as long as they like."
"But that shipment of so-called gifts... I