Nicholas walked through the camp, his fine boots squelching in the mud as he headed for the centre, separated from the rest of the camp by its dry moat of wooden spikes, and dominated by the strange wooden building with a tower decidedly unlike anything he'd seen the natives build. He and Greig had been working together since he had introduced himself. Every day, they tried to get a count of the arriving stanitsas, identify their atamen, and come up with an estimate for the growing horde. The quarter of the camp with the heavily guarded and tarped carts had expanded somewhat, and though neither of them had been able to sneak in yet to have a look inside, Greig was already certain what they were.

  “Siege engines,” he whispered to Nicholas one night, after a long and unrewarding day of counting. “There can be no doubt of it, my mad friend.”

  “God is the only friend a man needs,” Nicholas countered.

  “What? No women for you, eh?” Greig chuckled, nudging him gently on the shoulder.

  “There used to be. A great many of them, actually. Them, and money, and a lot of wine too, but then God reached out to me," sighed Nicholas, not out of longing or desire but rather out of a profound sense of time wasted. "I grew, and gave up childish things. Surrendering my will to Him gives me more satisfaction now than even the wildest night of my youth.”

  Greig shook his head. “You’re a strange man, priest.”

  “And you’re a brave one, Greig," Nicholas replied. "I am grateful that I was provided with a guide such as you. I hope that we may be permitted to accomplish much together.”

  “We need a new strategy,” Greig declared, after they had shared some coffee and tobacco. “If we wait for them all to gather, we don’t know how long they will wait until they march north.”

  “Do we even know they will march north?”

  “The common rider thinks so. Hell, the average ataman thinks so, but they don’t make the decisions. Knowing for certain they’ll attack Sturmwatch is useless if we can’t get word to them in time.”

  A couple of more massive, gold embossed tents had risen around the centre of the camp. They had both watched them being erected from different places in the camp. There were now ten of them gathered around the wooden structure at the centre.

  “How many great Lords are there in The Hold?” Nicholas asked.

  “Perhaps fourteen,” Greig answered, his eyes narrowing. “They may be here tomorrow, or in another week. We’re running out of time, priest.”

  “We shall have to seize the initiative, then,” Nicholas stated, rising from where he sat. “We must trust to God that we will live to see it through.”

  “What do you mean to do?” The spy asked him, giving him a wary eye.

  “I will break into that place, and find out what is going on," Nicholas answered immediately. "Change your position in the camp, Greig," he advised. "I do not know if God will let them catch me or not, or if He will give me the strength to keep my mouth shut as they torture me. If things go well, I will find you eventually. If I am caught, you must decide for yourself how best to proceed.”

  The plan left Greig flustered, but the spy had no argument against it. The spy knew how to read men, a skill Nicholas greatly respected, and which he hoped would forestall any objection. As Greig had said, they were running out of time, and intelligence to Sturmwatch was useless if not gathered quickly enough. What, then, was there to argue against? Nicholas would succeed, or he would fail. He would live, or he would die. It was all in God’s hands, and he gave himself into them without so much as a moment's hesitation.

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  *

  Rain returned that day, and Nicholas felt it must be a sign to enact his plan. If he could be quiet, the rain would help muffle his movements as well as make it difficult to keep torches lit. He approached the perimeter without caution. He was dressed as a rider of The Hold, and as a race they rarely were seen to hesitate. Nicholas had kept his baggy armour and clothes, despite Greig’s misgivings about his appearance. They had been chosen for him by his Divine Master, and so they and the gear that came with them must be his tools to gain entrance here. Nicholas had with him the daggers and sabre, and had taken one quiver full of arrows and the bow along with him. It was compact, made for being fired from atop a horse, and so it should not impede his movements significantly. In the last moment before his departure, Nicholas had taken along one of the cavalry lances bequeathed him by his dead foe. One could never tell when reach might be needed.

  Judging from the time since the sun had set, Nicholas guessed it to be close to three in the morning. The camp, except for its sentries and the most determined drunken revellers, had turned in for the night. Only a few fitful coughs, or the sound of half-hearted singing in the distance punctuated the ever-present sound of rainfall. It plinked gently off of the top of Nicholas’ helm as he waited in the shadows of a wagon near the spike pits. It provided an excellent point from which to observe the men on watch: their patrols, how many there were, and how attentive they were in their duties as they passed him by. Despite the presence of so many Lords with so great an army gathering here, security was surprisingly lax. Was it drunkenness on the part of the guards, or simple arrogance on the part of their masters? Nicholas would not waste his time in learning the means of his own Lord. There were gaps in the perimeter, and there were opportunities to exploit them.

  God’s hint had been a good one. Nicholas knew something of vaulting from his youth, and though his body had aged and he was out of practice, his confidence more than made up for it. He ascended the wagon he'd hidden behind quickly and silently. He stabbed the blunt end of the lance into the ground as he leapt and placed his whole weight on it. The sensation of speed brought back days of sun and laughter, and for a second it was the stream by his home that he was crossing. His old knees flared and nearly buckled under his weight as he landed, but he had crossed the dry moat. To be fair, the constant rain of the last few days had rendered it into more of a proper moat now. Water sloshed inches from his heels as he righted himself. It had been a close thing, of mere inches, really, but that was not a cause of concern to Nicholas. All that happened was the will of God.

  Large, angular shapes of the personal wagons of the present Lords rose about him, each near to the golden tents of their owners. Nicholas left his lance leaning against the nearest and proceeded closer towards the building at the centre of this artificial island. The perimeter was guarded, so creeping along the periphery was not an option. The only thing to do then was to stride boldly forward. To slink would invite suspicion if he was spotted, but who would stop a man armed as he was at such a time at night, if his purpose was not urgent? Nicholas did not pray for success or mercy as he walked directly past the first tent and the pair of heavily armed men that stood before it. His peace had been made long ago. He nodded to the two men as he passed. They nodded back and were behind him, then. He did not hear any hint of distrust or pursuit. Long may that continue, if it pleased his Lord.

  He passed the fronts of two more tents, passing by their guards with similar greetings and similar responses. There was little light to guide him, save from a few burning torches and a campfire near the third, where a dozen more dismounted riders milled about, smoking and exchanging stories. They barely noticed Nicholas as he walked past.

  The ground opened up again as he passed through the tents. Nicholas saw men moving in pairs, all armed with bows and sabres along a second, shorter perimeter staked out with burning torches. There were no pits to vault across here, which was good as there were no wagons nearby to use to gain height and momentum. Indeed, this whole area of the camp was remarkably bare of anything he might hope to hide in, under, or behind. There was open ground, light, men, and nothing else between him and the odd building. More and more, it reminded Nicholas not of a church, but an oddly built country house now that he was up close.

  For a moment, Nicholas paused in his advance and counted off the men standing guard. Some were moving about, but there was another group near the front and back entrances who were staying where they were. There were far too many for him to kill with any hope of doing so undetected. Stealth might work, but the chances of him being seen were too high. He scanned the building, and decided entrance would be achieved through a ground floor window. They were shuttered, but thanks to the light he could see a few that were not closed. It was a warm night, despite the rain.

  His entrance chosen, Nicholas then had to decide how to reach it undetected. Looking about him, he started to walk back towards the tents and their carts. If he could not get past the men, then he would need to get them out of his way. Trusting to his Lord to show him the way, Nicholas went over to the nearest wagon, which was parked behind a grandly decorated gold and maroon monstrosity of a tent, and started rummaging through it. He found clothes, icons, weapons and rubbing oils. Disappointed, he moved onto the next, which was far more promising. It held liquor, the beastly stuff the men of The Hold imbibed, which they made from potatoes and herbs, in heavy clay jugs. Even opening the top of one of the containers caused Nicholas to hiss and shut his eyes from the stinging fumes. The cart was positively full to the brim of them, stacked twice over. Aside from gaps where some had been taken, there must have been nearly sixty here. Nicholas looked up into the sky, and let his Lord caress his face with the rain He showered down on sinners and saints, and everyone in between. He had found half of what he needed. Thankfully, his fitful skill with the native tongue could provide him with the rest.

  He was soon back at the fire he had noticed earlier, where the dozen men were still smoking and chatting. Brandishing the pipe and slightly damp tobacco he had liberated from his enemy out on the steppe, Nicholas exchanged a little small talk with them as they helped him light up. Despite their race and warlike intentions on his home, they did seem like perfectly nice gentleman. Nicholas wished them all luck and they thanked him, not knowing just how soon they would need it.

  Returning to the wagon, Nicholas rearranged some of the jugs to get himself an open space on the bottom, where the wood was still dry. Puffing away at his pipe, he filled the gap with clothes he stole from the first cart he had inspected. Taking the tops off of the nearby jugs, he then draped the fabric over and into them, so that they were soaking in the pungent, flammable liquid. To make sure of success, he then broke the bottoms of some of the jugs on the top, stabbing their bases with one of his daggers.

  With all of that done, Nicholas committed his soul to God, set the clothes alight with his pipe, and then started running.