The following day, the remnants of the enemy camp lay only as a haze of smoke and ash. The charred remains of tents and the scattered bodies of the night's carnage were the only thing proof that an army was camped there . Among the chaos, prisoners sat bound on the ground, their heads bowed in exhaustion and humiliation, guarded by Egil's victorious men.
Two soldiers stood near the prisoners, speaking in hushed, disgruntled tones. One of them, a stocky man with a missing tooth, gnawed on a chicken leg with visible frustration. "What kind of army is this?" he muttered, his voice thick with derision. "I thought we'd at least find some proper loot. Hell, even decent boots. But no, nothing but tatters "
His companion, taller and wiry with a crooked nose, snorted. "Maybe their prince spent it all on the armor they ran out of at the last battle. Look at 'em," he said, gesturing with his chin toward the huddled prisoners. "More like beggars than soldiers. Pitiful lot."
