Captain Wulfred Frostclaw kept his eyes on the trees as his soldiers marched to crush the retreating Vulgares.

  “Shields up!” he called as the Vulgares turned to release a volley of arrows.

  His legionaries snapped to the shield wall in an instant, arrows glancing off shields. Pride rose. These were proper legionaries, not a gang of barbarians, nor criminals and insubordinates scrabbling together. They were disciplined. Trained. And they would protect Hellfrost and wipe out these traitors where others would not.

  “Forward!”

  Boots thudded into soil in unison, the rhythm echoing in Frostclaw’s blood. No arrows this time. The enemy was fleeing. A tight grin cracked his face.

  “Sir! Sir!” The shrill voice came from behind. Frostclaw turned to see the canin boy, Arvanius’s sycophantic pup, running to meet the legionaries. Moving right into the path of their formation.

  “Out of the way, boy!” Frostclaw snarled.

  Wally panted, “Sir! It’s a trap! I saw the ambushers! Sir!”

  “Of course it’s a trap,” Frostclaw growled, the scent of his own soldiers’ sweat and fear filling the air. “Sergrud was a legionary. He still uses standard tactics. It’s a Rat Trap. Smoke draws the rats out, guide ‘em where you want, spring the trap.”

  Wally paused, “You’re...going in a trap...and you know it’s a trap?”

  “If you want to help, get in line, boy,” Frostclaw gestured. “You’ve got vis senses. Left flank. Report any in the trees.” The boy paused, blinking, then jerked into action. Credit where it’s due, he could follow orders.

  Rat Trap worked only if the rats were smaller than the trap. The Vulgares wouldn’t get rats. They’d get the Red Wolf of Hellfrost and his legionaries.

  Frostclaw’s eyes weren’t what they used to be. There were days when he’d have been able to see everything in the forest clear as day a half-mile out. Even now, he still saw shapes lurking in the shadows of the trees, waiting for them to close. The Vulgares had snuffed their torches and put up their bows, hoping for darkness to cover them.

  “Vis volley ready,” Frostclaw ordered. “Mark targets.”

  Ten paces closer. The Vulgares raised their bows. The spotters among his legionaries helped the ranged vis mark targets.

  Frostclaw sprang the trap before the Vulgares did, “Fire!”

  Flames roared, lights flashed, and thunder cracked as the vis of his company unleashed their might.

  “Shields!”

  The retaliation came swiftly, but the arrows only met a shield wall. A few shafts found marks, but his soldiers filled the gaps in an instant.

  “Advance!”

  The company marched forward as the Vulgares retreated, leaving their fallen warriors dying in the shadow of the trees. Two men down, another few with non-debilitating injuries. The Vulgares left a dozen.

  A larger mass of Vulgares gathered, a pack of dogs ready to snap.

  From their back rank, a song rose, booming through the forest in some foreign barbarian tongue.

  Frostclaw saw the singer, an older man with a grey-streaked braided beard, face covered in midnight-blue paint. Some barbarian shaman. Frostclaw felt the effect immediately. A surge of anger in his blood. A howl to fight and rage resonating in his soul.

  He tightened the straps on his shield. His soldiers’ steps picked up pace, less organized and more eager for blood.

  “Steady,” Frostclaw barked the order. The song’s power could not overcome a legionary’s training and discipline. “The singer’s a vis. Hold the line! When they charge, we break them!”

  The Vulgares roiled in their ragged line. No discipline. Just the song goading them to rage. Cheers rose, turning to incoherent shouts. The Vulgares were losing control, barely able to keep even a simple formation.

  The cheers turned to a roar, and the Vulgares burst from the trees, a ragged, bloodthirsty mass.

  “Spear!”

  Frostclaw’s company crashed into the Vulgares’ untrained assault, and the night filled with screams. Spears flashed. Swords sang. Vulgares fell. His company advanced through the carnage, shields enduring savage, wasteful attacks. Spears piercing bellies.

  “Forward! Kill these rebels!”

  When the front line of legionaries wavered as the assault reached its peak, Frostclaw and the back line pressed forward. All veterans, all forged in battles in the northern frontier before being assigned to Hellfrost. Frostclaw lunged forward, running through an ogre wide as an ox. A canin Vulgares shoved past the dying ogre, axe swinging. His shield arm took the blow, metal buckling. Frostclaw struck, and the rebel’s face split.

  And just like that, it was over. The Vulgares’ charge broke, the barbarians fleeing in terror. Some threw aside weapons in the panic. The shaman backed away, face twisted in rage. The song changed. A cry for aid. A call unanswered by the forest.

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  If nothing else, the barbarians could run. Their armor was lighter, and the trees prevented a full pursuit.

  “Hold the line!” Frostclaw collared a soldier who tried to charge after the fleeing warriors, yanking the boy back into line. “Let the cowards run.”

  There were wounded Vulgares to deal with, ones who couldn’t run. Frostclaw stomped over to one, a man clutching a wound on his stomach. He’d survive, if tended to.

  Stupid bastard still tried to fight. The moment Frostclaw stepped close, the man leaped forward, axe raised and screaming like a mad horse. A single shield blow knocked him flat on his arse.

  When Frostclaw raised his spear to finish the job, a soldier grabbed his arm.

  “Wait, captain!” the soldier’s eyes were frantic. “He’s not Vulgares! I know him! He’s from Frostwood!”

  Frostclaw shook the soldier away and kicked the fallen man’s axe away and put the spear at his throat, “Well? That true?”

  The man glared up, “Aye. I’m from Frostwood.”

  “And you’re fighting alongside traitors and rebels,” Frostclaw spat at the traitor.

  “I’m fighting against the damned Empire that threw my brother in prison and sent him to die to Voidspawn!” the man spat right back.

  Frostclaw had no idea what story this traitor believed. Didn’t matter.

  “Check the wounded!” Frostclaw ordered. “Any from Frostwood, bring ‘em back. They can tell the executor exactly what happened, and the traitors can be executed like they deserve.”

  Frostclaw frowned at the now-silent trees as his soldiers gathered the wounded, finishing off the Vulgares and binding the ones from Frostwood. Half a dozen others besides the man he’d found, though some were so injured they likely wouldn’t live to see the dawn. Traitors weren’t his concern, though. Sergrud wasn’t here. The Vulgares could have been counting on that damned vis song to break the legionaries’ spirits, but Sergrud would know that wouldn’t work on a trained legion.

  More than just a Rat Trap. Some other objective.

  “Back to Hellfrost!” Frostclaw gathered the legion. Sergrud wasn’t here in the forest. And this wouldn’t end until Sergrud was dead.

  * * *

  The door to the Keep was barred from the inside. Janaya rammed her hellfire-infused sword right through the timbers, splinters and ash spraying out. The door burst open, and Aven rushed inside, ready to fight. No Vulgares in the entrance hall. Only a corpse.

  Hells. Kaleb lay dead, his spear bloody and throat slashed. He’d stood to fight, and then been killed from behind, a distant part of Aven analyzed. A good young man murdered on a night when all should have been quiet.

  “Hell,” Dashul whispered, dismay coating his voice. “He was just a boy.”

  No time to grieve as another death cry came from above, followed by screams. Aven sprinted up the stairs, racing for Etrani’s study on the second floor. Another body in the hall. Vulgares.

  Aven burst through the door to the study. Empty. No sign of Etrani or Esharah. The desk and chairs toppled.

  No, not empty. Movement behind the desk.

  Aven shot out a voidclaw, seizing the moving figure and dragging out Maddox’s squealing self.

  “I don’t know where they are, I swe-” Maddox blinked. “Oh! Captain!”

  Another rustle from behind the desk, and the tiny form of a minari peeked out. Esharah’s assistant, Kalashi.

  “Where’s Etrani?” Aven demanded.

  Maddox pointed up, “She and Esharah ran up. I swear that’s all I know!”

  “Vulgares took the stairs,” Kalashi sobbed. “We...we had to hide...”

  Two imperial wardens, reduced to sniveling and hiding when Etrani was in danger. Later, Aven shoved that thought aside. There were bigger things to deal with.

  Back to the hall, the Dashul, Iskir, and Janaya close behind.

  A mental burst came from behind the still present, still silent wall, “Hurry...Etrani’s chambers...I’m leading them away...hurry...”

  Silence again.

  “Esharah’s trying to draw the others away,” Aven relayed. The pulse of her thoughts gave a general direction. West wing. Opposite of Etrani’s chambers. “Janaya, Iskir get to her. Dashul, we’ll get Etrani.”

  Janaya gave a wordless nod, limbs trembling, hellfire flaring up around her. The prospect of a fight had her powers excited. She rushed off with a war cry that echoed in the halls, Iskir following close behind, looking more than a little unnerved and wary of the flames spewing out around Janaya.

  Third floor, east wing. The executor’s chamber took up the northeast tower of the keep. To Aven’s relief, the door was intact and locked. No sign of Vulgares this direction. All quiet.

  “Watch the corridor,” Aven told Dashul while he rapped on the door. “Etrani! It’s Aven! I’m coming in.”

  Voidclaw shaped to a smaller point, Aven threaded it into the lock, feeling the interior of the mechanism to form the voidclaw to match the lock’s design. He turned, and the deadbolt released.

  Aven flung open the door. A broom smacked him in the face before even the Battle Mind could react.

  “Back, you devil!”

  “Please don’t beat my captain.”

  The assault ceased.

  “Oh, my heavens!” Tanya stepped back, broom still clutched in the minari matron’s trembling hands. “It’s you!”

  “Apologies for startling you,” Aven bowed to the housekeeper while rubbing his bruised nose, but his eyes were on Etrani at the back of the room. Unharmed. No worse than she’d been before the assault anyway. She held a short sword in both hands, knuckles white from the death grip. A thinner blade than imperial standard, more ceremonial than anything.

  “Captain,” Etrani murmured, relief in her eyes.

  Aven shared that relief with a smile, “Are you harmed, Executor?”

  Etrani took a deep breath, blade lowering to dangle at her side. Her shoulders trembled, “No harm.”

  Tension faded, just a notch. Etrani was safe. Without the immediacy of the battle thrill coursing through his veins, Aven had time to think. There were still threats. Just not in this room.

  “What happened?” Aven asked.

  “Esharah sensed Vulgares, then their mindspeaker started blocking her,” Etrani’s voice was calm, but a forced, tight calm. “She sent us here; she said she would draw them away. We need to retake the keep.”

  “We will,” Aven said. “But right now, my priority is keeping you safe.” He glanced back to the doorway. “Is Sergrud here?”

  “I don’t know,” Etrani said. “Esharah couldn’t feel their identities or numbers. Just their presence.”

  “We’ll get you out of here first,” Aven said. “We’ll regroup, get Logash back, get enough soldiers to drive them out-”

  “Captain!” Dashul called from the door. A blast and a flash of light from the doorway as the soldier unleashed his Brightcaster vis. “Enemy vi-”

  Aven whirled just in time to see Dashul fall, arrow protruding from his chest. A bow snapped from the corridor. The air shimmered, and the Battle Mind tracked the movement, letting Aven smack the shadow-wreathed arrow out of the air with his voidclaw.

  The Vulgares’ black-furred felin approached down the hall, bow in hand. Alone. Golden eyes shimmered, and her lip curled in a challenging grin. She stepped over Dashul’s body and leaned down, placing a shadow-wreathed hand on his head as if giving a blessing.

  Aven roared and lunged, voidclaw spearing out. The Vulgares felin shifted, leaning back just enough that the spear only stabbed empty air in front of her.

  “Aven Arvanius,” the beastkin greeted, rising from Dashul’s still form.

  “Teja,” Aven recalled the felin’s name from their encounter in Notholm. “I’m going to kill you.” His voice sounded flat, alien to his own ears. Even the threat did not carry emotion, his anger swallowed by the Battle Mind.

  Kaleb. Dashul. This felin might have murdered them both. He shoved the anger, the grief at his dead comrades to some other part of his mind, split it away. It could not help right now. Right now, only death mattered.

  The felin’s grin widened, and she lunged swift as a shadow.

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

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