The barracks adjoining Hellfrost Keep retained its use as infirmary ever since they’d overthrown Yvris. Even though the Vulgares’ casualties outnumbered Hellfrost’s, it was hard to feel that given the number of wounded in the infirmary. So what if every Hellfrost life bought two Vulgares? That brought no comfort to the grieving families.

  There could have been more deaths, Aven tried to tell himself. This was a lucky outcome.

  Empty words in the face of the bloody aftermath.

  Janaya was sleeping, drugged to stop her thrashing and screams. The healers needed to do little besides keep her still; the hellfire took care of the rest, scorching skin closed and leaving painful red scars that themselves would heal with time. Mostly.

  Her bed was next to Rani’s, the old quarry prisoner. The infamous Black Swan had stayed in the infirmary for months since the revolt, alive but...changed. Erdrak’s blow had rattled her skull, and even six months later the injury hadn’t truly healed. Rani was at least lucid today, giving Aven a gap-toothed grin and a wave of her stumpy arm as he approached.

  “Finally come to visit old Rani?” she winked. “Or come to watch that girl scream?” A cackle, “She’s a fun one, way better than the b-b-b....” a pause. A vacant look spread across her face.

  “Boring?” Aven suggested gently.

  “Boring, yes, boring ones you usually have in the infirmary!” Rani resumed as if she hadn’t skipped a beat. “She’s sch...sch...” a breath. “Sweet! Always tells me how wicked and vile I am!” Another howling laugh that turned into a hacking cough.

  “Please keep quiet,” one of the healers brought a cup of water to Rani. “Others are trying to rest.”

  “Choke on a shriveled cock,” Rani muttered when the healer went away. She cackled and gave Aven another grin. “So what do you want?”

  “I’m here to check on everyone,” Aven said. “It seems you’re in fine form.”

  “I’m a ray of damn sunshine,” Rani replied, flopping back onto the pillow. “Who did all this, eh? Not usually this many wounded, is there?” A faint moment of confusion, concern in her eyes, “Is there?”

  “No, this is all new,” Aven said. A flash of memory. Rani was the one who’d told him the story of the escaped prisoners back in the quarry. She’d been here for years, all the way back to Sergrud’s time. “Rebels, led by Sergrud fel-Maies.”

  Aven was never sure in these conversations how much Rani was absorbing, but there was no mistaking the flash of hatred in her eyes, “That bastard’s here?! Where is he?! Where is he?!”

  Rani jerked up from the bed, hand scrabbling under her pillow to pull out a knife. Healers screamed, and Aven darted forward to pluck the knife from her grip before she set about stabbing.

  “Give me the knife,” Rani growled, staggering forward. “I’ll kill the b-b-b-” She paused, swaying on her feet, eyes glassy. “Bastard...”

  Aven caught Rani with one arm while the other carefully held the knife out of reach. She idly reached her stump out towards it, apparently not realizing that the absence of a hand would be a barrier to grabbing the knife.

  “Here,” Aven lowered Rani to the bed. Carefully. “Back to bed, Rani.”

  “I’m not a child,” she jerked away from his grip, sullenly sinking back into the covers. “Don’t need to be coddled.”

  “Right,” Aven stepped back as a healer came up.

  “What...” she glanced at Aven quizzically. “What was it you were saying?”

  “Nothing important,” Aven pasted on a smile. “Always a pleasure to see your smiling face, Rani.”

  “Piss off, you charmer,” Rani threw a pillow at him. Even one-armed and weakened by months in the infirmary, she could throw. “You’re a decade too young for me!”

  Aven would have said four decades too young, but now wasn’t the time to argue.

  Dashul was sleeping as well, drugged to unconsciousness while the healers had extracted the arrowhead from his chest. Fate had smiled, and the arrow missed anything vital, lodging between two ribs. Both those ribs were cracked, and the wound would leave a nasty scar. Not fatal, though.

  Logash was similarly fortunate, or maybe just too damn tough and stubborn. To Aven’s slight surprise, when he entered the room set aside for Logash (he was too large for the beds, so they had him on the floor in a pile of blankets), Tanya was at his side, feeding him a bowl of soup.

  “Go on, eat more,” Tanya brought the comically small spoon to Logash’s mouth. “Man of your size needs to keep his strength up if you’re going to heal.”

  Logash gave Aven a helpless shrug and grin while letting Tanya fuss over him.

  “See you’re being well taken care of,” Aven said. “Even a spear like that isn’t enough to bring you down, huh?”

  “I’ve taken worse and lived,” Logash said, his booming voice reduced to a soft rumble. Tanya shushed him, and Logash sighed and accepted more soup. “Between armor and runes, I was more bruised than impaled. And I’m lucky enough to have a wonderful nurse. What’s the news?”

  “Well, Frostclaw’s taken over, and I’m kicked out as captain,” Aven said, keeping his voice cheerful. “So, when you’re better you’ll be able to fight under someone who at least thinks they know what they’re going. ‘Course, he’s taking the legion out to hunt down Sergrud right away, so by the time you’re better, he’ll hopefully have swept up the mess.”

  Logash frowned, “That is...reckless. Sergrud is a strong and cunning warrior. Simply marching out to fight him...” he shook his head.

  “Well, it’s not our place to question that,” Aven said bitterly. “In any case, get better soon so you can join the fight again.”

  Logash hesitated while Tanya poked another spoonful of soup at his face, “Tanya, could you please give Aven and I a moment?”

  “Hmm? Oh, certainly!” She stood, setting aside the bowl of soup and smiling at Aven before stepping from the room and shutting the door.

  Logash waited a few moments before continuing, “I am...not certain I will be rejoining the fight.”

  There was no sign of humor in Logash’s voice. Not even Logash’s usual calmness. Despite his bulk, he looked vulnerable. And tired. Massive shoulders slumped forward, head bowing. The wound wasn’t even that severe. Less than the wounds he’d taken from Erdrak and Vestra. Why did he look so exhausted?

  “Why’s that?” Aven said. “You’re the strongest warrior in Hellfrost. Certainly stronger than me. Losing you...that’s be hard for us. Is the wound that bad?”

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “No, it is not this wound,” Logash said, idly rubbing the bandages. “This one will heal just fine. Even in a few days. My body is strong, but...some wounds are deeper than that. My bones ache, Aven, They have...ached for years. Every new battle brings new aches. I have...I have fought all my life. Even before I could walk, I wrestled with my brothers.”

  Aven had no idea that the old ogre had brothers.

  “I’ve...scarcely spoken about my past,” Logash’s gaze looked distance. “It is not easy for me to think of. The shame still haunts me.”

  Aven waited. Logash had always been private. Now...maybe he needed this.

  Logash’s voice dropped to a rumble, barely more than a whisper, “As long as I can remember, I sought power. Power to dominate enemies, as our god Grashakhar, Warmaster of the heavens, commanded. My father...he spoke of power as a mountain. A mountain that one could climb endlessly and never glimpse the summit. To live, he said, is to dedicate all your being to climbing that mountain. To hurl others down from its heights if they dare to challenge you. To claw and scrape for every inch. Anything less is to be cast from the mountain, and be forever forgotten.”

  The metaphor was unfamiliar, but the attitude...that was not so different from the discipline that Father tried to instill in Aven. To strive endlessly, never accept less than perfection, to be the perfect image of imperial might.

  “I reached greater heights on that mountain than any in my tribe,” Logash said. “I believe your empire would have called my power the Third Circle of vis. At that height...I found only blood. Emptiness. Loneliness. The rage that brought me to that height...destroyed everything.”

  Logash’s voice broke.

  “I fought my own brothers. Killed them. And they in turn slaughtered my wife and children.” Tears spilled down his rugged face, “My beautiful Ashandra, who warned me that war would destroy us. My boy Rorgash, who tried to be a warrior in my footsteps. My daughter Malara, who never lived to see her coming of age. In my grief...I killed the last of my brothers. I...only stayed my hand at the last of my kin, my nephew who wept and trembled before me, pleading for mercy. The only thing that power bought me was pain, grief. Only that. The mountain has no summit. It is a wasteland of endless death and misery.”

  Logash looked at Aven with sad eyes, “I joined the Guardians of our land as penance, seeking a path to peace and forswearing the rage that gave me such power. Then your empire came and I tried to use that rage to defeat Vestra vis Nightblood and defend my people. I failed, and now I am here. I...I do not believe I can climb this mountain further. I have sought another path than rage, another way up the mountain. I have failed. What you see before you is a broken old stone, worn by storms until it is only sand.” He closed his eyes, “I will heal. This will not kill me. But, Aven, my friend, I have lost my strength. I have...grown old. Perhaps I can teach, can guide others to find their paths up the mountain...but I cannot climb myself.” He opened his eyes to stare at Aven. “You will not need me.”

  “...thank you for telling me,” Aven said, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say. “And thank you for all the help you’ve already given me. We’ll...be sure you’ll have a place here. You’ve earned it. But for now, just get better.”

  Aven stepped out of the room. He’d seen Father grow old enough and weary enough that Aven could kill the hero of the Tenebras frontier. Father had fought until the last moment. Until he fell, sword still in his hands. That had always been what Aven thought it meant to be old.

  Logash, still living but no longer willing to fight. Was this how old warriors were meant to die? To fade and diminish until there was nothing left? The old ogre had been the rock that Hellfrost rested upon, a bulwark against all its foes, but now...

  Maybe it would have been kinder for that spear to take him, to give him the death of a warrior, and not let him fade and dwindle to a shell. Maybe Logash was right, that the path to power was nothing but blood and misery.

  Aven couldn’t afford to believe that. Whatever lay ahead, he had to climb.

  To Aven’s surprise, when he left the infirmary, Captain Breton was waiting outside Hellfrost’s gate.

  “Captain,” Aven greeted him.

  “Aven,” Breton replied. He didn’t smile. “Come down to the tavern for a drink.”

  It wasn’t a request.

  * * *

  Most of Hellfrost’s soldiers favored the Rusted Spear tavern. None of them particularly welcomed Aven. The Spear was too quiet for Aven’s taste - a proper tavern should be loud and messy. Not that Aven wanted to be at the forefront of tavern revelries, but it was a pleasant background noise. A place to get lost in, to drink and listen and occasionally join in for a bawdy song or two. Aven couldn’t lose himself in a place where every patron glared at him, which unfortunately was true of the other taverns (the Chill Winds and the Hard Days) as well.

  Right now, the Rusted Spear was practically empty, but even so, Breton chose a table in the corner.

  “You should come here more often,” Breton said, shoving a mug of ale towards Aven.

  “I might if your soldiers didn’t glare daggers at me the entire time,” Aven said.

  “They glare at you because they’re scared shitless of you,” Breton took a swig of the ale, smacking his lips. Actually looked like he enjoyed the swill. Everyone claimed that the brewer’s “Frostbrew” was an acquired taste. That acquisition remained elusive. “They don’t know you, and you ain’t helped with that.”

  “I’m a soldier in Hellfrost, aren’t I?” Aven replied.

  “Yeah, and you’re a criminal,” Breton said. “And a voidtouched. You don’t act like a soldier. You give speeches declaring that you don’t care about the Empire or the Ideals. They have no idea how to deal with you, or how far you can be trusted.” He put down the mug, “You say you’ll fight the voidspawn, and you’ve shown that. But that’s different from being a comrade.”

  “Maybe they shouldn’t have made me captain then.”

  “Damn right,” Breton snorted, and Aven couldn’t help a grin. Honesty was at least refreshing rather than tip-toeing around it all.

  “Why’d you invite me here?” Aven asked.

  “Because Hellfrost is fracturing, and we need unity,” Breton said. “We don’t stand together, the Vulgares will rip us apart.”

  “Then why support Frostclaw in undermining Etrani’s authority?”

  “Because she’s lost her confidence,” Breton said. “A leader who doubts himself...or herself is no good. The soldiers need to see a strong commander. If that means we need a new captain for that to happen...well, that’s the price. I was against Frostclaw’s decision, and I was surprised that Etrani didn’t fight it harder, but if the woman herself doesn’t think she can do the job, then I’ll stand with him. Frostclaw’s a good man. I can trust him.” He paused, “Unlike you. I can’t trust you. I don’t understand you.”

  Aven sighed. “If you don’t trust me, then that’s it, isn’t it?”

  Breton stared at him for a long while, then shook his head, “No, that’s not how this works.” He waved, “Gods’ sake, Aven, I’m trying to reach out here, give me something.”

  “What do you want?” Aven threw his hands out to the sides. “I’m a monster that crawled out of the void, right? That’s how you see me? Or I’m a kinslayer and criminal. Or I’m tool of a dead order who murdered my own friends as part of someone else’s political games. That’s what I am.”

  “Ain’t what the bathhouse girls say,” a smile twitched on Breton’s face. “They say you’re a demon who keeps them up until the wee hours of the night. Of course I don’t believe that bullshit. How much of the rest is bullshit, then? If you don’t want everyone else to write your own godsdamn story, then tell it yourself.” Another drink of ale, “Your oath to the people of Hellfrost and to Etrani, was that sincere?”

  “Every word of it,” Aven replied.

  “Good,” Breton nodded. “Then I’ll trust you to hold to that.”

  Breton’s tankard hit the table with a decisive thud. As if the matter were settled.

  Aven stared. “Just...like that? You just said you didn’t trust me.”

  “I didn’t,” Breton said. “Now I’m choosing to. Simple, eh?”

  “Are you drunk?” Aven asked.

  “Not yet!” Breton grinned. “Buy me another ale, and I might get there. ‘Till then, I’ll settle for being a fool.”

  “A fool who trusts the monster,” Aven muttered, taking a swig from the ale. Even he had to admit it wasn’t as vile on the second try. “...should you be drinking when you’re about to go out and fight?”

  “Oh, I’m not fighting,” Breton said. “Frostclaw’s handling that. Taking his company and the remainder of yours. Mine’s staying to defend. We’re not stupid; we know this could be a feint to draw us out and make Hellfrost vulnerable. Still, got to try. Just holing up in Hellfrost isn’t sustainable.”

  “Why not?” Aven asked. “Etrani ran the numbers. We’ve got the supplies to last. They wouldn’t survive the winter.”

  “Maybe not,” Breton said. “And I agreed with that strategy before. But if Etrani herself doesn’t believe in it enough to fight against Frostclaw, why should I trust it?” He looked Aven in the eye, “If you were in charge, what would you do?”

  “Keep the main force in defense,” Aven said. “Take a small group to rescue Esharah. Or kill Sergrud. Or take their Mindspeaker, I suppose.”

  Breton snorted, “That’s not a plan. That’s just brainstorming ideas.”

  “And there’s why I’m not in charge.”

  “And the same for me,” Breton rose. “I just follow orders. Right now, my orders are defend Hellfrost and pray that Frostclaw can really win this battle.” He offered his hand, “Maybe I’ll come to trust you, but I’ve got a ways to go.”

  Aven shook it, “Thanks for the try, at least.” He hesitated. “You know this is a stupid idea, don’t you? To march off and fight Sergrud?”

  “I don’t,” Breton said. “Frostclaw’s a better commander than me, and he thinks he can do it.” He shrugged, “What else is there to say? If you can think of anything that’ll convince him not to go, be my guest.” He turned to leave. “Otherwise, I’ve got defenses to prepare.”

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

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