“Is it true that there are ten thousand warriors as strong as you among the empire?”

  Sergrud paused mid-drink and turned to see a shaken Mensikhana at the tent entrance. Shaken and shaking. Girl was rattled enough that she didn’t even have the usual look of jealousy when entering his tent to see him with another woman on his lap.

  “I’m in the middle of something here,” he said.

  “I will not wait.”

  That message apparently was announced to the tent in general, not just Sergrud’s head, because both the Frostwood girl on his lap and the canin woman pouring more wine paused and glanced from Sergrud to Mensikhana nervously. Sergrud growled, “You’re supposed to be keeping an eye on our guest. Why in the hells are you here, and not with her?”

  “I need answers,” Damn, she was uppity today. Whatever manipulations the dezar did had the ogress half-mad. He’d seen running deer less spooked. Her breath was ragged, hands clutching at the furs wrapped around her body.

  “Alright,” Sergrud plopped the Frostwood girl off his lap and snatched the flagon of ale from the canin. “Out, girls. I’ll finish this in a moment.”

  Both attendants grabbed their outer cloaks and hastily pulled them on. The canin woman hurried out without another word. The Frostwood girl gave Mensikhana one more glance before scurrying out.

  “Answer me,” Mensikhana demanded again.

  “You’ve been listening to the dezar,” Sergrud growled. “You think she’s got answers?”

  “Is it true?!” her mental voice rang like thunder in his head. “How many warriors does the empire truly have? How many ‘vis’ who could kill all our warriors like crushing ants?!”

  “Too damn many,” Sergrud said. He took another drink of the ale. Better than the tribes’ swill. Still shit. Gods, he couldn’t wait to get into Hellfrost. Five years since he’d had a proper drink. Five years scrabbling in the frozen wastelands to get back the fortress that should have been his from the beginning. Five years of patience and now his best assets were turning yellow at the final stretch. “But that doesn’t matter. You know how goddamn big the empire is? Sure, they’ve got warriors. They’re scattered all over the world. You know how long it takes for one person to cross one side of the empire to the other? Much less an army? Months.” He leaned back, “Besides, I’m stronger than any of the Empire’s third circles. I killed a third circle when I was second. When I was a boy.”

  It really was ten years ago now. Gods, that was almost enough to make him feel old. Damn the empire for robbing away ten years of his life. Ten years of glory.

  “Now? I’ll take a fourth circle like Vestra,” he said. He’d thought of little else for years. How good it would feel to kill her. “It isn’t about how much power someone has; it’s how they use it. You know that.” He eyed her again. Still not convinced. “I’m disappointed, Mensikhana. You’re a Mindspeaker, and you let the dezar get in your head? You’re better than that. You know she’s lying.”

  “I...I do not know,” the ogress looked so uncertain. So weak. “I know nothing of this world. Of the empire. I...I believed you when you said we could defeat the empire, but now...”

  “It’s not about defeating the empire,” Sergrud stood up. Towered over her. He gripped her shoulders. Let her remember his strength. “It’s about defeating Hellfrost.”

  “And after?”

  “And after we have months to plan before they’ll even left a finger,” Sergrud said. “Gods, the future is the future. Spend all your time worrying about it, and you’ll be paralyzed. Frozen. Just like your old man was, right? Too scared of the future to act.”

  He let the rest remain unspoken. So terrified of the future that the ogre chieftain crushed his own daughter’s throat rather than hear her speak of the danger coming to their tribe. The man had deserved what he got when Sergrud broke his skull.

  Mensikhana flinched at his words, the fire coming to her eyes again, the spark of defiance. Determination to face the future instead of running from it. There it was. That was the spark that made her different. Stronger.

  She swallowed. “I...understand.” Her shoulders squared. “Yes...I will not let fear distract me. We must take Hellfrost. It is the only way.”

  “That’s the spirit,” Sergrud clapped her on the shoulder. “Don’t let the dezar’s manipulations poison your mind. Focus. You’re too valuable to be shaken like that.”

  Thank the gods, the scouts chose that moment to burst in. Another second of having to drag Mensikhana back from the ledge and he’d have been tempted to toss her off and deal with the consequences later.

  “Sir!” the wolfman scout was out of breath, fur on end. “Hellfrost’s legion sighted! More than a hundred soldiers.”

  Finally. Sergrud felt his face split in a feral grin, “And the one leading them?”

  “It’s the wolf,” the scout said.

  Sergrud gave Mensikhana a grin, and she nodded. Just as he’d told her. That ought to bring a bit of her confidence back. Took a bit longer, but the result was the same. Wulfred Frostclaw was marching to his death.

  “About damn time,” Sergrud drained his flagon in one go, slamming it on the table. “Rouse the men. This is what we’ve been waiting for. Time for war!”

  The scout howled in excitement and rushed off. Now for the last stage of the hunt. They’d wounded the beast. Bloodied it. Taken its territory. And now that the beast was crawling out of its lair, time to go for the throat.

  * * *

  Wulfred’s soldiers marched for Frostwood. Ten miles of rough terrain. On a good day on the plains, legions marched twenty miles in a day. In Hellfrost conditions, through thick forests with scant paths and fighting through the snowpack, even a forced march would struggle to reach Frostwood in a day. His soldiers could handle it; Arvanius’ soldiers couldn’t. Credit where it was due: Arvanius had turned barbarians and criminals into a semblance of a fighting force. They knew basic formations and commands. They weren’t trained for a forced march.

  Looking around at his own troops, Wulfred was forced to concede it was a tall task to ask even them. Many of the soldiers were years removed from their training. When was the last time any of them had actually done a full twenty-mile march? Hellfrost had made them complacent. Hard living in the north made them tough, but it also dulled their edges.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  “Keep pace!” Wulfred fell back to the level of the flagging group of prisoners. These ones weren’t even hunters, just quarry workers he’d dragged in to fill out the numbers. “You’ve dug blackstone all day, you can deal with snow. March!”

  “We’re...not...soldiers,” one muttered, an ogre with thick arms but clearly no endurance for march, heaving for breath.

  “Tell the Vulgares that. Maybe they’ll spare your miserable hide!” Wulfred said.

  Sullen, jaw set, the ogre quickened pace. Not enough. At this pace, they’d reach Frostwood after sundown, and they’d be worn ragged by that point. Fighting a fresh enemy in their own territory in the dark, exhausted...even if the enemies were barbarians, that was a death sentence. He knew that and planned accordingly, but at this rate they wouldn’t even make the planned campsite where the Blackrock River came down from the mountains.

  “One mile!” Wulfred called out. “Push through, and then we make camp!”

  There was a ridge about a quarter mile off the forest trail. No river there, but they could use snowmelt for water. Better cover than open woods. It wasn’t an easy terrain to maneuver an army through, but that would work against the Vulgares just as well as against Wulfred’s company.

  Runners scouted ahead and confirmed the ridge was clear.

  And now for the wait. The worst part of any campaign. Marching was easy, and the faster the pace, the easier it was. No room to think or fear when the drums and chants drove you on mile after mile. Fighting was even easier for a common soldier: follow orders, follow the legionary practices drilled in over a thousand hours of repetition, or die. Waiting...that was when there was nothing but thoughts of the battle to come. Of the fear, the pain. Of what you left behind. What was waiting at home. Of the glory or shame you were about to win or lose on the field. The hope that gods or paragons or whatever waited above looked out for you.

  Arvanius’ soldiers knew even less about camping than they did about marching. Needed Wulfred’s sergeants to get them organized into proper eight-strong tent crews. At least no one could possibly mess up the mechanical process of melting snow in a pot, then chucking legionary rations in to make a march slop.

  With a full legion, they’d have built a full marching fort. Palisades, trenches. With a small company on a forested ridge, no such luxury. Only tents. Had to risk fires, even if it marked them clear as day for the Vulgares; a night out in this cold with no fires was death surer than Vulgares spears. Full watch posted, all beastkin who could see better in the dark than humans or else vis with enhanced senses. It wasn’t a good camp, but it would do.

  Wulfred was halfway through his round of the camp when he smelled roasting meat, a strong scent that lit up his nose like a flare in the night. The shouts came next. Both from the portion of camp taken by Arvanius’ troops.

  Wulfred rounded the tent cluster to see a scarred canin hunter shove one of his men to the ground. More soldiers on both sides started to rush in.

  “Halt!” Wulfred snapped, rushing in.

  All his soldiers immediately froze. The voidhunters took a second longer and another command to retreat. The canin hunter didn’t stop, aiming a kick at the fallen soldier.

  Wulfred lunged into a low charge and tackled him before he could. They both hit the snow, the hunter struggling against his grip.

  “Stand down!” Wulfred shouted. “All of you, stand down!” The hunter was stronger, obviously a vis, but he was a wild animal against a trained warrior. No leverage. “Yield!”

  A snarl. Then the hunter stopped struggling. Wulfred released him, standing and barking, “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Bastard was after our dinner,” the hunter spat at the Wulfred’s soldier.

  “It’s...not right,” Wulfred’s soldier said, wiping blood from a split lip. “Sneaking off for fresh meat’s against camp codes.”

  Wulfred glanced to see a brace of rabbits roasting on the fire, “Where did you get these?”

  “Hunted them myself,” the canin hunter stood and jutted out his chin defiantly. “No reason for this bastard to have ‘em.”

  “You left camp to go hunting?” Wulfred asked, anger rising.

  “What of it?”

  Wulfred lashed out, knocking the arrogant idiot down again. The canin’s face contorted with rage, and he scrambled up. Another blow sent him staggering.

  “Godsdamned idiot,” Wulfred growled. “We’re in enemy territory, and you snuck out of camp to go hunting? Were you on watch?”

  “Nothing to watch for,” the hunter scrabbled to his feet, ears low and fangs barred. “Night’s quiet. You expect us to live on this slop when there’s fresh game out there?”

  “And what were you going to do if Vulgares attacked?” Wulfred demanded.

  “Fight ‘em off,” the hunter sneered.

  “Camp rules exist for a reason,” Wulfred said. He held out his hand. “Hand over your spear.”

  The hunter’s grip tightened, “Empire took away my weapon when they killed my tribe and chucked me in prison. I’m not handing my weapon over to an imperial bastard ever ag-”

  Idiot didn’t learn his lesson. Even now, he was standing close enough that Wulfred could lunge in and flatten him again with a blow to the snout. The hunter fell to his knees, clutching his face. Wulfred ripped the spear from his grip and nodded to two nearby soldiers.

  “Name?” Wulfred asked as the soldiers hauled the hunter up.

  “Iskir,” the hunter spat blood and glared, but his ears lowered in submission. “Of clan Ripclaw.”

  “Iskir, you earned yourself latrine duty,” Wulfred said, “then a night in a holding tent.” He glanced over the other Voidhunters, “Anyone else leave camp for anything other than a patrol duty?”

  “No, sir!” the others all called out. The canin hunter glared at them but said nothing more as he was dragged away.

  Wulfred glared at the other seven soldiers around that tent, “One soldier breaks the rules, the whole group pays. You lot are on latrine duty too.”

  Grumbles, but they obeyed. Their sergeant was a former guard and at least had more discipline than the criminals, pushing the others alone to take care of the duty.

  Wulfred nodded to the soldier who’d been hurt by the wild Iskir, “You were in the right. Good work, soldier. Take this meat and distribute it to the other camp groups in this quadrant.”

  A salute and the soldier set out to carry out the task.

  At least some fresh meat would be good for morale. And with one example, no one else should be stupid enough to break camp rules.

  * * *

  “You were wrong,” Teja’s smug, mocking voice came from the tree above Sergrud.

  “I can see that,” Sergrud grit his teeth while looking at the empty riverbank. Up here on the cliff looking over the falls where the Blackrock River ran into the forest headed south, the empty space seemed to taunt him as much as Teja did.

  “You bet your arm to Patz that Frostclaw would camp here,” Teja dropped down from the tree and twirled her short sword, eyes gleaming in the twilight. “Do you want me to take it now or wait until later?”

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Sergrud said. “Didn’t think it was my arm you’ve been after all these years.”

  Teja let out a disgusted noise and gave him a look of scorn. Disrespectful bitch.

  “Maybe you don’t know Frostclaw as well as you think,” Teja said. Didn’t know when to shut up.

  “Oh, I know him,” Sergrud said. “Just didn’t think he’d be this cautious. The Red Wolf I know would’ve rushed at double march to reach the best defensible position. So, he’s more cautious in his old age. No matter. We don’t get a full ambush, we still can make for a painful night for them.”

  “I suppose I can,” Teja said mildly, stepping back into the trees and letting her shadows cover her. “I’ll clean up your mess, as usual.”

  She was gone by the time his lazily thrown spear thudded into the place she’d been standing.

  “No fight today, boss?” Patz asked, emerging from the woods behind Sergrud along with Gannuk. “Damn, I’ve been itching for it. You’re teasing me worse than the Frostwood gals.”

  The canin chieftain growled in frustrated agreement, “You promised a blood-feast. If you won’t provide for Ghulagkh, we may have to make our own.” Religious fervor shone in the insane dog’s eyes. Crazy or not, Sergrud knew he’d make good on his implied threat, even knowing that Sergrud could tear him apart if he tried. They had to act.

  Frostclaw wasn’t stupid. He’d have full watch and basic defenses. No chance for a full assault. But a minor one...

  Teja would handle her part, but making a bit more of a distraction for her couldn’t hurt.

  “I didn’t say that,” Sergrud smiled. “Night’s still young. Patz, Gannuk, you’re with me. Bring the best seven vis we’ve got. Tell Tulun to get the rest back to Frostwood and prepare for tomorrow.”

  The wolfman’s tail wagged in excitement, and he howled into the woods in harmony with Patz’ wild whoop.

  Wouldn’t end the war tonight...but they could at least make Hellfrost bleed some more.

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