Wulfred’s soldiers marched on Frostwood. Uphill, through snow, formations shifting around the trees and uneven terrain. Slower than yesterday, and not only from the terrain.

  The battle would begin today. Where, when, no one knew. Attacks could come at any time. All around, Wulfred saw soldiers with shoulders tensed and eyes wild, expecting Vulgares warriors to explode out at any moment. A dozen skirmishes throughout the night left them tired. On edge. Hands gripped spears tight while using them as walking sticks in the snow. Eyes darted to the woods.

  No marching songs. No drums. The Vulgares knew they were coming, but that was no excuse to announce their location to the enemy.

  “We are soldiers of Octarnis,” Wulfred started a quiet chant , low enough that it wouldn’t ring through the trees but enough for the surrounding soldiers to hear. A chant that every soldier learned the first week of training. A chant spoken by soldiers who had conquered lands from desert to frozen sea in centuries past.

  “We are soldiers of Octarnis,” the chant came back. Just as it had a thousand other times. In training. Marches. Battles. A million voices echoed that chant all across the land, united in purpose for the empire’s glory. Just as Wulfred had uttered that chant from the moment he took up the spear at fifteen years.

  Wulfred repeated the opening line, and the low chant spread until at the fifth repetition the whole company had opportunity to join.

  “We know courage, not fear.”

  “We know courage, not fear.” the voices came back.

  “We know discipline, not chaos.”

  “We know discipline, not chaos.”

  “We know strength, not weakness. We know victory. For glory. For Empire.”

  “For Empire.” The final line echoed back in unison.

  Wulfred began anew, “We are soldiers of Octarnis.”

  The Vulgares would learn what that meant.

  * * *

  “Three groups,” Teja slipped over the barricade. “Two blocks in front, one in the back to support the others. Each fifty strong, mixed group. Vis in each.”

  Sergrud nodded. Standard tactics. Exactly like Frostclaw. The same by-the-book tactics that had pushed the empire’s territory for centuries.

  “Frostclaw leading the back block along with the veterans, yeah?” Sergrud asked. Teja gratified him with an approving nod. “And the prisoners?”

  “The north block,” Teja said. “Except a few vis scattered in the other ranks.”

  Of course. Frostclaw wouldn’t want the untrained, undisciplined prisoners poisoning his trained formations. Wouldn’t want them in the back rank to provide support either. Better to push them forward and have them part of the primary charge. Throw enough men into a fight, and it wouldn’t matter if they were trained soldiers or not. South block would lead, push forward and take the brunt of any initial frontal assault. The north would then support them, and if either fell back, the rearguard would reinforce. The whole formation could pivot swiftly, taking an attack from any direction - when it had space, that is.

  The path to Frostwood here ran between two rising hills with thick forest on each side. Vulgares forces gathered atop both hills, hidden in the woods. Two jaws of the trap. Clan Hravast on the north hill, Ragashar tribe to the south. Rocksmashers with him, Patz at his side.

  Mensikhana’s mental voice came into his head, “We are ready.”

  Sergrud nodded to Teja, and the felin slipped through the back to take her place guarding Mensikhana. Just in case the Imperials sent someone after her. Everything in place.

  Down the trail, the first of the imperial scouts emerged from among the trees, taking in the Rocksmasher formation assembled between the hills, fallen trees set up as defenses. Slippery bastard reacted quick enough to dodge Sergrud’s spear, dodging back into the trees and shouting frantically.

  Sergrud plucked another spear from the dirt. Useless as Clan Hravast sometimes was, they made damn good spears, and they made a lot of them.

  The imperials to emerge had shields raised. Formations locked, disciplined and orderly.

  Sergrud grinned. Imperial shields wouldn’t stop his spears. He let the spear fly, channeling all the power of his soul into the shaft. It shot out like a ballista bolt.

  And was promptly stopped by the imperial shield. The soldier staggered back right onto his ass, but more followed up from behind, supporting the man and pushing him forward, still with the spear jutting out.

  He frowned. What on hells? A vis? No matter how strong the man, a shield was a shield. Unless...

  Vision narrowed as he poured the Flow of vis into his eyes. That godsdamned prickling never stopped being an irritant. He could see now, though. The entire front line had shields double-thick. For ordinary spears and arrows, that was entirely unnecessary. Had they prepared all that just for him? Flattering, if a pain in the ass.

  The Rocksmashers were strong, their bows heavy, but they had even less success punching through those shields than his spears had. Soldiers spilled out, holding formation and approaching, slow and steady.

  The soldiers’ own archers began to retaliate. Didn’t have the range to be a threat yet. The real threat would come when...

  There it was. A roaring wave of light and flame burst out. Sergrud dove behind a log barricade.

  “Down!” Mensikhana’s command reached every Rocksmasher at once.

  Ogres scrambled behind the barriers as the Imperial Casters’ assault swept over their position. Heat washed over them. A Flamecaster vis’ soulfire wouldn’t catch objects ablaze, not without a longer, concentrated blast. It still was hot as the godsdamned hells, though. The blasts exploded through the snow, sending melted ice raining down like a sudden shower. Steam singed nostrils. Would have scorched his eyes had Sergrud not had them shut tight.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  A second silence, almost peace as steam and smoke washed over them, the volley exhausted.

  “Loose arrows!” Mensikhana ordered.

  The ogres popped up to fire, and Sergrud launched another spear of his own. A few of the soldiers fell, but the formation was complete now, the force marching towards them in the space created by the casters’ assault. In the space between caster attacks, Sergrud saw the next block emerge further north, moving up the hillside to flank their position.

  Perfect.

  “Now!” he roared.

  Mensikhana gave the command, and a song rose from the northern hill. Tulun’s voice echoed even among the fiery bursts and screams of the dying. Clan Hravast burst over the hill, song driving them to madness. Howling warriors painted red and black poured down the hillside like an avalanche, slamming into the imperial’s north flank, right into the mob of the north block. These weren’t real soldiers. Quarry slaves, prisoners, guards who hadn’t known any combat more than beating half-starved wrecks who couldn’t fight back.

  The imperial line broke as Tulun’s song stirred up the same madness among them. In the Vulgares, that madness became a fury that drove them to slaughter all enemies. In the imperials, that madness became terror. Fear. They turned and ran. Tulun led Clan Hravast after the routing soldiers, spears and axes reaping lives like wheat.

  The rout halted when Frostclaw’s own block came to their support. The strongest of the imperials, veterans and personally chosen vis beside their canin captain. Frostclaw himself at the head, running through two Clan Hravast warriors at the first charge. Real soldiers like these didn’t give in to Tulun’s song of rage. They knew how to weather the madness and focus. Their shields locked in formation. The Clan Hravast charge broke against it, their mad fury turning into confused panic when they failed to break the line. Frostclaw’s troops pressed the attack. Clan Hravast had no discipline. No formation to support each other.

  The mass of charging barbarians crushed in on each other, trapping the front lines between their own clanmates and the empire’s spears.

  But those spears were now pointed away from Sergrud. And now was time for the trap to close its other jaw.

  “Charge!” Sergrud called.

  Mensikhana carried the command to Rocksmashers and Ragashar alike. Gannuk and his beastkin charged down the southern hill, howling savage joy to the skies at the same time the Rocksmashers leapt over their log barriers to join the fray.

  Ogres and beastkin hit the southern block from two directions at once, pushing them back and driving a wedge between them and Frostclaw’s veterans.

  Sergrud didn’t bother to watch . Gannuk would handle that part himself. Sergrud had his own prey.

  He clapped Patz on the back. Man was quivering with excitement, breath heavy and eyes wide in anticipation.

  “Let’s go hunting,” Sergrud grinned, leaping over the barricades and towards Frostclaw.

  * * *

  Wulfred stabbed through another of the barbarians, the man screaming and trying to stab him back, only for his thrust to be deflected off another veteran’s shield.

  “Forward!” Wulfred called. “Push them back!”

  The Vulgares singer’s voice still rang out, driving the barbarians forward even as his company’s spears chewed through their ranks. The song of rage battled with the discipline that Wulfred had forged for twenty years, and once again the discipline won. Each of his soldiers had the strength and training of three of the untrained barbarians. The charge was a mass of untrained muscle and fury that crumbled before Wulfred’s line.

  In mere minutes, the barbarian horde fell back. Soldiers stepped over their fallen bodies, moving forward in tight formation. Casters blasted down the ones in retreat.

  Wulfred saw the singer now. A tall man, hair and beard braided and strung with ornaments. The song faded as the warriors retreated around him.

  The singer fell to his knees, eyes wide at the slaughter, while Wulfred marched closer.

  A soldier thrust his spear at the singer. Before Wulfred could call out a warning, the singer caught the spear just behind the blade, and with a single motion ripped the weapon from the startled soldier’s grasp. He swung the spear around and slammed it into the soldier’s chest with a strength that punched through armor, shield, and bones, sending the man flying backwards and crashing into his squadmates. Despair changed to defiance, and the singer roared out anew. No longer a song of rage, but of challenge.

  “I am Tulun of Hravast!” the singer roared. “If today I die, I will dine in the halls of Ogrun and Vashna with my brothers!” His face contorted with rage and fury. “Come, honorless! Godless! Come and join me in death!”

  The howling face struck their minds like a tempest, soldiers staggering back before discipline reasserted will.

  “Casters!” Wulfred called.

  Before the casters could wipe this barbarian warrior from the world, a figure smashed into the formation’s flank.

  The bald, tattooed man howled with laughter even as spears met his flesh, some skittering off as if striking stone while others pierced skin. Blood flowed freely, and the madman’s eyes shone with joy as he spun in a wide circle, twin axes rending shields and soldiers apart. The prisoner always at Sergrud’s side.

  “Wheel left!” Wulfred called. “Wheel left!”

  Even as the formation turned to meet the new threat, Sergrud crashed through in his companion’s wake, leaping right over his whirling body.

  Right at Wulfred.

  He braced, shield and spear raised. The spear met thick hide armor, turning aside. His shield met Sergrud’s body.

  It felt like he’d slammed the shield against the mountainside itself.

  Wulfred staggered back, and before he could regain footing, Sergrud’s hand seized his throat.

  Too close for spears. Wulfred jerked forward, teeth bared to snap at Sergrud’s face. Sergrud held him back, wild grin on his face, and he turned, slamming Wulfred into his own soldiers. The world spun. He couldn’t see straight, couldn’t hear anything except the howling laughter and his soldier’s screams.

  He clawed at Sergrud’s face, seeking his eyes, and the man hurled him.

  Wulfred hit the ground yards away from the fight, breath driven from him, and he rolled onto his knees. By miracle, he held onto his spear.

  Soldiers moved to help him, but the tattooed berserker held them back. Even now, the wounds covering the man’s body closed, skin forming bony ridges.

  They were between the blocks of soldiers. More of the painted barbarians rushed to join the battle, their leader’s song driving them forward anew. To the south, ogres and beastkin harried the other half of their forces. Wulfred snarled and raised his spear.

  Sergrud was right here. Right in front of him. Traitor to the legions. Murderer.

  This would end here.

  “You’ve been slacking,” Sergrud twirled his spear and sauntered forward as if he had all the time in the world. “You were almost a threat when I escaped from Hellfrost.”

  “I’ll finish the job,” Wulfred said. Should have killed the bastard seven years ago. Erdrak wanted to kill him. Refusing was the worst mistake of Wulfred’s life. Laws said an imperial citizen deserved trial and proper punishment. Hang the laws. A rabid dog like Sergrud deserved death from the beginning. And Wulfred hadn’t had the strength to give it.

  “Put some force into that spear, and maybe you can still kill me,” Sergrud’s grin split his face. He crouched, spear pointed forward. A legion battle stance.

  Shouts came from behind. Wulfred moved, pivoting to where he could see both Sergrud and the approaching warriors. Arvanius’ company, regrouped after their rout, joining the fray again.

  This was it. This was the chance to wipe them out for good.

  Backed by the approaching Hellfrost Legion, Frostclaw moved towards Sergrud.

  Sergrud waited, looking just past Wulfred. Eyebrows raised, as if asking a silent question.

  Pain erupted from behind. A spear. Right through his back.

  The world blurred. He turned.

  That canin. The voidhunter. Iskir. He’d sprinted ahead of the others. Reached Wulfred first.

  “Traitor,” Wulfred growled.

  Iskir jerked the spear free and stabbed him again.

  Gods. It hurt.

  The traitor grabbed him by the back of the neck, eyes blazing with rage, “Yeah, I’m a traitor. Every moment I held a spear for the empire was a betrayal of my kin that your legions slaughtered.” He spat in Wulfred’s face. “This is my redemption, imperial bastard.”

  Wulfred couldn’t speak, could barely breathe, his voice choked by pain. He jerked free from the spear and shoved Iskir away, but collapsed immediately after.

  The strength was gone from his limbs. His spear. He had to reach his spear. Kill Sergrud. Kill all these traitors. He tried to turn, but his legs failed, and the world spun again. The snow was cold on his cheek, cold on his fur.

  He didn’t remember hitting the ground. His soldiers. He couldn’t fail them. Couldn’t. Not again. He’d already let so many die at Sergrud’s hands. Couldn’t fail. Couldn’t.

  A boot crushed his hand just as it found the spear.

  Sergrud smiled down at him. “Seven years I’ve dreamed of this.”

  The spear plunged down.

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

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