Finally. Triumph filled Sergrud as his spear pierced Wulfred Frostclaw through the chest. The Empire had robbed him of so much joy in the world, but feeling Frostclaw’s life bleed out on the end of his spear almost made it all worth it.

  Sergrud hoisted the spear aloft, letting everyone see the corpse of the legion captain. He let out a howl of victory louder than any of the canin around.

  At that signal, Mensikhana’s voice echoed in the heads of Vulgares and Imperials alike, “The Red Wolf is dead!”

  The mental shout swept over the battlefield, driving the legions to despair and the Vulgares to triumph.

  Tulun’s song rose above the fray, spread fear among the enemy and triumph among the Vulgares. The legions backed away. Some tried to rush in towards Sergrud to take vengeance or steal back their captain’s corpse, but Patz drove them back long enough for the Rocksmashers to reach Sergrud. Even trained imperial legionaries cowered at the sight of a formation of ogres standing between them and their fallen captain.

  The battle broke, the split companies retreating away while the Vulgares rallied around Sergrud.

  “Traitor!” Soldiers shouted at the canin who’d stabbed Frostclaw in the back.

  “Your empire burned my village and killed my brothers!” The canin roared back.

  Sergrud stepped forward and clapped the canin on the shoulder. “That’s the spirit! Piece by piece, we’ll burn the empire for what they took from us! All of us!”

  Mensikhana carried Sergrud’s words beyond even what his voice could reach.

  “How many of you soldiers were promised glory, then sent to rot in Hellfrost?” Sergrud met the angry eyes of the soldiers around him. So many of them were like Frostclaw. Driven by nothing but duty, the precious Discipline that held the legions together and turned free men to blind tools. Surely there were some that still had the spark. The will to take what they wanted instead of giving themselves to the empire. “Join the Vulgares! Join us, and take the spoils you deserve!”

  “Join us,” Mensikhana said. “Or die as tools of the empire in their profane conquest. We are your only salvation.”

  Still stunned, the legions only answered with silence. Sergrud let the offer linger as the officers struggled to rally their forces together.

  He turned to the slowly approaching third company. The prisoners, quarry workers and prison guards alike.

  “How many of you are like Iskir here?” Sergrud asked. “How many ripped away from your homes and sent to die for the Empire? And now you raise your spears for them?” He slammed the spear butt into the ground, letting Frostclaw’s body wave above like a flag. “Come and fight! The empire treats you like dogs, so bare your fangs towards the ones who really deserve it!”

  Mensikhana carried his voice again, “We offer freedom for all who are brave enough to take it!”

  A beat of silence. Then, the line broke. A dozen prisoners rushed towards the Vulgares, rage following them. None of the soldiers were brave enough to challenge them. None were brave enough to join the Vulgares. They just stood in their formations and raged impotently.

  “Those who are too cowardly to fight the empire or else share in its evil,” Mensikhana’s voice came no longer in a shout but in a low whisper. A promise. “You may live, for now. Return to your fortress and cower. Tell your comrades what you have seen, and let it terrify you. You are only alive at the mercy of the Vulgares.”

  The imperial companies tremored, then the remaining leaders called for a retreat. The legions limped away, carrying their wounded and dead. All around Sergrud, the Vulgares roared with laughter, shouting jeers and welcoming their new comrades.

  Ragashars and Hravast joined the Rocksmashers at Sergrud’s side, watching the retreat.

  “The blood feast isn’t over,” Gannuk growled, stomping up to Sergrud’s side. “We should finish them off.”

  “Push a man to fight to the death, and he’ll fight like never before,” Sergrud said. “They’re beaten. Let them limp away. They’ll tell Hellfrost about this. And that cowering bitch will be begging for us to spare them by the time we march up to Hellfrost’s gates.”

  Even a dog as rabid as Gannuk could understand sense. At least when someone stronger spoke it. The canin chieftain backed down.

  Sergrud looked up into Frostclaw’s dead face, muzzle twisted in a pained grimace. Right where he belonged.

  “Still think we can’t win?” Sergrud asked Mensikhana.

  The Mindspeaker gave no reply.

  * * *

  So many dead. Even as Tulun’s folk shared in the victory song, no triumph found place in his heart. Thirty more of Clan Hravast slain. Thirty more souls gone to join the gods, even as Tulun lived. Sergrud proclaimed victory, but Tulun only mourned. A dozen new former prisoners joined their number, but across all three tribes perhaps fifty of their warriors had died.

  The Empire’s legions suffered losses too. What comfort was that? Sergrud did not promise merely destroying the Empire; he promised salvation for their tribe, an end to their daily struggle in the cold and desolate northlands. Glory. Wealth beyond their dreams.

  None of those promises held meaning for the dead. They had no part in this song, and yet Tulun sang in their memory, even as the sun passed its zenith on their road back to Frostwood. For the fallen.

  Some of Clan Hravast remained apart from the crowd alongside him, joining in the lamentations. A greater part joined with the revelries around their leader, dancing beneath the Vulgares’ new standard: the dripping corpse of the fallen captain. Was that all their victory gained? A single corpse to dance beneath?

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  Tulun had fought before, clan against clan for dominance. Most such battles were rituals, not massacres, contested to show one tribe dominant over another. Some were battles for annihilation, desperate battles that left one side destroyed and the other triumphant. This...this was neither. Neither side was destroyed. Neither was truly beaten. Only more dead to join the pyres.

  For now, Sergrud demanded they let the dead lie in the snow. Time for pyres later, he’d said. Now it was time to celebrate the victory. Carrion already circled overhead, turning the battlefield into a feast.

  Tulun found Gannuk some distance away from the main crowd. Scowling. Still staring beyond the horizon, where the legions had already vanished from sight into the hills and trees.

  “How many of your Ragashars died?” He asked in a low voice.

  The canin chieftain eyed Tulun with contempt, “Far fewer than your Hravast.”

  “My people were the greatest in number,” Tulun said. “Two of Clan Hravast for every one Ragashar. Now, yours are the most numerous.”

  “Proof we are the stronger,” Gannuk bared bloodstained teeth.

  “Perhaps so,” Was strength truly all this madman valued? Did strength alone determine who deserved to live and who died? “Just think on this: Sergrud used my warriors as sacrifices because they were the most numerous. What will he do with yours now that there are no longer enough of Clan Hravast to sacrifice?”

  Gannuk spat at Tulun, “Your people died of their own weakness. In a blood feast, there are those who devour and those who are consumed. Blame Sergrud if it lets you sleep with your own failures.”

  The canin chieftain stomped back to rejoin the revels. Tulun stared at him a while longer. Clan Ragashar had no one to mourn their own fallen. They only hungered for more battle. More death.

  “Be careful,” Mensikhana’s voice entered Tulun’s mind. “Be careful what you sow. Spreading such doubts threatens to tear us apart. Only in unity can we fight the empire and the fell powers they command. You fight for your tribe, do you not?”

  “When Sergrud first came to my tribe, our warriors numbered one-hundred and twenty,” Tulun returned the mental voice. “Today, I look upon only thirty of my clan living to fight. Sergrud is leading us...no, Sergrud has led us to ruin.”

  Mensikhana was quiet for a time, then said. “Sergrud’s path has been difficult, and it will continue to be difficult. We all must pay the debt that our future may gain.”

  “What future?” Tulun snarled.

  “It is the struggle that matters. We must fight.”

  “Then we must die,” Tulun shook his head. “Can you truly accept that?”

  Silence. Leaving Tulun alone with his thoughts. So many dead. Mensikhana spoke of a grand struggle. Clan Hravast sang of glory for the fallen. Where was the glory? For what did they struggle?

  Does it matter?

  Tulun had no answer to that silent whisper in his own thoughts. Only a song of mourning.

  * * *

  Esharah awoke to find the felin Teja sitting across from her. Silent, unmoving.

  “Good morning,” Esharah gave her best smile.

  Teja returned the smile, significantly less friendly, “Wulfred Frostclaw is dead.”

  Shock rippled through Esharah, even as the satisfaction rolled off Teja in a wave. Dead.

  “Sergrud killed him?” Esharah asked.

  “He did,” Teja said. “Along with one of Hellfrost’s own. The canin Iskir stabbed him in the back.”

  Iskir. Esharah had felt the canin’s hatred. He made it no secret, practically wore it on his sleeve. Even as Esharah had tried to reach out to him in their sessions.

  Why on earth had they taken Iskir to fight the Vulgares? The Hellfrost Legion was supposed to hunt voidspawn, not fight the Empire’s battles. Perhaps Wulfred had been arrogant, thinking his legions would destroy the Vulgares in minutes. Maybe he had underestimated the threat that was Sergrud. And underestimated how far Iskir’s hatred went.

  “Did you know Frostclaw well?” Teja asked.

  “I didn’t,” Esharah said. The canin veteran was reserved. Grim. Loyal beyond reason to the empire, never questioning its purpose. A man like that could not understand a life beyond Octarnis, nor sympathize with those who did. To him, Esharah was another failure, in her own way.

  Yet he’d stood by and done nothing while Yvris tortured and wasted lives. While Yvris perverted the Ideals. Could Esharah call Wulfred a good man when he’d done nothing to stop someone who did evil in the Empire’s name while swearing unquestioning loyalty to that same Empire?

  “I did,” Teja said voice cold. “Though I doubt he’d even remember me. He and Sergrud were friends. I often served them. Once, I spilled wine on Frostclaw’s uniform and he beat me for it. Another time, Sergrud threw a jug at my head. It shattered.” She pointed to a scar just below her eye, “See?”

  “You...” Esharah frowned. “Weren’t you a prisoner of Hellfrost?”

  A sardonic laugh, “After a fashion. Never in a cell. Instead, I was the Warden’s personal slave.”

  “Personal slaves have been outlawed for a century.”

  Teja chuckled darkly, “Oh, yes. Except for felin. Haven’t you heard of the Nyar-kah?”

  Vague memories tickled at Esharah’s mind, lessons long forgotten of minor imperial history. “A tribe of felin, right? That was...offered as a peace deal by other northern tribes.”

  “We were a sacrifice,” Teja said. “Our tribes gave us up in exchange for your empire’s peace.”

  Esharah closed her eyes as the memory returned. Bards sang of the Nyar-kha occasionally. “I remember now. It was meant as a...as a joke. Your tribe’s name means ‘the nothing’. The tribes gave up ‘nothing’ in exchange for peace.”

  “And thirty years later, the empire broke the peace and massacred all five of the allied tribes,” Teja said mildly. “That’s the real punchline, isn’t it?”

  That was indeed how the singers interpreted it. At the end of the song, they sang of the Empire’s return and conquest, and how the allied tribes’ offer of nothing turned to imperial glory. The tribes ended dead, and the empire gained hundreds of loyal, quiet servants. Even today, felin servants were sought for their quiet demeanor and loyalty. Apparently some even remained kept as slaves.

  “I am sorry,” Esharah said. “No one should be subjected to something as horrific as slavery. If you would like to show me what you experienced-”

  “You can keep your Empathy to yourself,” Teja hissed. “My suffering is my own.”

  Esharah withdrew the mental touch she’d prepared to reach out. Even just brushing against the outer edges of Teja’s mind found it shrouded in shadow. No sign of her real thoughts and emotions, only cold night.

  “What is it you wanted to speak to me about?” Esharah said. “Why come to me? I’m sure Sergrud must be celebrating Frostclaw’s death.”

  “Because Sergrud’s purpose is rapidly coming to an end.”

  Esharah stared.

  “Sergrud is a spear, pointed at the empire’s heart,” Teja continued, eyes cold. “He’s strong. He’s angry. But in the end, that’s all. He made the empire bleed. Soon, he will die. Whether your sister or some other far more powerful vis decides that Sergrud’s rebellion has gone on long enough, he will die, as will all the Vulgares who follow him. If you live...” the smile returned. “You could cut the Empire deeper than Sergrud could. If you have the will.”

  Slowly, Esharah delved into that empty night in the felin’s mind. If Teja noticed, she didn’t stop it. In that darkness, she saw Teja. Alone. Surrounded by death. Surrounded by weapons, broken and discarded. In her claws, she held a spear, tip dripping blood but haft cracked.

  Esharah ran from that vision, retreating back into herself.

  “You...you followed Sergrud for five years,” she stared at Teja in horror. “All just to...send him to die against the Empire?”

  “I served Warden Arashim for five years as well, waiting to find the proper time for his death,” Teja said. “I am nothing if not patient. You’ve felt the empire’s evil. Suffered under its chains.”

  “I have,” Esharah even now felt the ghost of the Thorn. Some nights she’d wake feeling as if it were still piercing her flesh. “But I’ve also seen its good. There are those who truly believe in the Ideals, who know that Octarnis can be better.” Even if it was small, their reforms in Hellfrost had a real chance at making that. Giving power back to those who lived and suffered. A new chance for those broken by the empire’s tyranny to have some measure of justice.

  The smile fell from Teja’s face, “Then there’s little more for us to say to each other. I have no desire for the empire to be ‘better’. I want it to burn.” She turned, and slipped from the tent, leaving Esharah alone as the Vulgares’ cheers echoed from outside.

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

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