The retreat was a ragged stain against the white snow. Fifty bodies lay broken at the base of the Blackwood walls, dark shapes already being claimed by the frost.

  Gorak stood on a rocky outcrop overlooking the chaotic withdrawal. He didn't look back at the dead. The dead were useless.

  He flexed his right hand. A faint, amber aura shimmered around his gauntlet—the manifestation of his Bronze Rank Battleforce. It was a dull, heavy heat, vastly superior to the flickering grey sparks of a Steel Rank warrior. It was the reason he stood here. It was the reason 350 savage men from five different tribes didn't simply cut his throat and run back to the mountains.

  "Keep moving, you dogs!" Gorak roared, his voice amplified by a surge of Battleforce. It rolled over the valley like thunder, making men stumble in the snow. "Form up at the treeline! Anyone who drops their weapon loses a hand!"

  He turned and marched toward the temporary command post, a circle of trampled snow sheltered by a jagged overhang of slate.

  The four tribal leaders were already there. The air was thick with resentment and the smell of fear sweat.

  Scar-face Rogh of the Broken Claws was pacing like a caged bear. He was a massive man, a High Steel ranker whose physical strength was nearly equal to Gorak’s, but he lacked the refined aura. He slammed his axe into a dead stump.

  "My boys... chopped up like firewood. They threw sand in the oil, Gorak! Sand! It got under the armor. We couldn't fight."

  Red-eye Vron of the Red Hand tribe sat on a stone, cleaning his spear. The old veteran, a Mid-Steel ranker, spat a glob of blood onto the snow.

  "A frontal assault on a fortified wall," he muttered, his voice raspy. "Madness. I told you, Gorak. We are raiders, not siege engineers. My tribe bleeds because of your pride."

  Derek of the Black Fangs, barely a Low Steel ranker and looking like a child in his oversized armor, was visibly shaking. He clutched his gold chains as if they could protect him.

  "They have a mage. Did you see the accuracy of those arrows? They have magic."

  "They have tactics, you idiot, not magic," snapped Silver Wolf Zark. The leader of the Ash Wolves was the most dangerous of the vassals—a Peak Steel ranker, fast and cunning. He leaned against the rock wall, his eyes narrowed at Gorak.

  "But Derek is right about one thing. We were unprepared. You said the castle was weak. You said the Baron was old and the heir was stupid."

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  Gorak stepped into the circle. The snow crunched loudly under his boots. He let his Battleforce flare, just a fraction. The amber light pulsed from his body, raising the temperature in the small clearing.

  The effect was instant. Derek took a step back. Rogh stopped pacing. Vron looked down. Even Zark stiffened.

  The gap between Steel and Bronze was not just skill; it was the quality of the energy. Steel could harden skin and sharpen blades. Bronze could crush them.

  "The castle is weak," Gorak growled, his voice low and dangerous. "Fifty men died because they were slow. They died because the Broken Claws have forgotten how to climb, and the Black Fangs have forgotten how to cover them."

  He walked up to Rogh, towering over the Scar-faced commander.

  "You want to blame me, Rogh? You want to challenge the Stone Eaters?"

  Rogh’s hand twitched toward his axe, but he felt the heat radiating off Gorak. He gritted his teeth, the scars on his face twisting.

  "No. But my tribe will not lead the next wave. We have paid our blood tax."

  "You will do as I command," Gorak hissed. "Or you will not return to the mountains at all."

  He turned to the group, sweeping his gaze over them.

  "My brother, the High Chieftain, united the peaks. He crushed the Frost Giants. He forced you to bend the knee. Do you think he sent me here to fail? Do you think a few pots of hot oil will stop a Bronze Warrior?"

  "Then why didn't you lead the charge?" Zark asked quietly.

  The question was a razor.

  Gorak’s eyes snapped to the Wolf commander.

  "Because a Commander does not waste his strength on the first skirmish. I was testing their defenses."

  "You tested them with our lives," Vron mumbled.

  Gorak ignored him. He looked at the map he had unrolled on a flat rock. He pointed a thick, armored finger at the keep.

  "They used their tricks. The sand, the oil. Good. Now they are out of supplies. They revealed their archer positions. They showed us where the wall is cracked."

  He looked up, his arrogance returning, shielding him from the reality of the disaster.

  "We are not retreating. We are coiling. Like a viper."

  "Derek," Gorak barked.

  The young chieftain jumped.

  "Y-yes, Commander?"

  "Take your Black Fangs to the east ridge. Cut down trees. Make ladders. Hundreds of them. I want the sound of chopping wood to keep them awake all night."

  "Rogh," Gorak continued.

  "Your Claws are angry. Good. Patrol the perimeter. If any scout tries to leave that castle to call for help, bring me his head."

  "Vron, Zark," Gorak finished.

  "You will secure the camp. No fires tonight. We freeze. We want them to think we have left. When dawn comes, and they see we are still here... that is when the fear sets in."

  "And what will you do?" Zark challenged softly.

  Gorak smiled. He drew his greatsword halfway from the scabbard. The blade glowed with a dull, amber hum as he channeled his Bronze aura into it. The metal sang, a sound that made teeth ache.

  "I will prepare," Gorak said. "Tomorrow, I will not stand in the back. Tomorrow, I will shatter their gate myself. And then, you can have your scraps."

  He dismissed them with a wave of his hand.

  As the tribal leaders slunk away into the darkening snow, Gorak’s mask of absolute confidence slipped, just for a second. He rubbed his chest where the Battleforce hummed. It was exhausting to maintain the aura, to keep these wolves at bay.

  He looked at the distant castle. The banners were still flying.

  Who organized that defense? he wondered. Baron Vane and his heir is dead. Who taught them to use sand?

  It didn't matter. He was a Bronze Ranker. In this backwater barony, he was a god of war.

  "Sleep well, little lowlanders," Gorak whispered. "Tomorrow, the Stone Eater feasts."