The Frozen Hearth tavern squatted in the mud like a toad that had given up on life. Its walls leaned at angles that defied functional architecture and common sense, held up more by habit than structural integrity. The sign above the door once had a cheerful flame, but weather and time had reduced it to a vague orange smear that could have been anything from a sunset to a puddle of vomit.

  Inside, the air was thick enough to cut. Cheap tobacco smoke mingled with the must of unwashed bodies, stale beer, and foodstuffs in various stages of decay. The hearth that gave the place its name produced more smoke than heat, adding to the general miasma without providing any actual warmth.

  The clientele matched the establishment - the dregs of a dozen failed causes, men and women who had fallen so far that even a dying village like Thornhaven seemed like a viable destination. They hunched over their drinks like penitents at prayer, worshipping the temporary oblivion that cheap alcohol provided

  The conversations died as Kaelen pushed through the door, the twins flanking him. Even in this company, they stood out. Well-armed, alert, obviously dangerous. Several hands drifted toward weapons before their owners thought better of it. Starting a fight with three professional killers was a faster form of suicide than drinking yourself to death and undoubtedly more painful.

  Kaelen surveyed the room with the same cold calculation he had applied to the village's defenses. Two exits - the front door and probably a back way through the kitchen. Tables positioned badly for cover but good for concealment. About fifteen potential fighters, though most looked like they'd struggle to fight their way out of a wet parchment. Not what Mangus led them to believe.. The odds continued to be stacked against them.

  "Thornhaven needs defenders," Kaelen announced to the room at large. His voice resonated despite moderate volume, cutting through the fog of smoke and apathy.

  The response was predictable. Most didn't even look up from their drinks. A few snorted derisively. One man, deep in his cups, actually laughed.

  "Defenders against what?" The laughing man slurred. “The bad food in this inn, I’ll warrant.”

  Another voice, thick with the accents of the far south, added, "The village has been dying for years. I have half a mind to move out now."

  Kaelen hadn't expected enthusiasm. But then in the corner, barely visible through the smoke, something stirred. A dwarf set down his mug with deliberate care, the sound of pewter on wood unnaturally loud in the relative quiet. He was a study in controlled ruin - iron-gray beard braided in the military style but frayed at the ends, armor well-maintained but bearing the scars and wounds of many battles, eyes that had seen too much and found it all wanting.

  "What's the tactical situation?" His voice was gravel being ground under a millstone, rough from years of shouting orders that had gone unheeded, of screaming warnings that came too late.

  It was a professional's question from someone who understood that battles were won or lost before the first sword was drawn.

  "Bloodfang tribe," Kaelen replied, moving closer to the dwarf's table. "Probably sixty warriors, plus war beasts. Unknown number of support personnel. They'll attack the village within a week, maybe less."

  The dwarf nodded slowly, processing the information. "Fortifications?"

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  "Wooden palisade, recently patched but structurally weak,” Seraphine said, surprised at the dwarf’s apparent expertise. “The village sits on high ground - good fields of fire if we had archers worth the name. Natural choke points at the main approaches."

  "So, poor odds and probably shit pay?"The dwarf's laugh was bitter as old coffee. He lifted his mug in a mock toast.

  "Fortify four positions.” From the shadows near the dwarf's table, a voice smooth as silk over steel spoke up. “Cardinal points. Force them to divide their strength, hit them as they concentrate on the weakest point."

  Everyone at the table tensed. None of them had seen the speaker arrive, and in their profession, that kind of surprise was usually followed by blood. A figure materialized from the darkness - lean, average height, utterly forgettable except for the eyes. A piercing blue under a dark hood. Those eyes had weighed lives and found the scales always tipped toward death.

  The man raised empty hands, the gesture of peace somehow more threatening than if he'd drawn steel. He lowered his hood to reveal a blonde mane of hair and a scarred face that was once handsome.

  "Former guild assassin," he said, as if that explained everything. Which, in a way, it did. “Thessamon Shortstep. Infamous some say. But you three… You’re Iceblades. Why are you doing this?”

  Kaelen studied the assassin, reading the subtle signs of his trade. The way he positioned himself with no one at his back, the slight bulge at his wrist that suggested a spring-loaded blade, the careful distance he maintained that would give him time to react to an attack. And a strange energy radiating off him. Magic maybe. But dark. He could be of use.

  "The pay, friend?" The dwarf asked bluntly.

  “Oh we’re friends now?” Lyraleth scoffed. “I’d like to know a person by more than their drink before I call them a friend.”

  “Buy me another and maybe I’ll tell you more,” The dwarf grumbled before taking another swig from his cup. “Now, what is the pay?”

  "Everything the village has," Kaelen replied. "Split five ways if you both join."

  "You’d be better off drinking yourselves to death," someone called from across the room. Jonvrik took another swig.

  “No,” said Thessamon, “That Horde’s robbed every village from here to the mountains. He wants the spoils.”

  “Terrible odds” said Kaelen. “But a chance at a fortune.”

  “I’m in,” said Thessamon.

  The dwarf drained his ale in one long pull, then slammed the empty mug down."Jonvrik Axefather, late of the Steel Princes, and half a dozen other companies. For a share of that treasure, my axe is yours.”

  And just like that, they had their five.

  "We'll need to scout their positions," said Kaelen with the cadence of command without conscious thought. “The village has root cellars they want - we can use that, channel their attack."

  "Traps," Thessamon suggested. "Pitfalls, stakes. I know some tricks that might thin their numbers."

  "Oil," Jonvrik added. "Every village has oil for lamps. Properly placed, with the right timing..." He made a gesture that suggested immolation.

  They were all leaning in now, drawn by the familiar rhythm of planning death. This was what they knew, what they were good at. Everything else - love, hope, human connection - those were foreign languages they had forgotten how to speak. But violence? That was their mother tongue.

  "The villagers will need training," Seraphine said. "They must protect themselves before they can protect each other. Basic formations, how to hold a line.”

  “They won't become warriors, but maybe we can make them obstacles." Lyraleth nodded.

  The tavern continued its business of slow dissolution. Other patrons drank and muttered and steadily forgot whatever had driven them to this place. But at the warriors’ table, something was crystallizing. Not hope - none of them were foolish enough for that. But purpose, which was almost the same thing for people like them.

  Outside, the wind had picked up, rattling the tavern's warped shutters and bringing with it the promise of more snow. Winter was closing its fist around Thornhaven, squeezing out what little life remained. Soon the Bloodfang would come to finish the job.

  But not unopposed. Not unbloodied.

  "Tomorrow at dawn," Kaelen confirmed, standing. "South gate. Don't be late."