Unfortunately, voidspawn did not respect the fact that Aven and all of Hellfrost had more important matters to worry about at the moment. The hunts had to carry on as normal. Burrowers this time. Sneaky bastards. Without Ouron’s earth attunement, dealing with them was all the more dangerous.

  Of course, mere months ago facing burrowers meant slaughter. A few months of training, a few months of the new soldiers’ growth, and even without Ouron as their trump card, dealing with them was a matter of routine.

  “Left flank!” Wally called, canin ears and sense domain tracking the movements beneath the dirt.

  At Aven’s command, the group wheeled left and fell back enough that the wormlike voidspawn emerged snapping empty air instead of Logash’s legs. It gave a high-pitched screech, a sound that sent an itching chill across the mind. But they were all prepared. The burrower burst up, a twisting tube of purple muscle, toothy mouth gaping at one end. It could bite a man in half easy as anything.

  What it couldn’t do was survive a half-dozen spears rammed down its gullet. The thing collapsed, twitching as its life poured into the dirt in pools of black ichor.

  Aven clapped Wally on the shoulder, “Good call.”

  Wally nodded, jaw set and eyes determined. Clearly, he resented being used as a hostage. In the week since, he’d poured himself into the training with a dedication equal to the best of them.

  They cut apart the voidspawn with practiced ease, then let Aven absorb the taint of the black blood after the grisly task finished. As always, it left a foul taste in his mouth and a twisting in his stomach. The black veins marking all across his skin throbbed and burned until the corruption settled. Back in the depths of the voidpit, the goddess claimed the void itself was only potential, that it held neither inherent virtue nor vice. If so, then the vile nature of the voidspawn blood must come from the beings of hatred he’d seen below the void. Once absorbed into himself, his own nature fought against theirs. So far, he’d won.

  Aven paused while drawing the voidblood from the greatest of the injuries of the day, a deep bite on the arm of a broad-shouldered, curly haired man. What was the man’s name? The soldiers deserved to at least have a captain who remembered all their names. Any of them could die today, or tomorrow, or the day after. Whether their killer was mortal or voidspawn, the danger remained.

  “You fought well today, uh...”

  “Kaleb,” the soldier supplied, then looked a bit embarrassed at interrupting his captain.

  “Right,” Aven nodded. “Good work, Kaleb. You got injured pushing Moran out of the way, right?”

  Kaleb glanced at the comrade in question, a thickly built, short man who glanced away sullenly as if expecting a rebuke.

  “Good protecting a comrade,” Aven said, “even if it cost a bit of pain, right? Moran, when I call formation, snap to it immediately.”

  “Was a mistake,” Moran mumbled.

  “Aye, everyone makes them,” Aven said. “Today, yours might’ve lost you your life if Kaleb wasn’t on it. Remember that, and do better.”

  Moran accepted the reprimand, and the group headed back to Hellfrost. Aven remained thoughtful, though. Kaleb was a soldier, formerly one of the guards assigned to Hellfrost. Moran was a prisoner. He’d been on several of the hunts Aven had during their time in chains. Never made himself particularly standout. Quietly at the back, wielding the hatchet.

  “Why’d you volunteer for the hunts?” Aven asked.

  Moran gave a long look, clearly surprised at the question, “Easier’n breaking rocks.”

  The prisoners’ pardons were conditional on either working the hunts or the quarries, with the quarries as the default. Anyone who didn’t specifically choose the hunts was added to the quarries.

  “Is it?” Aven asked. “Seems like a lot of folks prefer good hard labor to fighting inhuman monsters.”

  “Someone’s got to kill the bastards,” Moran said.

  Little forthcoming, then. He turned to Kaleb, “You?”

  “My family’s here in Hellfrost,” Kaleb gave a much more willing answer. “Pa was 58th legion. Frelund front. Pa wanted me to join the legions after him; Ma wanted me to stay. Figured joining the guard would make both of them happy.” He chuckled, “Turns out, a good compromise pisses everyone off. Pa thought I was a coward for not demanding the front lines. Ma just worries more.”

  Kaleb’s tale seemed a common enough one, especially among those who’d grown up on the frontiers of the empire. For many, service to the legions was a way of life passed on from parent to child, generation to generation. Even Father had a similar sort of plan for Aven, albeit dedicating him to the Shadow Order instead of the legions.

  “Didn’t want to rethink your career after Yvris?” Aven asked.

  Kaleb’s eyes hardened, “I was there when the deathsinger attacked. If that’s what we’re up against, I’ve got to fight to protect my home.”

  Not so different from the farmers in Notholm. What was it like to be so attached to a place of birth? For all Aven cared, the Elensvale manor where he grew up could have burned to the ground and he’d feel no regret. The people of the village...yes, their loss would be a tragedy, but the place itself?

  Kaleb continued, needing no further prompting to voice his thoughts, “Course, Pa thinks I’m cursed the same as you know. The ‘legion of damned’ he calls us.”

  Aven laughed and raised his hands to the rest of the warriors, three dozen on this hunt, “What do you think? Are we all damned?”

  A mix of laughs and cheers greeted the question.

  “Damned or not, we’re the only ones to stand between the village and the voidspawn,” Moran muttered.

  “Now that’s the spirit,” Aven said. He glanced among the warriors, “And what about the Vulgares?”

  That brought a stop to the laughter. The stories of the battle at Notholm had spread by now - both the truth and distorted versions told by the survivors over too many empty tankards. A few days later, a reserve legion patrol had come across another party of the Vulagares, apparently a scouting party trying to spy on Hellfrost. Not a real clash, just a brief exchange of arrows and javelins with no actual lives lost. Enough to set everyone on edge.

  “They’re enemies too,” Kaleb said quickly. “Aye?”

  Agreement was decidedly less enthusiastic. Voidspawn were easy. No one could look at one of those twisted monstrosities and watch how tore apart anything living without agreeing they needed to die. The Vulgares on the other hand...

  “They’re people,” Gretchen spoke up from the group. Katrin wasn’t on this particular expedition. Strange to see one woman apart from the other; they were usually joined at the hip. More than the hip if the rumors were true. “Just people, like us.”

  “Enemies of the empire,” Kaleb said.

  “So are we,” a canin growled from beside Gretchen. Bigger than Wally, with dark grey fur and scars along his face. A prisoner who’d personally killed two guards in the uprising. Iskir, Aven recalled. One of Ko’jan’s many friends, though not one of the closer ones to Aven’s knowledge. Their group (mostly beastkin with a few ogres) persisted even after Ko’jan’s death, a fair number of them in the voidhunters.

  “We’re serving the empire,” Kaleb said, joined in agreement by the former soldiers.

  Right, this was threatening to split. Aven had been careful to integrate former guards and prisoners to avoid this kind of thing. In the thick of combat, it wasn’t a question, not with their lives at risk. In quieter moments, it was easy for that divide to come up. A divide he had to keep stitched closed, for the safety of all.

  “This isn’t about the empire,” Aven said. “They aren’t attacking Primus, now are they? They aren’t threatening to march into the palace and smash the Emperor’s golden shitpot.” That earned a smatter of chuckles, even from the former guards. This far out, even the staunchest of imperial loyalists knew the Emperor didn’t care a wit about any of them. “They’re not headed to Thallakar to burn down the Grand Temple. They’re here, in Hellfrost, and it’s the people of Hellfrost they’re threatening. Yes, they’re people. You don’t need me to tell you that people can be monsters as much as voidspawn.” He nodded to Kaleb, “Everyone one of us here, guard or prisoner has marks that Yvris or Erdrak left on us.”

  “Aye,” Kaleb rubbed his arm, the place where Yvris planted the spiked chains used for his ‘confessions’. Marks that even the guards under Yvris’ command bore. “That’s true.”

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  “Then we fight the Vulgares just the same,” Aven said.

  Near unanimous agreement this time. Gretchen and Iskir didn’t cheer, didn’t shout agreement. They didn’t argue back either. That counted as a win in Aven’s book.

  “Now, quick march!” Aven called out. “Sooner we get to Hellfrost, sooner you lot can flood the tavern. Kaleb, your Pa teach you any marching songs?”

  The broad-shouldered young man grinned and launched into one with an enthusiasm that demanded others join in. Wouldn’t win prizes among the Church’s choirs, but they could cause a ruckus enough to drive off the fear and tension for the moment.

  * * *

  The day before the Still Vigil festival at Novem’s new moon, Sergrud fel-Maies killed a soldier of Hellfrost. The renegade traitor’s spear came with a message attached.

  “To the craven bitch who calls herself executor,” Aelia read aloud. Insults too blatant and crass to actually provoke, she thought. “Another corpse joins the pile. I hope you’ll keep the bodies fresh for when we arrive.” Aelia skipped the next line, a crude comment about what they’d do with the soldier’s corpse. And her own. “On the night of the Still Vigil, we’ll come to negotiate your surrender. If you refuse, then every day, I’ll kill another. This will keep until your walls are soaked in blood.” More threats followed. Inconsequential blustering.

  Aelia set the paper on her desk. She breathed deeply. Prioritize. Set the tasks in order. The threats were only noise. Only the task mattered. What was first?

  “The soldier who died,” Aelia said. “Did he have family?”

  “Marcus, ma’am,” Breton said, face twisted in rage. “He wed two months ago. Mother and father in Elgeth county, I believe.”

  “I’ll have a letter written,” Aelia said, writing it on her list of priorities. “Could you deliver the news and the death payment to his wife? I did not know the man, and I would have little to say to her.”

  Breton gave an understanding nod, “Of course. Me and his sarge will deliver the news directly.”

  They’d need the funds immediately, then. Aelia located a release form for the gold. It would have to come from the vaults until Governor Iraias approved a request for the appropriate payment. As a reserve legion of the province, such funding was ultimately the Governor’s responsibility. Oh, but she was acting on Irais’s behest. She had the authority as the governor’s representative. A requisition, then, not a request.

  “What about Sergrud?” Frostclaw demanded.

  “A moment, please,” Aelia kept her attention on the task in front of her, letting the tactile sensation of pen scratching ink onto paper focus her attention on the task. One thing at a time. Release form signed, she handed it to Breton. The other letters would go later. She amended the never-ending task list and looked up to Frostclaw, “Yes, Sergrud’s request to negotiate. I assume you would wish to be present for the meeting. Who else would you recommend?”

  Frostclaw froze. He spluttered for a moment, then looked to Breton in consternation. Aelia didn’t need Esharah’s help to recognize he was furious (though the clarification was appreciated as always).

  “You’re going to talk with the bastard?” Frostclaw’s voice came out between gritted teeth.

  “Beneath the...colorful threats, that was the request, yes?” Aelia gave the letter another read to ensure she hadn’t misinterpreted. “If there is a possibility to resolve the situation without further bloodshed, we should take it. We will make it clear that capitulation is not an option and that further conflict will only result in unnecessary deaths on both sides. We-”

  Esharah warned Aelia an instant before Frostclaw interrupted. That cooled the sting a bit. She could forgive the captain’s rudeness.

  “You don’t negotiate with a rabid dog,” Frostclaw said. “You kill the bastard.”

  “We are not, unfortunately, dealing with a rabid dog,” Aelia said. “We are dealing with a warrior who has rallied a considerable force and taken a village from under our protection. A village where many in Hellfrost have family. A village we cannot take back without significant loss of life, and possibly the village’s complete destruction. That makes the man an enemy commander, and if that enemy commander is offering negotiation, then I am obligated to take him up on that offer.” Aelia set down the paper. “I would be appreciative of your presence to the negotiation, however, given that you know the man personally and might help me understand his intentions better.”

  Frostclaw growled. Not all beastkin growled. Some claimed that the comparison to actual beasts was mere prejudice and seemed determined to break stereotypes. Others leaned into the perceived similarities. Frostclaw clearly was the latter.

  “His anger isn’t abstract,” Esharah whispered in her mind. “It’s personal.”

  He was also a captain in the imperial legions. A captain would not allow anger to overcome their Discipline. Aelia trusted that regardless of personal feelings, the captain would hold to his Ideal.

  “Captain Frostclaw,” Aelia spoke, giving her voice the same firm authority she’d practiced since taking the role, a confidence assisted by Esharah, “this is an order. Prepare an honor guard to oversee the negotiations. If during the negotiations Sergrud makes any attempt on my life, or the lives of anyone else present, you will have my permission to take whatever action you deem fitting. Otherwise, I trust you will enforce the peace of the negotiations with the same rigor you have demonstrated thus far in protecting this city.”

  Frostclaw gave a stiff salute, “Yes, Executor.” Still seething, Esharah confirmed.

  Now, how to deliver the reply to Sergrud without risking a messenger? The Vulgares’ conduct so far gave Aelia no confidence they would abide by proper rules of conduct in negotiation.

  “I think Aven has someone who can help with that,” Esharah suggested.

  * * *

  The Vulgares feasted in their latest victory.

  “One more imperial bastard sent to rot!” Sergrud raised his tankard to the cheers of his warriors. They were still gathered around Frostwood, camped around the small village. Accommodating, these villagers. Once the bootlicking shits actually loyal to the empire got the end they deserved.

  What a feast today. The three tribes under his command each had brought back their bounty from the hunts. Ragashars, the beastkin tribe he’d conquered first, brought back a stag, big enough to feed a hundred. The ogre Rockbreakers brought back a boar with tusks long as Sergrud’s forearm. Clan Hravast brought the smallest bounty, a group of mountain fowl. Smallest didn’t always mean least, though. Small victories added up.

  Still, the competition wasn’t for the best long-term strategy; it was for the hunt that pleased their leaders the most. The hunters placed each of the offerings at the head of the longtable where Sergrud sat. To one side, Teja and Patz sat, the two companions who’d been with him since they’d escaped that damn prison. To the other side, the three leaders of the tribe now under his rule. Tulun, ondrar human skald of Clan Hravast. Gannuk Gorefoot of the Ragashars. And right by Sergrud’s side, Mensikana, speaker of the Rockbreakers. Her hand found Sergrud’s beneath the table, stroking his fingers.

  “Now then,” Sergrud looked to the three clan leaders. “Which of you lot brought the best hunt?”

  “The stag was the finest game, Kriegsharr,” Gannuk said first, gesturing with his own tankard, a horn inlaid with golden runes. The beastkin was lean, corded with muscle. As eager to claim the greatest prize as he was on the hunt. “The most meat and most blood.”

  “Most does not mean best,” Tulun’s sonorous voice boomed out over the canins’ howls of agreement. “A hunt is not just about size, but skill.” He pointed with his dagger at the fowl. “Hunting such prey takes finesse and wit. It is testament to our skill!” A few of the humans in the tribe applauded him.

  Menshkana’s voice spoke into the minds of everyone present, heedless of the shouts, “The boar is the greatest prey. The strongest. A hunt is not great for the prize it gives but the danger and the struggle.” Cheers of agreement, loudest of all from the ogre contingent.

  Of course each of the tribes’ representatives would advocate their own. That meant nothing.

  Sergrud gestured for Teja and Patz to speak. They, like him, weren’t biased towards any one tribe.

  “The boar,” Patz spoke. The bald man’s grin showed his teeth. What was left of ‘em, anyway. “Boar’s the toughest beast there.”

  The Rockbreakers cheered, the ogres drumming fists against the tables or the ground. No surprise. Tough bastard was practically an ogre at heart. The loudest boos came from the humans, seeing Patz’s support of the ogres as betrayal.

  Teja didn’t betray her race - if a felin could really find solidarity with canins, “The stag is best.”

  Boos from the humans intensified. Sergrud could still grant them victory. His word mattered above all. No way in hell he’d reward them for this tripe.

  “The fowl,” Sergrud spoke, pausing to get everyone to pay attention, “is more skin and feathers that meat.” He flung the whole roasted bird right in Tulun’s face, “Choke on this shit yourself, Tulun.”

  The roars from the beastkin and ogres could have awakened the dead. Tulun simply bowed and accepted the slight. Bah. Not even a hint of challenge. No wonder the old bastard couldn’t control the tribe. He’d grown complacent, too long leading from the back of the tribe while other figures lead the front. Hadn’t even resisted when Sergrud challenged their former jarl and split his skull.

  Now the boar and the stag. “Stag’s better meat,” he savored another bite. Cheers from the canin tribe. “But the boar’s a better hunt.” Equal roars from the ogres.

  He threw an arm around Mensikhana’s shoulders, gently squeezing the back of her neck, “You’re wrong, Khana. Isn’t the battle that matters. It’s the victory. We’re not fighting just to fight the bastards, we’re fighting to win.” Sergrud held out a piece of the meat, “Stag wins!”

  The canins erupted in celebration. Howling, cheering, snarling, they clapped Gannuk on the shoulder, pounded him on the back, lifted him to carry on their shoulders. Even in defeat, Tulun helped restore order, forming all three tribes into lines to receive the bounty of the feast with the beastkin at the lead, ogres in the middle, and humans at the back.

  Menshkana gave a huff through her nostrils. For someone who preached that it was the struggle, not the victory that mattered, she sure hated to lose.

  Sergrud drew her closer, “I can’t just favor your tribe, can I?”

  She pulled away, hand leaving his. Let her sulk. Plenty of other options for tonight. Maybe that Frostwood widow who’d been eyeing him for days.

  Sergrud didn’t finish weighing his options before a black form shot through the air like an arrow in flight and stabbed right into the table, inches from his finger. Patz cursed and fell back in his chair, and Teja leapt to her feet, gleaming eyes darting out beyond the firelight.

  Not an arrow, though. The hells was that? A shadowy figure of inky black, like a faceless doll made of black smoke. Legs merged into a daggerlike point, pinning a parchment scroll to the table. The faceless face turned to Sergrud.

  “Kuspa,” a voice echoed from the shadow. Then, it shot back off into the dark.

  Teja pounced, claws extended, but the shadow darted from her grasp swift as a sparrow, vanishing back into the night. The felin skidded in the dirt as she stopped and stared up after it.

  “Hells and damnation,” Patz scrambled up from where his chair had tipped back, “Ambush!”

  “Not an attack,” Mensikhana’s voice stalled the frantic warriors. “A message.”

  More than one message, Sergrud thought. The letter was one thing. The delivery was another. That…shadow spirit? Whatever the hell it was had rushed right past all their sentries, right into the heart of their camp.

  Couldn’t let any of that show, though. Sergrud kept an amused smile and forced a chuckle as he opened the scroll. Written in the elegant imperial script. Someone who cared about penmanship.

  “I’ll be damned,” Sergrud took a moment to appreciate the audacity of the words in front of him. “She wants to discuss our surrender.”

  He let the boos and curses of the Vulgares run their course. When he’d heard the new leader of Hellfrost was some publicar girl, he’d assumed the bitch would cave at the first threat. A girl from the city, never had to get her hands dirty, never been on a battlefield, never even seen someone die. Should have panicked. Should have surrendered. Instead, she actually wanted to talk.

  “Right then,” Sergrud grinned to himself. Despite what he’d said to Mensikhana, maybe she did have a point. There was a thrill in the hunt itself. “Let’s talk.”

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

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