Patrols brought the news to the three remaining villages outlying Hellfrost: K?rvi, Notholm, and Riverbend. Each village had its own militia, but volunteer farmers would do little against a warband led by vis. Only one, Notholm, lay west of Hellfrost, on the same side of the road southward and the Icemelt River as Frostwood.

  Aven found Notholm rather uninteresting as far as villages went. Some 300 folk, most clustered in thatch-roofed shacks pressed close in the village center as if huddling close for warmth. A small dot of settlement in the near-barren landscape of north Septentrion, surrounded by the fields the farmers struggled to turn from tundra to arable land.

  “So now you mean to force us from our homes just at the harvest?” a thick-bearded farmer protested.

  The villagers of Notholm had been called together in a small square. Not much of a meeting place. Aven stood on a raised platform in front of a small shrine, barely more than a few statuettes to Paragons of Harmony and Industry placed under a wooden roof.

  “We aren’t forcing anyone,” Aven tried not to let exasperation creep into his voice. This was the fourth person in the last half-hour who’d demanded a rehash of the conversation. “I’m just here to warn you about the situation. This man Sergrud fel-Maies and his band have taken over the village of Frostwood and announced intent of taking Hellfrost. You are more vulnerable out here, and so Executor Etrani has extended an offer of taking in anyone who-”

  “You’re just repeating yourself,” a woman called out from the crowd, a whining baby clutched to her bosom. “Our ears work just fine. We just don’t like what we’re hearing. If there’s a danger, why aren’t you going out and killing the ones responsible?”

  Calls from the crowd voiced agreement. “Aye,” the bearded man said, “you lot should be re-taking Frostwood, not dragging us from our livelihood!”

  Frustration gnawed at Aven, not least because they had an inkling of a point. Etrani’s decision to defend Hellfrost instead of launching an offensive was a strategic calculation, weighing the lives of Hellfrost’s soldiers over the temporary troubles of the villagers. It may be the correct calculation, as Aven and Breton had ultimately agreed; that didn’t make it gall any less for the villagers in question.

  Aven pushed those doubts down and drew a long breath. “It’s the Executor’s decision,” Aven said. “We’re not here to discuss it. Just giving you all a chance to protect yourselves. Anyone willing can head for Hellfrost, but the executor has asked me to leave before sundown. If you’re going, we leave soon. You don’t have to decide now. But if you see Sergrud and his men, don’t take any chances. Run.” Aven gave another salute and stepped off the stage. The townsfolk erupted in conversation, a few angry voices directed his way.

  Tellingly, though, none directly approached him. As part of a crowd, they were happy to voice displeasure. When Aven stepped off the stage, though, he went from being the messenger of bad news to being the voidtouched captain they feared.

  “Should’ve had Breton deal with this shit,” Aven muttered under his breath as he rejoined the small contingent of warriors he’d brought from Hellfrost.

  Of the three captains in Hellfrost, Aven considered himself by far the least suited for dealing with the villagers. Frostclaw was respected, Breton popular. In the villagers’ eyes, Aven was a voidtouched, a criminal, a patricide. All, of course, absolutely true. Yet this was the task Etrani had assigned to him, and the other captains were busy readying Hellfrost’s defenses.

  At least some of the others had more success. Wally was engaged in earnest conversation with a beastkin family, while a group of ogres surrounded Logash. Apparently, the nonhuman races in these parts had a sort of solidarity that extended even to pardoned criminals. Would that the humans of the empire had such camaraderie. To the villagers, Aven’s status as monster seemed to override all else.

  Same with Katrin’s status as maledictus, as it happened. She stood aloof from the villagers, surrounded by the local spirits drawn to her, while the shadow spirit Vili flitted around her head. Any villagers that glanced her way swiftly averted their eyes, some making some sort of strange local sign against evil.

  “Tough reception for us, it seems,” Aven joined the maledictus at the edge of the group.

  Katrin snorted. “Not used to it, yet?”

  “Not at all,” Aven said. “I’m used to the common folk despising me for being an ass, not a voidtouched.”

  Self-deprecation apparently wasn’t to Katrin’s taste, because she didn’t even give a half-hearted smile. Vili gave a chitter, though, that Aven took as a laugh. At least one of the two could appreciate his sense of humor.

  “Still, have to try, eh?” Aven glanced back at the villagers. There were a handful of 1st circle vis among them. Perhaps half a dozen, mostly those whose bodies had adapted to the hard work in the fields and the cold winters. None who would have lasted more than seconds against Erdrak. If this Sergrud was indeed a vis equal to the brutal former captain of Hellfrost, these folk would be slaughtered.

  “Words are wasted on those who choose not to listen,” Katrin said. She nodded to where Gretchen was speaking with a small group, “I’ll leave the talking to those who have hope of being heard.”

  Gretchen left her audience a moment later, the tall blonde-braided woman rejoining Katrin while giving Aven her usual distrustful glance, “Many of them understand the threat. They just don’t trust Hellfrost to protect them.”

  “Any insight in how we can earn that trust?” Aven asked.

  “Hellfrost takes their silver and crops as taxes year after year without providing anything in return,” Gretchen replied.

  “Didn’t Etrani send a work team to repair the granary here last month?” Aven asked. Or was that another village? The meetings ran together in his mind. There was a good reason Etrani was the one in charge of all those details. Aven just killed the inhuman monsters threatening to slaughter everyone in the county. Politics were above his paygrade.

  “Years of mistrust aren’t fixed in a few months,” Gretchen said. Her glare communicated that the few months working together hadn’t softened her own mistrust of him, wherever it stemmed from.

  Winning hearts was a battle for another day. For now, Aven would settle for protecting anyone who took the offer.

  “Captain!” a call came out from the road back to Hellfrost. “Group approaching! A dozen coming from the fields.”

  Aven gave the signal, and the eleven warriors with him grouped up, warning the villagers to stay back. That caution proved wise; even from a distance, it was obvious the newcomers weren’t from Hellfrost. A motley assortment of sizes, races, and arms. Nearly as motley as Aven’s own company. They stopped just outside the village, not yet entering Notholm itself. No uniforms. No visible sigil.

  No sign of the figure Shevi described as Sergrud either. Instead, their leader was a short, stout, thick-necked man wearing a cloak of stitched-together furs. Tattoos marked his shaved head, and he carried a heavy war club in one hand, twirling it idly as he approached. His skin was strange, covered in raised ridges beneath the tattoos as if the bones beneath were made of gnarled wood or craggy stone.

  “Halt,” Aven called out, gesturing for his troops to ready themselves. Not drawing weapons yet, but prepared to.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  The approaching group gave a few more purposeful steps forward before halting. Making it clear they weren’t halting on Aven’s command but their own will. Their leader strode ahead of his men, twirling that heavy weapon in a way that showed it was lighter in his hands than it had any right to be. Certainly a vis.

  “What’s all this, then?” the leader asked, grinning wide to reveal a couple missing teeth.

  “Who are you, and what’s your business in Notholm?” Aven asked.

  The leader chuckled, “Just friendly neighbors come to introduce ourselves to a brother village! Seeing as the Vulgares are settlin’ here, we ought to be good neighbors, eh?”

  “Vulgares,” Aven repeated. ‘Commonfolk’ in old imperial. Often as a pejorative by the more educated classes for those on the edges of the empire, the less civilized lands where imperial culture hadn’t yet reached and barbarians held sway.

  “You ain’t from Notholm, though, are you?” the leader said. “You look like Hellfrost dogs, for certain.”

  A hooded figure at the leader’s side stepped forward. Even with the heavy cloak, her shape was unmistakably female. An ogorok ogre from the glimpse Aven got of her green skin beneath the hood. She leaned in as if to whisper, though as far as Aven could tell, she didn’t say anything.

  “Ah!” the leader nodded at whatever message the ogress communicated. “So you’re the voidtouched are you? Boss is looking forward to meeting you. Ugly son of a bitch, ain’t ya?”

  He was one to talk, Aven thought as the leader’s grin stretched his face to the shape of a lumpy gourd. Compared to that misshapen mug, Aven felt his black veins were practically beauty marks.

  “Likewise, I’m sure,” Aven replied, “And if you don’t clear out and leave Notholm alone, I’ll happily send your bodies back to him.”

  The hooded ogre woman touched the leader’s arm again, and the man gave a bark of a laugh. “Oh, you speak for Notholm now, do you?”

  “The people of Notholm are under our protection,” Logash spoke. The biggest figure present by a fair margin, even just a single booming sentence changed the tenor of the conversation.

  “Now, now,” the leader raised his hands, though the other Vulgares looked more tense, hands resting on weapons. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding. Like I said, we’re just here to be good neighbors.” His smile broadened, “Just want to make a nice introduction.”

  Something about the intonation of that last word held a signal.

  Aven heard the snap of the bow before the shimmer reached his eyes. His mind split, the Battle Mind domain slowing the world down to pick up the arrow in its nearly invisible flight. Wreathed in shadow, it registered to his eyes only as a distortion in the air. The crawling icy-heat of the void raced down his arm, bursting from his blackened veins in the form of a claw to snatch the arrow out of the air.

  When Aven snapped the arrow, the leader was already charging with a roar. A dozen warriors rushed behind with weapons raised, howling war cries.

  “Formation!” Logash called as Aven stepped back into the line. “Spears up!”

  With only twelve, their formation was only two deep, six in front and six behind. Practiced as they were, they fell into it seamlessly, quick and efficient as any trained legionaries.

  That formation lasted exactly until the enemy leader launched himself howling right into a trio of spears, ignoring them all as his charge slammed into the line with the force of a charging bull. Line broken, the clash devolved immediately into a melee.

  Two went for Aven, one with a spear and one with a sword. Before either could reach him, Vili shot out like a flung dagger at Katrin’s command, stabbing the sword-wielder right through the eye. Aven swept out a claw, finishing him off before whirling to engage the spearman, an ogre nearly as thick as Logash, though a full head shorter.

  “Die, grazik!” the ogre spat.

  Whatever the meaning behind that particular slur, there was no more time for words as the ogre charged. The spear wasn’t as long as some imperial pikes. Nor could it reach quite as long as Aven’s voidhand. Aven leapt back, the tip of the spear coming within inches from his neck, but when the ogre jerked back to thrust again, a spear of the void punched through his throat. The ogre choked, gurgled, clutching at his punctured neck while the spear fell from his hands.

  Aven spun to sweep the rest of the battlefield. The enemy leader was on Logash, trying to wrestle the larger zhagra despite the blood pouring from his spear wounds. The rest of the battle was a mix of individual brawls and pairs, some more violent scraps than organized combat. Gretchen fending off a pair of warriors menacing Katrin while Vili swept about to deal glancing, distracting strikes throughout the battlefield. No sign of the enemy archer.

  The hooded ogress, however, was on her own, standing distant from the battlefield and merely watching. Waiting?

  Regardless, she was vulnerable. Aven charged from the melee, straight toward the ogress. Still, she watched, looking at him impassively. No move for defense, no drawing weapons, nothing.

  Even when Aven grabbed her, spinning her around to face the melee with his claws at her neck, she didn’t move.

  “Stop!” Aven shouted at the top of his lungs. “Throw down your weapons or I’ll cut her throat!”

  The ogress raised a hand, unspeaking. Immediately, all of the enemies broke from the battles, retreating into a knot at a distance.

  The enemy leader picked himself off the ground, Logash having thrown him yards away. “Sneaky bastard,” he growled, spitting blood from his mouth and glaring at Aven.

  “If you value her life, drop your weapons and surrender,” Aven said.

  “You drop your weapons,” a voice called out from behind the legions. “Or I’ll kill this one!”

  Behind the rest of their forces, a beastkin woman stood behind Wally, knife at his throat. Black-furred, feline ears, a bow at her side. Wally whimpered as the blade drew blood.

  “Well, quite the standoff,” Aven said.

  A voice entered his mind, more like audible words than the emotional impressions that Esharah left. “Teja will kill the boy. Her resolve is stronger than yours, grazik.”

  Aven tried a mental response, “And you think I won’t kill you?”

  A touch of amusement entered the mental voice, “Kill me, and The Hunter will not rest until your head adorns our hall.”

  Killing her would also, more importantly, remove his leverage. Best decide quick.

  “We’ve fought enough for today,” Aven said. “Let Wally go, withdraw from this village, and no one else needs to die.”

  That, at least, was a place he had the advantage. Three of the enemy lay dead, and several others were wounded. Among his troops, only one was dead, and the injured numbered less than their foes. If it came to a full battle, they’d win.

  The black-furred felin holding Wally hostage tilted her head as if listening. Whatever message the ogress sent, the felin nodded. “Patz, we’re going.”

  “Oxshit,” the leader spluttered, veins standing out like cords on his thick neck. “We’ll kill them-” He stopped. He shuddered as the ogress raised her hand towards him. Aven re-evaluated who the leader among the group actually was. “Fine. You imperial pissmongers get to live another day.”

  The enemy group withdrew, while Aven kept his claws at the ogress’ throat. The felin approached with Wally, meeting Aven in the middle.

  “Aven Arvanius,” the felin said.

  “Teja, I presume,” Aven replied.

  “Why do you fight for the empire?” she asked.

  “I happen to enjoy living,” Aven said. He paused, “More than the alternative, at least.”

  “There may be other alternatives,” the felin’s voice was soft enough that only Aven and Wally could hear, he was sure, “than death or life under the imperial boot.”

  Aven didn’t reply to that.

  The felin released Wally. Aven released the ogre.

  “I’m sorry,” Wally stammered, tears of frustration in the canin boy’s eyes. “I-”

  “Later,” Aven said.

  Teja put a hand on the ogress’ shoulder and led her away, “Continue to fight for the empire, and you will die.” With that, she and the ogress strode after their band.

  Aven regrouped, checking on the wounded and confirming the life lost. A man in his forties. Name of Ganis. Not one Aven knew personally with any kind of familiarity. Formerly a quarry worker, fought in the rebellion, and volunteered to join the voidhunts after receiving the pardon. A good soldier, quick and dutiful. Led the group in old tavern songs a few times on the long marches out to the pits. Now dead.

  For what? What was this fight even about?

  Does it matter?

  Of course it does, Aven thought back, whether the question came from his own thoughts or the Goddess in the void sneaking that same question through again.

  Some of the villagers approached, including the thick-bearded farmer who’d been so combative.

  “So, are you all going to accept our offer of shelter now?” Aven asked, wiping the blood off his hands onto a scrap of cloth. “Half of them were vis. Could your militia protect you from that?”

  “No,” the bearded man admitted. “They couldn’t.” He glanced at the corpse of the fallen prisoner-turned-soldier. “Thank you, for defending us. But I...I can’t go to Hellfrost. My home, my farm. I’ve been working on that for twenty years, since I moved here. I can’t leave it. We can’t.”

  “And what happens if they come and attack?” Aven asked. “What are you going to do?”

  “Guess I’ll fight,” the man said.

  “You’ll die.”

  “Home’s worth dying for,” he said.

  Damn these stubborn villagers. Aven could order his troops to round them up. Drag the villagers away and keep them locked up for the next few months while the fighting lasted. It would probably be better for the villagers. Less of them would end up dead. Maybe that wasn’t Aven’s choice to make for them.

  Nothing left for Aven to do, “If you want to stay, we’ll not force you. Just understand that I can’t promise we’ll be able to spare aid from Hellfrost.”

  The farmer’s nod held a hint of respect.

  Those villagers who did accept Hellfrost’s offer gathered around. A couple brought a stretcher to help carry Ganis’ corpse.

  Aven gave a nod to the others, “We’re marching. Back to Hellfrost.”

  They left behind Notholm, to whatever fate awaited them.

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