Yawning and stretching, Mark’s new tribunes stood in a crooked line. They were hardly an example of discipline, but at least they all showed.

“Alright, listen closely, tribunes. What I’m going to say is important. And while I have given you the power to pass down my law, remember that you are still subject to my law, and if you break it, your new status will not protect you,” Mark said, making energy flash and crackle around a raised fist for theatre.

“For now, I will keep the laws I expect you to uphold simple. Murder, theft, rape, assault, and treason are all corporal crimes—the severity of which shall be decided by a tribunal of us all. Majority rules. If the accused gets violent during arrest, you are permitted to use whatever means necessary to subdue them.”

The tribunes whispered between themselves as they spoke, and Venjimin started to explain Mark’s words to the others.

Mark wasn’t a fan of any kind of corporal punishment in his previous life, but the reality was that they didn’t have the resources to throw people in jail. And he wasn’t about to start getting pious when they had bigger things to worry about.

“I’m sure you’ve all heard the rumors. The stories about what is coming this winter.”

Mark was under no illusions about the difficulty of the task ahead of him, but at least this next part would should be a lot easier with ther ferals, he figured. They at least believed the stories about the wargs.

“We going to need numbers if we’re to survive the coming winter. This isn’t up for debate. It’s a fact. And you’ve also seen what happens in the lawless Frontier when there is nobody to uphold laws. Your kin have betrayed you. Even if they have not succeeded, they have sold your families and children out to the cultists by merely aligning themselves with those monsters.”

As Venjimin explained, the mood soured. Angry grunts rippled across the tribunes, and several of them spat at the ground by their feet.

Finally, I got a reaction out of them.

“They work with the cultists to kidnap your daughters for their own gain. And who knows what those monsters plan to do with them? Tell me, my tribunes. Just how vile must a man be to selling innocent girls to the wargs in the north? Girls who have committed no crime. The most pure of us all. Children?” Mark dropped to his knees, staring down at his hands as he made his fingers tremble. “Pure, innocent little girls,” he blinked as he forced tears from his eyes.

The tribunes roared, hissing words in a foreign language, took their spears and shields above their heads, and began to bang them together.

Good, now this is something I can use.

“Together, we shall punish them for these crimes against humanity. We shall make these cowards suffer! We shall show them our pride and strength. We shall show them what it means to be a man of Fort Winterclaw!” Mark added the last bit as it came to him. This was what he wanted. He wanted to channel their anger toward the cultists into a sense of unity around Fort Winterclaw so that he could develop something more.

The shouting continued as several of the tribunes began to thump their chests scream obscenities in their mother tongue. He had been managed to enrage the big man Trayox with his speech.

“Quiet now,” Mark raised a hand, and as Venjimin repeated it in the feral language, they gradually calmed. “It’s more than just vengeance that we need, though. We need good men. Honest, hardworking, proud, and decent men and women. People that are willing to stand up for what is right. Good people to stand together against these worms. Good people to enforce the law. Good people to bring justice to this land!”

The tribunes roared again, cheering as Mark bowed to them.

“You really got them riled up,” Elowen said as the tribunes dispersed after burning their lungs out. Every one of them came up to Mark, bowed, and thanked him for what he had done. Most even insisted on kissing the flat of his hand.

“It’s about time.”

“Just be careful not to go overboard,” Elowen said as she eyed the tribunes returning to their families.

“I don’t think that’s a luxury,” Mark smiled.

“Are you mocking what I said earlier?”

“Nope,” Mark tapped her shoulder. “Just pointing out a reality. Besides, they love me.”

***

The tribunes returned after taking a break. The mood was entirely different from the indifference they had shown before. A part of him was surprised at how easy it had been to win them over, but Mark reminded himself that everything he said was true. There really were people trying to steal their daughters. And he really had invited them behind the wall and given them security. Why wouldn’t his words have gotten to them?

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What’s more, he had built them up and invited them to share the spoils of his success.

Eagerly nodding, the tribunes tried to follow Mark’s every word as he explained the market day. Unfortunately, no amount of enthusiasm would save Venjimin his job as a translator today.

Ferals might have been rejected clan members and essentially the equivalent to the homeless he knew all too well from back home, but they still had some degree of community. Most tribunes still had connections to many ferals outside of the wall. And this gave him an idea. On top of patrolling and guarding the market, Mark wanted his new tribunes to look out for anyone they thought would make a good addition to his growing community and invite them to behind the walls.

Prior to their last meeting, Mark hadn’t been ready to give such a responsibility to his new recruits. But their reaction had changed his view of them. These men and women were ready to die for their families, even Trumus, who he still felt a little iffy about. And Mark felt confident that none of them would invite anyone into the walls they didn’t wholeheartedly trust.

When the wagons had been prepped and were ready, Mark had his tribunes form a line on either side of them and march alongside himself as they drew them out of the walls and lined them up against them.

They brought four acolytes with them to man the stalls and several wives of his tribunes to help. There were also another four acolytes standing watch with their crossbows from the walls.

Mark crossed his arms and watched from the sides as the stalls were set up.

Even before they had finished, a growing number of ferals gathered in the surrounding forest. A few of the more curious ones stepped forward and began perusing the wares, and the moment a couple of his tribunes went to speak to them, a flood of dozens of ferals stepped forward.

Crowding around the stalls, more and more of the barbarians marched through the woods to join them, and within an hour or so, hundreds had gathered around from the surrounding region.

It got so rowdy that Mark had to order the tribunes to force them into somewhat orderly lines before they could be allowed to approach the stalls. And while he wasn’t sure how prevalent theft was in this world, he figured that things would go missing if he let hundreds of the ferals press right up against the stalls. Especially considering how poor many of them were.

Mark’s brow curled as he watched feral after feral approaching the stalls with iron. It seemed they were all well aware of how to trade with Fort Winterclaw, but it did not come as much of a surprise. The community was small, and word likely traveled fast.

However, most didn’t hold coins yet. They carried iron scraps or bent and twisted metal that had once been something else.

In total, they had set up four stalls, all of which were equipped with scales, measuring both goods and iron alike.

Mark had allowed his acolytes to be a little more generous than they needed to be. If they could hand back a couple of his iron coins during a trade, they were encouraged to do so as long as the trade was still profitable. Which was easy since Elowen had provided value guides based on weight for just about anything they might possibly come across.

And there was no need to worry about iron shortages. Because it wasn’t just iron scraps and ore they brought to trade, but old axe heads and knives. Looking to trade for something better. Something sharp and worked by a skilled hand against a whetstone.

The ferals sought all kinds of metal goods themselves. Needing axe heads, knives, and nails in abundance.

If things got bad, he could reduce the amount of work metal left the fort, but for now, it was profitable to let the flow of trade continue uninterrupted.

His gaze then settled on the tribunes. Several of them passed through the crowds, talking to ferals. With any luck, they would find good, reliable recruits to bolster their numbers.

As trading grew to an end, seven families had been gathered by the tribunes. A couple were young, yet to birth a girl. There was an older couple without children, while the others either didn’t have daughters or they were already married and with children of their own—an act that sometimes occurred much younger than Mark was comfortable with.

Nodding at the assembly, he called Venjimin over.

“You vouch for all of these people?”

“Me, personally? I don’t know half of them. But the reasons for electing them as families to let into the fort all sound reasonable.”

“Good, that’ll do. You can let them know to bring their possessions here. They’re officially invited into Fort Winterclaw.”

**Trading Post**

Payon rubbed his mittened hands together in a desperate attempt to warm them. He was starting to believe he had made a terrible mistake.

Taxes were bad, but was escaping them really worth all this?

Finally, fed up with the ever-increasing taxes of the Imperium and, with them, the ever-increasing difficulty of keeping his smithy afloat, he closed up and left.

Unfortunately, there weren’t many places to go. Now, like an idiot, he found himself bouncing to the rhythm of the unpaved road leading to Frostwind Trader’s Post, the only civilized plot of land in the Frontier.

Cussing himself, he gripped his arms tighter. He had known it was going to be cold, but this cold? The trading post was still a couple of days away, and regret was already swelling up.

You greedy bastard, you. What have you gotten yourself into? He sighed. He had let the thought of piles of untaxed gold get to his head. But there was a reason why men got rich in the Frontier—no one wanted to be here.

Payon listened to the mercenaries that guarded their caravan bicker about the weather. It sounded like even they regretted taking this job.

At least I’m not the only greedy idiot here.

Peering through a gap in the cloth roof of the wagon, he watched as they passed the charcoal remains of a wagon beside the road.

Another one.

Caravan attacks had already started to increase this time of year. They were a standard feature of the Frontier when winter came. But they shouldn’t be this frequent this early in the season. Not this far south, at least—not when last night’s snow had melted by midday.

If it had already gotten this bad, he could only imagine what it would be like when winter proper came and the place frosted over.

Not that he could complain. He had been warned. And it was exactly that warning that had him leaving the Imperium in a hurry.

The talk was that caravans into the Frontier might stop soon. The trip had become too dangerous, and caravan guards too expensive. And so, rather than miss his chance, Payon hopped aboard the next one leaving.

Maybe it’s not so bad. Frostwind Trader’s Post should have an inn. Maybe it even has a good ale. If Smiths are paid as much as I’ve heard, buying myself a well-deserved ale shouldn’t be too hard, at least.

The thoughts cheered him up a little, but a wailing gust sweeping through the wagon quickly shook the faint grin from his face. Why had he been so impatient?