The howling winds and constant downpours of snow picked up as the last days of winter counted down. The line between winter proper and the constant cold of the Frontier might have seemed arbitrary to many but not to the gods of the north and those that followed them.

Within the great hall lit by hundreds of flicking torches, thousands of wargs gathered for the final countdown as they waited for the day that the Seven-Headed Wolf God called winter. The countdown had reached the final hours, and the wargs sat on their knees and chanted as their elders stood on a podium facing out toward the sea of humanoid wolves.

The mood had turned feverish in recent days. They could all feel it. Finally, after hundreds of years, the wargs had gathered the strength and unity to reclaim what their people once ruled over.

The Frontier, or Langestmak, to the barbarians, had long been the land of the warg before they were driven back, and the wargs and their allies were more than eager to return the icy lands to their rightful rulers.

“And so it begins,” a man mused from the shadows overlooking the great gathering.

“With the rise of the warg, we shall get our place at their side, High Priest. The followers of the wolf god shall rule over man.”

“We shall,” the bald man dressed in wolf furs nodded as he watched the chanting wargs from their advantage. “But we have a certain thorn to deal with first.”

“You mean you want to personally deal with that troublesome Imperial?”

“Our dead deserve vengeance, do they not?”

“They do, High Priest,” the man nodded. “But I had figured we would send a detachment out to deal with their pitiful gathering."

"And look how that turned out last time. No, we cannot take the chance of being embarrassed a second time."

"Understood. And your nephew, should we bring him?”

“Captain,” the wrinkled, white-haired priest said, turning to the bulky man in heavy, plated metal armor. “We’re taking everyone. This is war. The fort of that Imperator shall only be our first step. We shall follow the wargs up to the Razors and slay any man who defies the rule of the Wolf God's servants, and once this is all over, we shall build a new temple in our god's honor. Prepare everything. Even the servants and slaves. Our entire order shall travel south."

“Then I must leave,” the man bowed. “There are many preparations required for our warriors to be ready for battle and more for our supplies.”

“As you do,” the priest waved dismissively and turned back to the procession of wargs filling the hall. He would destroy that fort and build a temple in its place for the dishonor it had caused him. He had ordered his followers from the region to gather and prepare to attack the fort, and the Imperator destroyed them. It was an insult and a disgrace, and he needed to seek his vengeance. Failure would not come twice. He would make sure of it.

**Fort Winterclaw**

Wiping sweat from his brow, the stocky smith hammered relentlessly. After the first dozen yards of barbed wire, he had found his groove and bent the deadly wire into shape at miraculous speed, rolling it into bundles and wrapping it in leather to be stretched around the fort’s walls.

“Finished,” one of the acolytes shouted, adding his bundle to the pile.

“Start on the next, will ye,” Payon yelled back as he hammered. “We’ve still plenty of work ahead of us. Let's make our Imperator proud, shall we? More importantly, let us survive this cursed winter."

The acolytes shouted a cheer in return and forced themselves back to work.

Glancing over at the engine pieces he had crafted for his Imperator, Payon grinned. There was still a large order of arrowheads to get through, but he could see the light at the end of the tunnel. All this mundane, repetitive work would be completed soon, and he could challenge himself to put that thing together—something he looked forward to more than even finishing the sword he had been crafting.

What shit did you get yeself into, Payon? Well, at least it's entertaining. The smith sighed and continued working.

**

Arrow shafts were carved in great numbers and bundled into piles. The reality was that they wouldn’t get around to crafting arrowheads for all of them and probably didn’t even have the iron to do so if they found the time. But that was fine. They were already bundling piles of arrows to have their heads sharpened and used as is. They wouldn’t be as effective as iron arrowheads, but sharpened wood would be better than nothing when the hoards of their enemies descended upon them. Even scratches and shallow wounds would weaken their foes, and they would take every advantage they could get.

Adding to the growing manpower supply, more and more ferals had been funneling into the fort, and they counted a hundred new arrivals in just the last few days. Trumus had taken to this chaos better than others, starting construction of a new cabin in the Low Quarter. He hired any feral that came looking for work, many of which he then sent to help the fort with arrow fletching and other tasks left behind by the Imperator. But it was clear who they served.

His actions turned up some brows, but he was once again the man was proving his worth to Fort Winterclaw, and his growing army of loyal men and women were some of the most productive people within the Fort. Not to mention his training sessions, which made the budding barbarians look like a half decent militia force.

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***

In the early hours of the morning, acolytes on watch spotted the caravan. They had marched through the night with little rest, rolling into sight of the fort only a couple of days since leaving Frostwind.

The exhausted men swayed as they walked, and several people from Fort Winterclaw ran out to greet them as they neared.

Watching from the inner wall, Henric’s expression softened. He counted twelve new faces, and he was pleased beyond measure to have more Imperials within the fort.

The ever-growing number of ferals had made him more than a little uncomfortable, and he thanked the God-Lord for every Imperial he was able to recruit. Unlike the Imperator, he held no trust for the people. They were useful tools and nothing more.

However, as uncomfortable as the barbarians made him, he understood well enough not to rock the boat at this moment. If the Imperator was right about the coming winter, they would need every bow and sword they could muster. But after the threat was dealt with, he prayed rule would be returned to the rightful hands of the Imperials, and he hoped that his Imperator would see the light of such values. If not, he wasn't sure he could continue down this path.

**Trolls**

“Chieftain, they hunt us,” a broad troll with long, mattered hair shouted, looking as if he was carved from stone.

Tath Gorak nodded, his stony gaze turning toward the south. “Wargs smarter than they look. They won't attack, but be ready.”

The battle-hardened chief wasn’t too worried about the wargs chasing them from the Daggers. They were likely scouts keeping track of their movements for their bastard lord, but most importantly, he hadn’t spotted fire among them. If they were foolish enough to attempt attacking them without fire, he would happily take their lives. In fact, he welcomed such an act and would himself engage them if he had the means of catching up to the wargs who ran as fast as wild horses.

“Do we have a plan, chieftain?” a troll grunted at his side, creases cutting through his skin like cracks through a rock.

“We continue south and search for enemies of the wargs. We must keep faith in this plan. Those monsters threaten all who are free of them. We must trust that our enemies will show themselves. Besides, what choice do we have now that winter has come?"

**Imperator**

Edarn hadn’t just allowed Mark and his acolytes to leave his island but had even assisted him in finding a suitable map and paid for it, although he got the feeling its value meant little to the man of great wealth.

The boys buckled up, and Mark took his place at the helm. He had spotted another island to hop to on the map. It was a partially inhabited island about half the distance as Xaarn was from Fort Winterclaw, allowing Mark to fly faster than he had come here. The plan was to land in the uninhabited rocky islet to the south of the main island and rest a few hours before taking off again. Their next flight would land them on the southern continent of Andria, where the Archbishopric of Deloise and other nations could be found.

The further south they flew, the clearer the water appeared. Islands were dotted by tropical trees and sandy beaches kissed by foamy waves.

Upon reaching the tiny islet of sharp rock, seagulls, and several other larger ocean birds, Mark didn’t recognize pecking around the rocky ground where they landed. He found himself staring out at them, letting his mind drift away. There was something so peaceful about where they were. The problems of the world seemed so far away, and the animals went on with their business as if nothing were happening.

If only I could just sit here and be at peace. Oh, the simple joys in life.

A thump of the ship’s mage heart pulled him from his musings, and he realized it had recovered its energy.

It doesn’t seem like I’m getting rest anytime soon. As much as the thought of resting might have felt good to Mark, it didn't take much reminding for his thoughts to trail back to the poison.

“Acolytes, are you strapped in?” Let's get the hell out of here and heal ourselves already.

Half asleep, groans echoed back.

“I'll take that as a yes because we’re taking off again,” Mark shoved his hands into the control pockets and pulled on the ship, lifting it into the air in seconds.

He could feel himself weakening, even if only a little, and the boys seemed to be sleeping whenever they weren’t actively doing something. If these priests could heal them, then that would be great, but it didn't give them time to screw around. Besides, he had no idea how much of the toxins they had actually consumed, and he felt that the respirators he had made hadn't done much.

Soaring through the sky, they swept across the blue below and soon reached a sandy, rocky shore within hours. Arid land stretched on for what seemed like forever, dotted by patches of vegetation and snaking rivers lined by farmlands and mangroves.

Following one of the largest rivers—the Cale—as Mark's map named it, they passed by several smaller towns as he headed toward a border city called of Manh.

At the mouth of a huge river delta, the city was spread across several islands split apart by impressive rivers, which were filled with boasts of all kinds, with colorful canopies that blanketed the river with reds and yellows from above.

Mark had picked the city because it lay beside the Archbishopric of Deloise but outside their control. From here, he hoped to find contacts who could help him enter the hostile state without immediately killing himself.

To his surprise, as he flew across the city's skyline, he spotted robed men waving him down through the white clay buildings and towers. They directed him to an open courtyard marked almost like a helicopter pad, except that the markings were square rather than circular.

As far as he was aware, the city of Manh had no reason to attack him on sight, so he followed the directions. It helped that he was inside a giant steel contraption that could shoot lightning bolts. However, the Imperium didn’t rule the world, which likely meant that other kingdoms had means of dealing with the ships if they needed to.

“We’re here?” Radic groaned with a sickly green tinge to his skin as he swayed back and forth in his seat.

“Going to be sick?”

“Shut up,” Radic hissed at Callum and clamped his hands over his mouth a second later.

“Take it easy, boys,” Mark said, stepping out from the cockpit. “The poison we’ve ingested is going to weaken us. You’ll need to take it slowly until we find a healer.”

“I’m fine,” Radic said as his cheeks ballooned.

“Quick, outside,” Mark said, running to the exit and slamming the button. “No way you’re throwing up in my new ride. Now get out,” Mark barked, pointing outside.

Hastily unbuckling his belt, Radic cupped his mouth and ran out into the warm weather of Manh, speeding past the robed men and hunched over a bush to expel his guts.

“Is he going to be okay?”

“Are any of us?” Mark shrugged and placed a hand over his brow as he stepped out into the stinging heat and blistering sun.

“Welcome to Manh, Imperator,” one of the old, bald men in robes said, stepping toward them and bowing. “It has been long since last we had one of your kind within our walls.”

“Greetings,” Mark waved. The green robes and copper jewelry reminded him of the librarians who ruled the city—assuming his information was correct. “Librarians, I believe?”

“Correct, Imperator. May we ask what brings you to the great city of Manh?”

“I’m hoping to secure safe passage into the Archbishopric of Deloise and a trustworthy contact. I if possible.”

“I see,” the man said, and the other robed men behind him mumbled between themselves. “You have come to the right place. But your request is not an easy one. Few significant people within the Archbishopric will even hear your request. You being an Imperator and all. I fear that it will be quite an expensive request.”

“Expensive?” Mark raised a brow. “I should have figured.”