David followed the newly-bitten traitors out the backdoor. Lane’s hand on his arm was the only part of his body that felt warm. Real.

It shouldn’t disgust him so much when his own plan came together.

There was a cart waiting for Pettau and deVries at the back of the building, ready with an iron cage at the back. Horses, too, to take David, Rust and Ragna along to Fort Brunich. From where neither Pettau nor deVries would ever return.

Lane’s horse was waiting, too.

DeVries climbed into the cage with a wooden face, following the guards’ orders without reaction. Pettau tore on his manacles, hissing and spitting at his guards, who retaliated with liberal use of their truncheons.

David didn’t attempt to stop them.

He probably should. Greg wouldn’t have approved of this, would he?

“What would Greg think of this,” was the most solid moral compass he had left right now. And he still didn’t move to stop the guards from abusing the traitors. Because if he allowed the mask of Lord Relentless to slip, he wasn’t sure he could put it back on again.

Lane at his side had adopted the same stony expression he had last seen her wear the very night Greg had been bitten.

He wanted to ask her how she reconciled his plan with her faith—if she would dare reach into a fire ever again? Especially after Bishop Larssen had so vehemently refused any participation? What did Rust and Ragna think of his plan, for that matter?

But aloud he said: “I can take it from here, milady. I’m afraid the next step is going to be rather—rotten.”

To take the traitors to Fort Brunich, they first had to make it back to the main street and past the crowd waiting to throw their expired groceries. And he didn’t particularly trust the citizens’ aim.

“I promised Lady Imani you would be home for dinner,” Lane said wryly. “So I’ll come along.”

There went that attempt at chivalry. “As you wish.”

He helped her up onto her horse, wondering what the guards made of them as he climbed in the saddle, too, directing his horse next to the cart. The driver clicked his tongue and the six fine horses up front started to pull.

It wasn’t a particularly heavy cart. Not for beasts used to pulling a dozen prisoners or more, squeezed into the cage in the back, so they got moving pretty quickly. The alley behind the courthouse was narrow, servicing a bunch of grander buildings. It had been blocked off by the city guard, too, so the only sound David heard was the sound of the horses’ iron shoes on the cobblestones and the distant grumble of the crowd.

“My Lord?”

The carter’s question made David jump a little.

“My lord, if I may ask, what’s going to happen to the traitors, now that they’re werewolves?”

Would the man run straight to the press if he got his answer? Did it even matter? The truth was—“They will die.”

“Why the bite then?”

“Because they fear it more than death itself,” Lane lied smoothly.

The carter nodded, looking satisfied with that answer. “As long as they die,” he said, bringing the cart around the side of the courthouse. Towards where the crowd was being held back by a thin line of city guards.

“Death to the traitors, death to the traitors,” their chanting echoed through the alley.

“Make sure nobody gets too close,” David said, turning to Ragna who was riding right behind him.

They couldn’t risk anyone trying to make sure the traitors died.

“You got it, Sir,” Ragna said, decidedly unenthusiastically. She did let herself fall back though, until she rode next to the cart.

Rust sighed, but took the other side of the cart, putting up his collar. “The things we do for you,” he grumbled.

“Are much appreciated,” David said.

And then they rounded the corner and the barrage of rotten fruit and eggs started. As David predicted, the good citizens of Deva had rather poor aim. Mostly, they hit the wooden sides of the carts, but also the horses. David took a couple of surprisingly painful apples to the side, and avoided getting egged right in the face only through superior reflexes. Ragna cursed behind him.

David kept his eyes on the road ahead, not looking at the masses. He still spotted Greg out of the corner of his eyes—at least the crowd wasn’t throwing anything at him.

Right at the courthouse, the city guard kept the crowd away and the street clear. Unfortunately, there weren’t enough guards though to keep the masses away all the way out of the city, so it didn’t take long for the cart to be slowed down to a crawl. Bodies pressed in from all sides, even crowding the horses.

Pushing up against the waggon, throwing food and rocks at the prisoners.

“Stand back!” David yelled, then cursed when an egg hit him in the chest. The carter didn’t bother with yelling—he stood up on the coach box, swinging his whip at the people. Not that it helped much.

“Oh, Mithras’s flaming…” David muttered to himself, pulling out his pistol and firing a shot straight in the air.

The echo silenced the crowd enough for him to yell: “They’ll die! My word on it! We’re just making sure they’ll hurt first!”

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That finally bought them enough space for the horses to move onwards, if slowly.

Once they made it past a few more blocks, the crowd started to thin, and they could quicken their pace. Then it was just the regular traffic of Deva. And then they left the city gates behind, and all that stretched out in front of them was the wide open road to the west. Towards where Fort Brunich waited for them.

David let himself fall back until he rode next to Ragna, to see just how bad she had been hit. There was egg white dripping down her back, her pants, and her horse, too. She glared at him good naturedly, grumbling: “I can’t believe I took a hit for those bastards.”

“I’m sorry,” David said. “And thank you.”

Lane and Rust directed their horses around the cart, too, joining them. Without saying anything, they fell behind the cart, where the driver wouldn’t hear them over the clatter of the hooves.

“Say,” Rust asked. “Speaking of rewards. What are the chances that we’ll be allowed to keep our ranks once the war is over?”

It was a question David had expected to come much earlier, though he thought it would have come from Ragna. “You’re not planning to retire?” he asked back.

“And do what with myself?” Rust rubbed his freshly groomed beard. “Don’t want to end like Pierre, bitter and old before I even reach my full potential. I’m much more of a soldier than I’ll ever be as a werewolf.”

“There will be land for you,” David said. “I will fight for that, and even if the duke denies it, you’ll get it as my vassals.”

“Appreciated,” Ragna said in Rust’s place.

Which seemed to surprise the older man. “You want to retire?” he asked.

Ragna looked out over the fields surrounding the road, golden corn standing high. Her lips twitched, then she smiled, embarrassed, David thought. “Never thought I’d say this,” Ragna said, “but I might try the whole settling down thing, yes. I always told myself if there was any way, I’d sail across the ocean, fight for Fylke…”

She sighed. “Maybe I’m getting old, but that just doesn’t seem appealing any longer. If the gods don’t think I fought hard enough after all this, well, they’re fools, aren’t they? And it’s not like Loegrion isn’t my home as much as Fylke was.”

“Certainly,” David said. He breathed in deeply, inhaling the warm summer evening—the faint smell of eggs, the horses and leather mixing with the dust from the road, and the flowers in the fields.

Home.

He hadn’t thought of that in a while. This was for Greg. His family. All the loyal werewolves who had fought with him.

Would he ever feel at home here after everything he had done to the land?

“It’ll be fine,” Lane said, as if she had read the thought off his face.

He could only hope she was right. But it was a relief, too—that she wasn’t pulling away in the face of what he was about to do.

Rust was still glancing at him.

“I see no reason to demote you,” David said. “Or why you’d be forced to retire. We’ll be fighting the Rot for years to come. Possibly more Valoisian armies, too. DeVale sees the advantages in what you can do, and the duke would be a fool not to keep you on.”

He shifted in the saddle to look over his shoulder. “You’ll likely be stuck commanding werewolves for a long time,” he added.

Rust laughed, a harsh, bitter sound. “Wouldn’t want me to contaminate your precious human men, would you?” he said.

“That,” David said. “And with your ability to share your experience with even the greenest werewolf soldier, it would be a waste to give you human troops.”

“I suppose,” Rust said.

“We’re really going to go through with this plan, aren’t we?” Ragna asked.

“Do you want to back out?” David asked. “I won’t blame you if you do.”

He thought Ragna thought about it. She didn’t answer for a good while. Then she blew a strand of hair out of her face and shook her head. “No. No, I won’t back out. I was just curious. Would have thought there would be more objections against us seeding the only big river that hasn’t been taken over yet with the Rot.”

“Not so far, no,” David said. He looked over at the cart, but it didn’t look like their prisoners were paying them any attention. The two lords sat across from each other, as far apart as possible. DeVries stared down at his feet, Pettau David couldn’t quite see.

***

The sun was touching the horizon by the time Fort Brunich came into view, smoke rising above the extensive barracks. David and the rest of them overtook the cart before they got to the gate. Answering the salute of the officer greeting him felt nearly as wrong as it had back in the beginning—it wasn’t like the werewolves could salute him in their wolf bodies.

The officers and quartermasters were the only humans left in the fort. The only troops stationed there were now the werewolves.

They crowded around, the men and women who would forever be his—veteran soldiers and prisoners and the elder volunteers the Red had brought to the fight. Seeing them again was bitter sweet. They seemed quite happy with the accommodations.

Which were made more comfortable by the fact that so few of them had returned.

He would have liked to stay there. Sleep where his soldiers slept, like he had for—had it really just been a few weeks?

It seemed much longer.

“You’ll be back for full moon, I take it?” Ragna asked.

Of course, David wanted to say. But what was the point? All he could do was lock himself into the old keep with the rest of what remained of the human staff.

“Full moon, or the day after,” he said instead. “We’ll have to leave as soon as we know how the two of them get through their first full moon.”

He really, really hoped they wouldn’t turn mad just yet. It would be much easier to get them to the river’s source if Morgulon could just force them to come along.

“Don’t spread the word just yet,” he added, which earned him an eye roll.

“Yessir,” Ragna said, and snapped him a salute before adding: “Go home.”

David sighed, but let himself get sent away. It was strange, to ride home with only Lane by his side. He kept craning his neck, trying to watch his back, waiting for an ambush, a scout to report…

All he heard were the crickets in the fields, the rustle of the wind in the trees. The clatter of the hooves on the cobblestones. As dusk fell, the mournful hooting of the owls came up, too. Lane didn’t seem to feel any need to fill the silence with chatter.

David did have a question burning on his mind, though, and once he relaxed enough, he asked: “Do you think I’m doing the right thing?”

“Yes,” Lane said simply.

“Even as—a Mithran?” David asked.

She gave him a lopsided smile at that, running a hand through her hair. “The Church of Mithras has been seeding the Rot for ages. Are all those priests heretics? At that point, what is even left of the Church?”

She sighed. “I don’t really want to think about that. I know what Bishop Larssen thinks.”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. But Morgulon didn’t say we shouldn’t do it. She didn’t like it, but she didn’t refuse to help. And I do not see what else we can do to defeat the Valoise.”

She stared out at the road for a moment, before addin: “At least you have a way to deal with the fallout that doesn’t involve salting acres upon acres with alchemy.”

“True,” David said softly.

“I just hope Alvin really can protect you,” Lane added. “Even from a queen.”

“Only one way to find out,” David said.

“That, I worry about much more,” Lane claimed. “And it worries me that you don’t seem to worry about that.”

When he just shrugged and smiled back weakly, she seemed to catch that he didn't want to talk about the matter. Instead, she changed the topic abruptly: “You know, we might want to start thinking about a marriage date. Before the duke decides all his knights need to remain unwed.”

David huffed. “He would come up with something like that, wouldn’t he?”