The wind howled like a dying animal as I trudged through calf-high snow, winding my way through the narrow streets of Grimwerp. The simple stone houses were dark and, if I didn’t know any better, I’d assume the residents of the quiet hamlet were tucked into their beds and sleeping soundly through the raging snowfall. But I did know better. An unnatural, almost oppressive, silence rested heavily on the night, giving voice to the lie.

No noise came from any of the houses.

The glow of firelight didn’t wink from behind the shuttered windows.

No clouds of fragrant fire smoke drifted from the chimneys.

The houses were empty. All of them.

With a grunt, I shrugged my cloak more tightly around my shoulders and readjusted my grip on the reeking burlap sack in my hand.

“That thing was so fucking gross,” Cal said while keeping pace beside me. Renholm had stayed behind, refusing to endure the frozen chill since he staunchly disagreed about this particular mission. Just leave them for dead, he insisted. Cal was always in my corner, however, and as a specter he wasn’t bothered by the cold or the snow. His other senses worked just fine, though. Including his nose. The rancid stink wafting off the bag was nausea inducing, even for someone who didn’t have a stomach. “I don’t think I’ll ever feel clean again.”

“You and me both,” I replied, pushing myself up a short hill.

The old crypt we’d found the Fouling inhabiting would haunt my memories for weeks to come. Maybe months.

Perched at the top of the rise was a large, two-story building of gray stone and wooden beams with a thick thatched roof. Unlike the rest of the houses, bright jags of orange firelight seeped through the battened down windows and out from beneath the stout wooden door. The massive chimney spewed a constant plume of gray smoke and, thanks to my enhanced hearing, it was easy enough to hear the uneasy mutters drifting out from behind the Twisted Pig, Grimwerp’s combination Inn and Pub.

Every resident of the sleepy hamlet—from gray-haired Vilhelm to tow-headed Alexi who was just starting to toddle around on uncertain feet—was tucked away behind the safety of the doors. This was a dangerous world for human beings and there was a certain safety in numbers.

I crested the stone steeps and thumped at the door loud enough to rattle the rough frame.

“Who goes there?” came a reply after a tense moment. I knew the voice on the other side. Bendt, the owner and proprietor of the Twisted Pig. I could hear the fear in his bass rumble.

“Just me,” I said, exhausted. Then, “It’s done.”

There was another long pause followed by the sound of a metal bolt sliding open. The door creaked and I shuffled in, shaking the snow from my cloak. Inside, a sea of anxious, dirty faces peered out at me. The residents of the town were all pressed in tightly together, the children and elderly kept toward the back while the handful of Grimwerp’s fighting-aged men were lined up in the front. These men weren’t soldiers—they were farmers and bakers and Innkeepers. They wore simple linen garb and carried pitchforks, wheat scythes, or butcher knives. Tools of the trade, not designed for war or battle.

Still, they were ready to fight and die to protect their own, no matter the cost. That, I could respect. That kind of courage was worth fighting for.

I meet their grim looks and offered them a fierce, if tired, smile. I reached my free hand into the burlap sack at my side, grabbed a handful of greasy black hair, and pulled out the head of an ashen-skinned humanoid creature with a jagged, too-large mouth filled with an assortment of razor-sharp teeth.

There was a collective intake of breath as their gazes locked on the grisly trophy.

Instead of recoiling in shock or disgust, a cheer erupted from the crowd. Tears fell, husbands turned to hug wives, children let out cries of pure unadulterated relief and joy.

“Justice has been served for the people of Grimwerp!” I thundered, hoisting the head high and shaking it. Black blood dribbled down, splattering across the floor.

No one had a single fuck to give. The thing that had been hunting their village, murdering their neighbors was finally gone. That was all that mattered.

Elder Vilhelm, a bent old man with a wispy beard that trailed down to his waist, hobbled forward on his gnarled cane, thrusting a bag of coins into my hands before pulling the gory prize into his.

“This is for Brian, for Liva, and for poor, sweet, innocent Sarah most of all.” He turned and tossed the head to Bendt, who’d made his way back behind the bar. The Innkeeper slammed it unceremoniously onto a pitted spear that had seen better days and raised it for everyone to see.

“Tomorrow,” Bendt said, his voice gruff and raw with emotion, “tomorrow we shall grieve. We shall pay respects to the fallen. Cry over those robbed from us. But tonight… Tonight we celebrate!” A thunderous shout rose around the room, shaking the rafters. “Tonight, we shall drink, reveal, and dance on the grave of the creature who took so much from us.” He brandished the spear in a white-knuckled fist. “And the Vigil, he shall be our guest of honor!”

Another enthusiastic round of cheers went up at the declaration. Elder Vilhelm shuffled over to me, hooked one scrawny arm through mine, and gently nudged me into motion, drawing me over to a nearby table.

Meanwhile, the house band set up on a small, raised stage near the fireplace and jangled to life. A woman with a face as weathered and lumpy as the underside of a rock belted out a tune with the voice of an angel. Her portly husband struck a chord on a hammered dulcimer, which was a bit like an ol’ timey harp, laid flat on its side and played with what looked like a pair of wooden spoons. It was a rousing ballad I’d heard in more than one village, which told the tale of a world-weary Vigil who rolled into town at the hour of need and proceeded to kick the shit out of a terrifying Mortka who’d been hunting the land.

Unfortunately, it was such a common ballad, because the story itself was so painfully common.

Turned out Ironmoor wasn’t the only place with Mortka problems. Unlike the earth Cal and I had once called home, Alkran was literal death trap. Life on this world was short, brutal, and shitty unless you had bucketloads of money or shitloads of magic. It seemed like Mortka were hiding behind every bush and under every goddamned rock in this world, just waiting to pop out and maul folk at the drop of a hat. Sure, they weren’t all as bad as the Hexblight that had nearly murdered me and worn my skin as a blanket, but they were nasty enough to kill anyone without access to fancy spells or enchanted weapons.

And because I wasn’t a total bastard, I couldn’t just pass them by and leave them to their grizzly, ugly, murdery fates. I was a sucker that way.

Serving women swept out from behind the rough-hewn bar, bearing platters of warm ale and slabs of slightly warmer bread. A handful of men and women took to the dance floor, twirling and stomping in time to the beat, while others drifted back to their own tables, eager to celebrate by burying their heads in a flagon of free ale. A few others tossed around the knuckled bones—a game that was equal parts chance and skill that involved the use of real bones, all salvaged from Mortka.

Thanks to my preternaturally enhanced dexterity and agility, the kindly folks of Grimwerp had banned me from playing the very first night.

One of the serving girls, a curly brunette with a pair of killer dimples, dropped two pints off at the table, one for me, one for Vilhelm. As she was departing, she reached down and traced her fingers across my shoulder and up my neck, in clear invitation. Then she giggled and swished away through the crowd, dodging dancers and drunkards with expert footwork. I lifted my own drink and threw my head back, taking a great swing of the brew, which was a hundred times better than the sour swill Maggie had served day and night back in Ironmoor.

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“Well, lad, you’ve done it,” Vilhelm said in grim resignation as he hefted his drink in salute. “I’m ashamed to say I doubted you, but you’ve proven me wrong, and I’ll eat my own words gladly enough. Me and the others, we can’t thank you enough for helping us get rid of that beast. Would’ve been the death of us all, if not for you.”

“Hey just doing my job,” I said, shrugging off the praise.

“No, no you weren’t lad,” he said with a grimace and a shake of his head. “I can see the fire burning in you. I may be old, but I’m not blind. You have places to be. There is an urgency about you.”

I sighed and took another pull of my mug. He wasn’t wrong. I idly glanced out the window and watched the angry flurries of snow pour down from the black sky overhead, blanketing the streets, transforming the normally muddy roadways into hard, frozen dirt. I did have someplace to be, and I was already late.

After taking out the Hexblight back in Ironmoor I’d gotten a letter from the Citadel of Custodians—the ruling body that oversaw the Vigilant—demanding I ride to the city of Wildespell and turn myself in for judgment. Impersonating a Vigil was a “sacrilege” and punishable by death and dismemberment—not necessarily in that order. I knew I wasn’t faking. I had the magical powers to prove it, plus I’d literally had a face to face with Raguel, the Five-Faced God of the Vigilant after taking a grenade to the gut and dying back in Fallujah.

The other Vigil’s didn’t know that, however.

They’d given me a deadline—make it to Wildespell by the first snowfall or they’d come gunning for me. The first snowfall had come and gone more than two weeks ago. I’d been moving more or less in the direction of Wildespell since leaving Ironmoor, but things had come up along the way that had put me significantly behind schedule.

And by things, I mean Bounties and Monsters. Just like the Fouling that had waylaid me in this backwater town for the past few days. This particular breed of Mortka was a creepy, hunch over humanoid dick head that usually skulked about in cemeteries and stole sheep and goats. Except this one had gotten real ballsy. And hungry. A week past it had raided an outlying farm, snatching up a wife, husband, and their two-month-old baby, Sarah. The bodies of mom and dad turned up a day or two later, partially eaten, but there was no sign of the baby.

The people of Grimwerp were still looking for the kid when I ambled through and even though I should’ve quickly put the town in my rearview mirror, I couldn’t stop myself. Kids were a line in the sand as far as I was concerned.

Hurting dogs, cats, and children was the quickest way to wind up on the business end of an enchanted shotgun barrel. No exceptions.

“You could’ve just as well offered us a trite blessing and ridden off into the sunset without batting an eye,” Vilhelm continued, drawing me from my thoughts. “I’ve known Arbitrators that have done less than that. A Vigil’s purpose is higher than ours, yet you stayed to help us in our hour of need. Stayed to see Justice served, even though I have my suspicions that you may suffer for it yet. For that, as well as slaying the beast, you have my sincerest gratitude… Still, although you owe us nothing and we are forever in your debt, I have one last favor to request.”

“I can’t promise anything,” I said, bracing myself for whatever fresh hell they needed. “But I’ll hear you out,” I finished.

“Please, stay through the night, eh?” He fished a silver coin from his pocket and slid it across the table to me with gnarled, arthritic fingers. “It’s cold out there, lad. And dark. I know you can handle yourself well enough, but one night in a warm bed won’t kill you, I reckon. It’ll also lift the spirits of everyone here. You’ve done so much for us, and we can offer so little in return. Please let us give you this.” He paused and stole a look at the bar. “’Sides I saw the way Josepa was lookin’ at you. You’re only young once, lad.” He reached forward and patted me on the hand. “Don’t squander an opportunity like that—you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.”

“Thanks for the advice, old timer,” I replied taking the coin and standing, the chair letting out a groan of relief. I shot him and wink, then ambled over toward Bendt.

“You should’ve let them all die,” Renholm said as he fluttered over to me from the bar. He’d been entirely against this mission from the very beginning, even though I’d received a Bounty directly from Raguel. “This was a truly remarkable waste of time and the hunched, old fool is astute if nothing else—we do have places to be.”

The pixie’s cat, Sir Jacob Francis, darted out from beneath the table and jogged along beside me, avoiding clomping feet with a feline’s grace while rubbing his tabby shoulders against my boots.

“You jeopardized your own safety—which means you are jeopardizing my safety—and for what, hmm?” the pixie asked scornfully. “A pouchful of grimy pocket change? The warm bed of a woman who bathes less than once a month? The good will of ignorant, stinking hill-people who have never traveled past their own sheep pastures? If you had enough sense to listen to your mentor and advisory”—he puffed his chest out—“then you would’ve left the whole lot of them for dead. That Fouling wasn’t even worth the time it took to hunt it down. You spent more Affinity Scales vanquishing it than you looted off its corpse.”

“Not everything is about money,” I growled. “We did it because it’s the right thing to do. Sometimes that’s enough.”

Renholm rolled his eyes and threw up his hands in frustration. “I’ve bonded myself to an absolute imbecile.”

“Naw,” Cal said from my other side, “Boyd’s not dumb, just as stubborn as a fucking donkey.” As an etheric being he didn’t even try to avoid people. Nope, he just walked through them, leaving a wave of startled expressions in his wake. He’d walked through me a handful of times and I had to admit, it was a deeply unsettling experience. Almost like getting splashed in the face with a bucket of cold ice water. “I’ve known Boyd a long time—we’ve been best friends since elementary school—and when he gets it into his head that something is right, he’ll just keep going no matter what.

“When we were in sixth grade, there was this bully that would come over from the High School. Callen McKinny. This guy was a Junior, but the sumbitch was built like a College Line Back. Great big ol’ bastard, and Boyd hadn’t hit his growth spurt yet, so he was just this scrawny little redneck kid with a chip on his shoulder the size of the Grand Canyon. Anywho, Callen comes over to our school every day to pick on this Special Ed kid named Eddy Ward. Everyone just called him Special Ed, which was super fucked up. Well, Boyd here sees what’s going down and decides then and there to put the kibosh on that shit.

“Callen is pushing Eddy around, knocking his books out of his hand, giving him wet-willies and shit. Boyd gets right in front of Callen and tells him to pick on someone his own size. Bear in mind that Boyd barely comes up to this kid’s nipples. Callen laughs, tries to push his way past Boyd. Boyd punches him right in the dick without even batting an eye. As you might expect, Callen beat the shit out of Boyd every day for the next three weeks, but he never fucked around with Eddy again. Boyd will do the right thing, even if the right thing is stupid as sin.”

“Is that story supposed to impress me?” Renholm asked, canting his head to the side in apparent confusion. “If anything, it only proves my point. You see my young, naive protégé, there is a pecking order to life—the strong prey on the weak, just as I continue to take advantage of you, because you are too ignorant to know any better. You, in turn, are far more elevated than they”—he swept a tiny hand outward, gesturing at the bar goers—“which gives you every right to abuse, swindle, or ignore them as you please. This is a cruel, unforgiving land and coddling the weak and poor will only prolong their suffering. Once you learn to embrace your place in the world you will be better off.”

I ignored the pixie as I sidled up to the bar and plunked my empty mug down on the countertop.

“Another, please,” I said to Bendt. The man was as thick as Vilhelm was thin and looked like he should’ve been swinging a hammer at a foundry instead of slinging pints at a tavern. Despite his gruff appearance, Bendt was a good guy with a helluva sense of humor. Reminded me of more than a few senior enlisted Marines I’d known once upon a time.

Sir Jacob-Francis leapt onto the bar top, lazily flicked his tail, then turned in a circle and settled down beside me. I sighed and scratched his head, because holy shit he was cute, even if he was also almost as big of an asshole as Renholm. Those two really were made for each other. Bendt eyeballed the beefy orange tabby with no small amount of disgruntlement.

“Normally, I don’t allow animals up on the counter—” the barkeep said.

“If he touches my faithful stead,” Reholm muttered darkly, “I will stab him in the face with a white-hot cattle prod.”

“—But given the circumstances,” Bendt continued, almost as though he sensed that he was in imminent danger, “I suppose I’ll give you a pass, Vigil.” He grabbed a pitcher from behind the bar. “Suppose this means you’re going to be moving on, then?” he asked as the ale splashed into my glass.

“Yeah,” I said with a nod, “but not until the morning.” I took out the silver Vilhelm had gifted me and slid it across the wood.

With my enhanced vision, I’d be able to navigate the dark without much problem, but the snowstorm blowing around outside was a nasty, mean son of a bitch. Riding out into a potential blizzard was asking for trouble I didn’t need. The Platoon Commander in me loathed the idea of further missing the deadline and insisted I press on despite the danger. In the Corps, you were fifteen minutes prior to fifteen minutes prior. Period. End of Story. But getting myself killed would accomplish nothing.

There was also that brunette to consider—she was still shooting flirtatious glances at me from across the bar. Vilhelm was right, I probably wouldn’t be back this way again, and I wouldn’t have another shot like this. No point in throwing away a good thing for a miserable night, mired down in a snowbank.

“The way I figure it,” I said, “I’m half dead from exhaustion and two weeks behind schedule anyway. One more night probably ain’t gonna kill—”

The sentence died on my lips as the front door exploded inward with a boom, and snow swept into the tavern along with a red-eyed woman decked out in spiked plate mail. A bloody red cape swirled at her back, and the warhammer clutched in her hand burned with an unearthly golden power.

“Or maybe it might just kill me after all,” I muttered.