Black Fire Stables spread across twenty acres about a two-hour horse ride east of Charlotte. The large, solid house sat in the middle of the lawn, on a rolling hillside, with stables to one side and a covered riding arena to the other. The tech was up, and the inside of the house glowed with warm electric light. Sweet green grass stretched into the distance, to the wall of the forest, shaded here and there by copses of pines, their needles carpeting the soil in a brown blanket. Red and pink roses bloomed at the gate. A rooster perched on the fence. As Hugh rode up, it cocked its head and gave him and the men behind him the evil eye.

He’d brought Stoyan, Lamar, and Bale with him. He needed Lamar’s take on Nez’s strength, and Bale’s axe would help to cut them out if things went sideways. He’d sent Felix to gather what was left of the Iron Dogs, and by all rights, he should’ve sent Stoyan with him too, but that would’ve meant listening to Bale and Lamar bickering the entire way with nobody to shut them up except him. There was only so much he could take.

Hugh halted his horse before the gate. The borrowed mare Stoyan had found somewhere wouldn’t cut it, especially not with Nez. They had to appear strong. He needed a horse, a war stallion. Problem was, he had no money.

Until a few months ago, money had been an abstract concept. He understood prices, he haggled on occasion, but he never worried where it came from. It was something he traded for goods and services, and when he needed more, he simply asked for it, and in a few days, it was there, in the appropriate account or in his hand. Now all of his accounts had been cut off. He didn’t have a dime to his name. He must’ve earned money somehow to keep himself drunk, and he vaguely remembered fighting, but most of the months between his banishment and Rene’s head had vanished into the darkness of an alcoholic haze.

The door of the farmhouse swung open. Matthew Ryan hurried out, stocky, balding, a big smile on his broad face, as if nothing had changed. The past stabbed at Hugh. You were something. Now you’re nothing.

“Come in, come in.” Ryan pulled the gate open. “Maria just got the table set. Come in!”

They rode up to the house, dismounted, and went inside.

The dinner was a blur, superimposed on the composite of his memories. He’d come to this ranch three times before. Each time he’d been treated to dinner and left with a horse. He sat there, watching his people attack mashed potatoes like starving wolves and tried to get a grip on reality. It kept slipping through his fingers.

After dinner, he and Ryan sat on the back porch of the house, beers in hand, watching the Friesians run through the pasture. The Friesians were his breed: jet black, built like light draft horses, but fast, nimble, and lively. He’d gotten his last three stallions from these stables. He’d paid at a premium for them, too. They were his mark - vicious black horses with flowing manes.

On the far right a stallion ran a lazy circle around his pasture, black mane flowing, his coat shiny like polished silk, high-stepping gait… Black fire in motion. Yeah, that one would do.

“I need a horse,” Hugh said.

Ryan nodded.

Here came the part he detested. “I can’t pay you now.” The words tasted foul in his mouth. “But you know I’m good for it.”

“We heard. Terrible business, that,” Ryan said. “Work for the man for years and have nothing to show for it. Shame, that’s what that is. A damn shame.” He let it hang.

Hugh drank his beer. He wouldn’t beg, and Ryan knew better than to push him.

Silence stretched.

“I’ve got no stallions right now. Nothing but the breeding stock. The market’s been slow.”

Bullshit. Ryan bred war horses, big and mean. In the post-Shift world, where tech and magic switched, a good horse was worth more than a car. It always worked. People who came to Ryan for a horse didn’t want a gelding and demand was always good.

Ryan glanced at him and shrank away before he caught himself. A small drop of sweat formed on his temple.

That’s right. Remember who you’re talking to.

“I want to show you something.” Ryan turned and yelled into the house. “Charlie, bring Bucky out. And tell Sam to come here.”

Hugh took another sip of his beer.

Ryan’s oldest son, stocky, with the same blunt features carved out of wet mud with a shovel, trotted over to the barn to the left.

A kid walked out onto the porch. Lean, blond. Young, eighteen or so. There was some of Ryan there, in the broad cast of his shoulders, but not much. Must’ve gone into the mother’s side of the family.

The doors of the barn swung open, and a stallion strolled out into the small pasture.

“What the hell is this?” Hugh set his beer down.

“That’s Bucky. Bucephalus.”

Bucky turned, the afternoon sun catching his coat. He was gray gone to pure white. He practically glowed. Like a damn unicorn.

“He isn’t a Friesian,” Hugh ground out.

“Spanish Norman horse,” Ryan said. “A Percheron and Andalusian cross. Picked him up at auction. He’s big the way you like them. Seventeen hands.”

Hugh turned and looked at him.

Ryan squirmed in his seat.

“You’re trying to give me a cold-blooded horse?” Hugh asked, his voice quiet and casual.

“He’s warm-blooded.” Ryan raised his hands. “Look at the gait. Look at the lines. That’s Andalusian lines right there. The neck is long and the legs…”

Oh, he saw the Andalusian, all right, but he saw the Percheron, too, in the size and the big chest. Percherons ran too cold blooded for fighting under the saddle; all that bulky slow-twitch muscle dragged down their reaction time. They were difficult to anger, slow to charge, and heavy on their feet. Everything he didn’t want.

Hugh looked at Ryan.

Ryan swallowed. “He’s comfortable under the saddle. Trust me on this. After a Friesian, your backside will thank you. No feathers, so less grooming. He jumps like a Thoroughbred. Look at the lines of the head. That’s a beautiful head.”

“He is white.”

“Nobody is perfect,” Ryan said.

In his mind, Hugh reached out and squeezed Ryan’s neck until the rancher’s face turned red and his head popped.

Maria, Ryan’s wife, came up to the doorway and froze. The young kid held completely still, waiting and watching Hugh’s face.

“I bought him to breed. I thought I would diversify, you know?” Ryan was babbling now. “Had a particular mare in mind, but that deal fell through. He’s a good stallion. Powerful and fast. Bad-tempered. Bit the shit out of me and the stable hands.”

Hugh stared at him.

Sweat broke out on Ryan’s forehead. His hands shook, his words tumbling out too fast.

“You two will get along. He’s like you.”

“How’s that?”

“A big, mean sonovabitch that nobody wants.” Ryan realized what he’d blurted out. His face went white.

A stunned silence claimed the porch.

“I didn’t mean it…” Ryan said.

A cold realization rolled over Hugh, smothering all anger. He would take this horse. He had no choice.

He had no choice.

It felt like he’d fallen off of somewhere high and smashed face-first into the stone ground. A year ago, Ryan would’ve paraded every one of his stallions in front of him and he’d have had his pick.

Hugh rose slowly, walked down the steps into the grass, approached the pasture, and vaulted over the fence. Bucky spun in place and stared at Hugh. A scar crossed the horse’s white head. Someone had taken a blade of some sort to him.

Bucky blew the air out of his nostrils, his amber eyes fixed on Hugh. A dominant stance. Fine.

Hugh stared back.

The stallion bared his teeth.

Hugh showed his own teeth and bit the air.

Bucky hesitated, unsure.

Once a horse decided to bite, there was no stopping it. Sooner or later you would get bitten, especially if the horse was a habitual biter. Some bit because they were jealous; others to show displeasure or get attention. Horses, like dogs and children, followed the principle that any attention, even negative, was still attention and therefore worth the effort.

A war stallion would bite to dominate.

He had to demonstrate that he wouldn’t be dominated. Once the biting started, it was difficult to stop. Yelling, hitting the horse, or biting it back, as one guy he remembered used to do, had no effect. The point was to not get bitten in the first place. You treated a war stallion with respect, and you approached it like you were first among equals.

Bucky stared at him.

“Come on,” Hugh said, his voice calm, reassuring. Words didn’t matter, but the sound of his voice did. When it came to humans, horses relied on their hearing more than their vision.

Bucky pawed the ground.

“You’re just wasting time now. Come on.”

The stallion eyed him again. In his years Hugh had seen all sorts of horses. The Arabians who would rather die than step on a human foot; the strict, mean horses from the Russian steppes that gave all of themselves, but forgave nothing; the German Hanoverians that would just as soon walk through a man as around... With a cross like this he couldn’t tell what the hell he was going to get, but he’d ridden horses since he was ten years old, all those long decades ago.

Their gazes locked. There was a fire inside that horse, and it shone through his eyes. A mean sonovabitch nobody wanted. You will do. You belong with me.

“Come here. I don’t have all day.”

Bucky sighed, raised his ears, and walked over. Hugh patted the warm neck, feeling the tight cords of muscle underneath, dug the sugar cube he’d stolen from Ryan’s kitchen out of his pocket, and let warm lips swipe it off his palm. Bucky crunched the sugar.

“I knew it,” Ryan said from behind the fence. The kid behind him rolled his eyes.

Bucky turned his head and showed Ryan his teeth.

Hugh stroked the stallion’s neck. “How much do you want for him?”

“A favor,” Ryan said.

The man really didn’t know when to stop pushing. “What do you want?”

Ryan nodded at his youngest son. “Take Sam with you.”

What the bloody hell? “I just told you I couldn’t pay you for the horse, and you want me to take your son with me. You know who I am. You know what I do. He’ll be dead in a month.”

“I can’t keep him.” Pain twisted Ryan’s face. “He isn’t right in the head.”

Hugh squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. It was that or he really would strangle the man. He opened his eyes and looked at the kid.

“How old are you?”

“Seventeen,” the kid said, his face flat. His eyes were dull. A liability at best, a pain in the ass at worst.

“What’s your name?”

“Sam.”

“Are you slow?”

“No.”

“I didn’t mean like that.” Ryan grimaced. “He can’t act like normal people. He doesn’t know when to stop. He caught a horse thief last month. Now, you catch a horse thief, you beat the shit out of him. Everyone understands that. That’s how things are done. You don’t get a rope and try to hang the man. If I had found him, that would be one thing. The sheriff saw him getting ready to string the thief up.”

Hugh raised his eyebrows at the boy.

“He stole from us,” Sam said, his voice flat.

“He had the rope over the tree ready to go right there by the damn road. Why hang him by the road, I ask you?”

“A warning is only good if people see it,” Hugh said.

Sam looked up, surprise flashing in his eyes, and looked back down. The kid wasn’t as dim as he pretended.

“He was always like this. He fights and don’t know when to stop. The sheriff told me he would let that one go, but this idiot doesn’t think he did anything wrong.”

“He stole from us.” A harsh note crept into Sam’s voice. “If one person steals and we don’t do anything, they will keep stealing.”

“See?” Ryan reached over and smacked the kid upside the head. Sam’s head jerked from the blow. He righted himself.

“Sheriff says he tries it again, he’ll end up in a cage for the rest of his life, or they’ll string him up instead and save everyone the trouble. He just isn’t made for ranch life. It’s not in him. At least this way he’s got a chance. You take him and Bucky, we’re even.”

Hugh looked at the kid. “You want to die fast?”

Sam shrugged. “Everyone dies.”

The void scoured Hugh’s soul with sharp teeth.

“Get your shit,” Hugh said. “We’re leaving.”

The magic was still down.

The tall, gleaming office towers that once proudly marked Charlotte’s downtown had fallen long ago, reduced to heaps of rubble by magic. The waves would keep worrying at the refuse, grinding it to dust until nothing was left. Magic fought all technology, but it hated large structures the most, bringing them down one by one, as if trying to erase the footprint of the technological civilization off the face of the planet.

With construction equipment functioning barely half of the time and gasoline supplies limited and pricey, clearing thousands of tons of rubble proved an impossible task, and Charlotte did what most cities decided to do in the same situation: it settled. It carved a road roughly following the old Tryon street, with hills of concrete and twisted steel beams bordering it like the walls of a canyon, and called it a day. Stalls had sprung up here and there, clustered where the road widened, selling all the fine luxuries the post-Shift world had to offer: “beef” that smelled like rat meat, old guns that jammed on the first shot, and magical potions, which followed the tried-and-true ancient recipe of ninety-nine parts tap water to one part food coloring. This early in the morning, only half an hour past sunrise, most of the vendors were still setting up. In another half hour, they would start squawking and lunging at the travelers, trying to hawk their wares, but for now, the road was blissfully quiet.

It didn’t matter, because for once Hugh didn’t have a hangover. Yesterday, after they’d left Black Fire behind, they’d spent the night in the open, at an old campground. He’d wanted to drink himself into a stupor, but then he would be no good the next day, so he stayed sober. His mood had soured overnight, and in the morning, when he found Sam waiting with the rest, the irritation heated up to a simmering hate.

He hated Charlotte. He hated the way it looked, the way it smelled, the rubble, the tortured skyline of the city, the white stallion under him, and the void waiting just beyond the border of awareness, ready to swallow him. He thought of getting off this damned horse, finding a hole within the rubble, laying down, and just letting it eat at his soul until there was nothing left. But he had a feeling the four men riding behind him would pull him out, set him back on the horse, and force him to keep going. There was nothing left but to stew in his own hate.

“Friends.” Bale grinned and patted his axe.

Hugh glanced up. An emaciated figure crouched on top of the wall of the rubble canyon on the far left. Thin, a skeleton corded with muscle, the creature hunkered down on all fours as if it had never walked upright, its hairless hide turned to a sickly bluish gray by undeath. It was too far to see much of its face, but Hugh saw the eyes, red and glowing with all-consuming hunger. No thoughts, no awareness, nothing except bloodlust, wrapped in magic that turned his stomach. A vampire.

Not a loose one. Loose bloodsuckers slaughtered everything with a pulse, feeding until nothing alive remained. No, this one was piloted by a navigator. Somewhere, within the secure rooms of Landon Nez’s base, a necromancer sat, probably sipping his morning coffee, telepathically gripping the blank slate that was the undead’s mind. When the vampire moved, it was because the navigator willed it. When it spoke, the navigator’s voice would come out of its mouth. He never liked the breed, the undead and the navigators both.

“A welcoming committee,” Stoyan said.

“Nice to be recognized,” Lamar quipped.

“Have you found a base?” Hugh asked.

“I found several,” Lamar said. “None that would have us.”

“What’s the problem?” Bale demanded.

“We are the problem,” Lamar said. “We have baggage in addition to a rich and varied history.”

“What are you on about?” Bale asked.

“He means we’ve double-crossed people before,” Stoyan told him. “Nobody wants Nez as an enemy, and nobody wants to take a chance on us stabbing them in the back.”

“We need to find someone desperate and willing to overlook our past sins,” Lamar said. “That takes time.”

Hugh wished for something to happen. Some release. Someone to kill.

Bucky raised his tail and shit on the road.

“You gonna clean that up?” a male voice challenged.

Thank you. Thank you so much for volunteering.

Hugh touched the reins. Bucky turned.

A tall, dark-haired man stood on the side of the road. In shape. Clothes loose enough to move, but not to grab, light stance, plain sword, no frills. Flat eyes. There was emotion in the voice, but none in the eyes. He wasn’t angry or riled up.

Behind him another man and a woman waited, the man shorter and stockier, holding a light mace, the woman armed with another plain sword. Long blond hair.

Professionals.

This was a test. Nez wanted to see if the months of drinking had taken their toll. Disappointment slashed through Hugh. He couldn’t take his time. He would have to do this fast.

Hugh dismounted and held out his hand. Stoyan pulled his sword out and put it in Hugh’s palm. Hugh started toward the three fighters.

“Should we--” Sam started.

“Shut it,” Bale told him.

The leading fighter stepped forward. The man moved well, light on his feet despite his size. Hugh swung the sword in a lazy circle, warming up his wrist.

The shorter man stalked to his right; the woman moved to his left with catlike grace.

He waited until they positioned themselves. “All set?”

The leader attacked, his sword striking so fast, it was a blur. Hugh moved, letting the blade slice through the air half an inch from his cheek, and slashed, turning into the blow. The blade of Stoyan’s sword met the mercenary’s neck and sliced clean through in a diagonal cut. The man’s head rolled off his shoulders, but Hugh was already turning. He batted the woman’s sword aside, dodged the mace, and brought the sword down in a devastating cut. The blade caught her shoulder and carved through one breast. She stumbled back, her arms hanging by her side. Hugh stabbed, sliding the sword between her 5th and 6th ribs on the left side, withdrew, and spun. The mace wielder had already started his swing. Hugh leaned out of the way, caught the mace’s handle on the upswing, throwing his strength and weight against the man and driving his blade up through the attacker’s liver into his heart. The mace wielder was the only one to realize what was coming. His eyes widened as the sword pierced his gut. The lights went out. Hugh shoved him back, freeing the blade with a sharp tug, and turned.

The woman was still alive, but barely. She would bleed out in another thirty seconds or so. Death from blood loss was relatively painless. She’d close her eyes and go to sleep.

Hugh crouched by her. Her breath was coming in shallow rapid gulps. He wiped the sword with her pretty blond hair, got up, and handed the blade back to Stoyan. Sam stared at him, his face slack.

Hugh mounted.

“I think you didn’t look hard enough for a base,” Bale said.

“I wouldn’t do so much of that if I were you,” Lamar said.

Hugh nudged Bucky, and the white stallion started down the road.

“Do what?”

“Thinking. It’s not your strong suit.”

“One day, Lamar,” Bale growled.

The void ate at Hugh. He closed his eyes for a long moment, trying to shut it out. When he opened them, he was still in Charlotte, still riding, and the air around him smelled like blood.

The canyon of debris widened. Shops and eateries popped up here and there, evidence of the city fighting back against the rubble. All were post-Shift, new construction: thick walls, simple shapes, and bars on the windows.

“Was that vampire from the People?” Sam asked.

“The Golden Legion,” Stoyan said.

“Is that like the People?”

“The necromancers who work for Roland call themselves the People,” Stoyan explained.

“They call themselves that because they feel they are the only people. The rest of us are lesser mortals,” Lamar said.

“The People have ranks,” Stoyan said. “They start as apprentices, then become journeymen, then finally they get to be Masters of the Dead. The best one hundred Masters make up the Golden Legion. The Legion is led by the Legatus, the prick we’re riding to meet. Each Master of the Dead in the Legion can pilot more than one vampire. A Master of the Dead can wipe out a US Army platoon with one undead.”

“Depending on how big the platoon is,” Lamar said. “Regulation size for a platoon is between sixteen and forty soldiers. Forty would be pushing it for one bloodsucker. The Legion would need at least two, maybe three if the platoon is well trained.”

“The point is,” Bale said, “when we meet the Legatus, you’ll be deaf and dumb, Sam, you get me? If I hear one squeak out of you, you’ll wish you were back on the ranch getting strung up by that sheriff your daddy is so afraid of.”

“How will I know if he’s the Legatus?” Sam asked.

Hugh thought about turning around and knocking him off his horse to shut him up, but it would take too much effort.

“Because he’ll look like the rest of the People,” Stoyan said. “Like a dickhead in an investment banker’s suit.”

“That’s redundant,” Lamar pointed out.

“Who’s Roland?” Sam asked.

“Someone you need to steer clear of,” Stoyan said.

“An immortal wizard with a megalomaniac complex who wants to rule the world,” Lamar said.

“Why does he want us dead?” Sam asked.

“All you need to know is that he does,” Bale growled. “Now shut the fuck up, or I’ll count your teeth with my fist and then you’ll be busy picking them up out of the dirt.”

The path turned. Ahead, on the left, a Viking mead hall stood on the corner. Built with thick timber, with a roof of wooden shingles, the mead hall resembled an upside-down longboat. A sign on the side proclaimed, “Welcome to Valhalla.”

On the side, a low deck offered several wooden tables, flanked by short benches. Landon Nez sat at the corner table, in plain view of the street.

There you are.

Nez hadn’t changed in the past few months. Still lean, like he was twisted together from steel wire. Same sharp eyes. His dark hair fell loose around his face. He wore a tailored charcoal suit. Good fabric, no padding on the shoulders, fitted through the waist, the English cut. About three grand, Hugh decided.

The Legatus of the Golden Legion. The most powerful Master of the Dead Roland could find besides himself or his daughter.

Nez nodded to him. Hugh nodded back. They’d been trying to kill each other for most of the last decade. The urge to borrow Stoyan’s sword and ride Landon down was almost too much.

“Is he Native?” Sam asked quietly.

“Navajo,” Stoyan said under his breath. “They kicked him out for piloting vampires.”

Hugh altered course, aiming for Landon. Bucky obliged.

“Join me?” Nez raised a cup of coffee.

“Why not?” Hugh swung from his saddle, tossed the reins on the hook in the rail, walked up the two short steps, and landed on a bench opposite Nez.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Stoyan and the rest of his people turn and park themselves across the street at a breakfast taco hole-in-the-wall.

“Coffee?” Nez asked.

“Nah. Trying to quit.”

“What are you doing in my neck of the woods?”

“Have I told you you’re lousy at sounding folksy?”

Folksy didn’t come naturally to Nez, and he did it in a trained bear fashion, like a circus animal forced to perform against his will. If you decided to go that route, you had to mean it and sound genuine. Landon Nez had walked out of the Navajo Nation with nothing and climbed his way to a Harvard Ph.D. and the top of the People’s food chain. The man would stab himself in the eye rather than be confused with common rabble.

Nez raised his eyebrows.

“It’s just us.” Hugh hit him with a broad grin. “Just go ahead and be the snobby prick you are.”

“Why are you here, d’Ambray?”

“Came to see a man about a horse.”

Nez glanced at Bucky. “Your horses do seem to be getting bigger and bigger. But white? Don’t you think it’s a bit on the nose?”

“Felt like it was time for a change. How’s life been treating you?”

Nez gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Same as always. Research. Management. Undeath is a demanding mistress.”

It would only take a second. Reach across, snap his neck. End all his earthly burdens.

Hugh wouldn’t make it. Nez would never come here unprotected.

“What about you?” Landon asked. “Planning new campaigns?”

Here it was, probing for weaknesses. “Settling down,” Hugh said.

“You?”

“There is a time and place for everything.” Hugh leaned back. “I’ve got a nice place picked out. Good supply, good defenses. Trees.”

“Trees?” Nez blinked.

Hugh nodded. “Eventually a man’s got to put down roots. Looking forward to sitting on my porch, drinking a cold beer.”

Nez stared at him a second too long. Got you.

The Legatus drank his coffee. “Have you heard any odd news from the North?”

Odd. “There is always odd news from the North.”

A shadow of alarm flickered through Nez’s eyes. The Legatus grimaced and nodded. “That’s the truth.”

They stared at each other in silence.

“Do you miss him?” Nez asked quietly.

The void yawned in his face. Missed? The memories alone tore Hugh apart. The clarity of purpose, the warm glow of approval, the flow of magic between them... The certainty.

“There’s more to life than being a dog on a leash.” Hugh rose. “Got to leave you now. Places to be, people to kill.”

“Always a pleasure, Preceptor.”

Hugh grabbed the reins, hopped over the wooden rail, mounted his horse, and started down the street. A few moments later his people caught up with him. They rode in silence for another ten minutes.

“How did it go?” Lamar asked.

“He’ll attack us the first chance he gets,” Hugh said. “He would’ve done it already, but something in the North has him worried. He’s a careful asshole, who likes to know every card his opponent is holding. I put a doubt in his head. Right now, he isn’t sure if we have a permanent position or not, so he figures we can wait. We’re easy to find and we’re not going anywhere.”

He would have to tell Felix to send some scouts north when they got back, to look for anything strange that would give Nez pause.

The headache was returning, threatening to split his skull. A reminder of too many weeks spent drinking. Hugh gritted his teeth. “Find me a base, Lamar. Someone somewhere needs something protected or something killed.”

“It all depends on the price we’d be willing to pay,” Lamar said.

“I don’t care about the price. Do whatever you have to do. We secure a base, or the Legion slaughters us like pigs come winter.”

The mutter came from the center of the column. “I’m fucking done running.”

Hugh stopped and turned.

“Century, halt!” Lamar roared.

Beside Hugh the long column of the Iron Dogs came to a stop, huffing and puffing, eighty soldiers arranged in two lines. When he’d arrived to Split Rock, where Felix had pulled together the remaining Iron Dogs, he found three hundred and thirty-three people who used to be soldiers. They were ragged, tired, hungry, and their morale was shit.

All military was tribal, his included. For the individual Iron Dog, the cohort was their tribe, the century within the cohort was their village, and the squad within the century was their family. In a fight, the Iron Dogs stood as one. It went back to the basic primal cornerstone of human nature: he who attacks my family must die.

There used to be good-natured competition between the squads, the centuries, and the cohorts, which Hugh encouraged, because it bound the soldiers closer together. But now, with the fragments of cohorts on his hands, he had to reform them into a new unit. Teach a man to fight and you made him into a warrior. He didn’t need warriors. He needed soldiers. To make a soldier, you had to put her with other prospective soldiers and make them go through hell and back together, relying on each other.

They all had memories of walking through blood and fire with their old squad mates. He had to replace those memories with new ones, and so he did the only thing he could do to purge them. He’d sectioned off Felix’s scout team and formed the rest of his force, three hundred and nineteen soldiers, into a single cohort, which he split into four centuries, eighty people for the first three and seventy-nine in the last. Stoyan, Lamar, Bale, and Felix each took a century. And then he ran them, tired and starving, into exhaustion. He smoked them until their arms could no longer hold their weight. He kept them from sleeping. He did it all with them, picking a different century every day. Respect had to be earned.

The weather had conspired with him. It was hot as hell again. The tents Felix’s people managed to “acquire” – he didn’t ask for details – did the bare minimum to keep out the bugs.

They were in their third week of training. Looking at the rage-filled eyes of the second century now, Hugh was reasonably sure that they hated his guts, which meant things were proceeding right on schedule.

“What was that, Barkowsky?” Lamar snapped, closing in on a tall, beefy Dog with a freshly-sheared head.

“I said, I’m fucking done running.” Barkowsky had about an inch of height on Lamar and he made the most of it, but Lamar was harder and they both knew it.

“What did you say to me?” Lamar started.

“You’re done?” Hugh asked.

“Yeah.” Barkowsky jutted his chin in the air. The man had been spoiling for a fight for the last three days.

“Then go.” Hugh turned his back.

“What?” Barkowsky asked, his voice faltering.

“Do you see a wall, Dog?” Lamar roared.

The old habit got the best of Barkowsky and he snapped to attention. “No, Centurion!”

“Do you see guards posted?”

“No, Centurion!”

“Any time you decide to leave, you can, isn’t that right, Dog?”

“Yes, Centurion!”

“This isn’t the SEALs. There is no bell to ring to announce you washing out,” Hugh said. “When it gets too hard and you want to give up, just quit. Get your gear and walk away. I need soldiers, not quitters.”

“Forwaard,” Lamar drawled in the time-proven cadence of drill sergeants everywhere. “Double-time, march!”

Hugh started running again. The two lines of the second century moved with him. At least they were in step, he told himself. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Barkowsky fall in to his place and keep pace.

In a perfect world, he would do this for another three weeks. He wasn’t working with raw recruits, but seasoned soldiers. Six weeks, eight max, and he would have some semblance of a unified fighting force. He didn’t have another three weeks. The game Felix’s scouts brought and what little they managed to purchase with the remainder of their money were their only sources of food. He couldn’t put his people through the crucible without feeding them. The Dogs were burning through the food supply like wildfire through dry brush. Once the grain and potatoes ran out, they would have nothing except venison and rabbit. They needed more than that to keep going.

The woods ended. They ran into the field, heading toward the tall, wooden walls of the palisade in the middle of it. Above the simple fortification, the sunset was beginning, painting the sky with red and yellow.

Three minutes later, they ran through the gates.

“Century, halt,” Lamar snapped.

The twin lines of the second century halted.

“About face.”

The sweaty, exhausted Dogs turned to face Hugh. Lamar looked no worse for wear.

“Tell your Preceptor ‘Thank you’ for the lovely stroll through the beautiful countryside.”

“Thank you, Preceptor,” the second century roared.

A magic wave rolled over them. Hugh reached for the familiar power and concentrated.

“Century, dismissed.”

The twin lines broke as the Dogs shuffled their way past him, toward their tents. A faint blue glow emanated from him, clamping each soldier in turn. He healed their blisters, cuts, and bruises in a split second. They moved past him, murmuring their thanks.

“Thank you, Preceptor.”

“Thank you, Preceptor.”

“Thank you, Preceptor.”

The last Dog headed to her tent.

Hugh’s stomach wailed. He healed them every day, and the rations he took were barely enough to keep him alive. Soon he would cross the line where his body ran out of reserves to compensate.

Lamar halted before him. His gaze strayed past Hugh.

“What?” Hugh asked.

“He’s doing it again.”

Hugh turned. In the small corral before his tent, Bucky glowed. A silver light shone from the stallion’s flanks, as if each hair in his coat was sheathed in liquid moonlight.

Hugh gritted his teeth. The next time he saw Ryan, he would kill him.

Bucky pranced in the corral.

“Everything but the horn,” Lamar said, his voice filled with pretended awe.

“Do you have something to report, or did you come to jerk my chain?”

“Good news or bad news?”

“Bad news,” Hugh said.

“We have food for five days.”

In five days, they were done. The soldiers would need more than just meat; they burned too much energy for that. They required starches. Corn, grain, rice. There were none to be had. They were out of money, and unless they resorted to robbery, which would bring law enforcement on their heads, they were finished.

Stoyan emerged from the first century’s tent and pretended to loiter. Bale joined him. From the other side, Felix came up and decided to be very interested in Bucky, who was still glowing up a storm. They were up to something.

“Good news?” Hugh asked.

“I found a base.”

“Where?”

“Berry Hill, Kentucky, in the Knobs, right by Bluegrass.”

Berry Hill. Sounded like something out of a child’s cartoon. Hugh racked his brain, trying to remember what he knew about Kentucky. The eastern part of the state, the Eastern Coal Fields, was mostly forested hills bisected by narrow valleys. It flowed into the Bluegrass region in the north and central part of the state, where gently rolling hills offered the perfect horse country. South of Bluegrass spread Pennyroyal, a massive limestone plain full of sinkholes and caves. On the edge of Bluegrass, stretched in a rough semicircle from Pennyroyal to the Eastern Coal Fields, lay the Knobs, hundreds of steep isolated hills, like cones set to mark the border. Post-Shift, they were drowning in forests.

“East or West side?”

“West,” Lamar said. “Closest city is Sanderville, population about ten thousand, give or take. Berry Hill is a nice settlement, about four thousand people, mostly families with children. Excellent farmland, rich in supplies. The village is built by a lake.”

“Mhm.” Why did he have a feeling there was a ‘but’ coming. “Any militia?”

“Not enough to protect them. They are mostly nature magic types. Some witches, a few stray druids.”

The feeling grew stronger. “Why do they need protection?”

“Landon Nez is after their land. There is some sort of magically saturated spot on it Roland wants. Landon can’t go after them directly, because he’s been warned by the Feds that land grabbing won’t be tolerated, so he recruited some asshole politician from Sanderville to harass them into selling their land to the town. Sanderville is escalating the pressure, and they don’t want an all-out conflict.”

Bucky trotted over. Hugh reached out and patted the stallion’s cheek.

“Why not?”

“Because their leader does the kind of magic that panics good old regular folk,” Lamar said. “They are trying to put down roots. They don’t want people coming for them with pitchforks and torches. They’re desperate.”

“And they think adding three hundred trained soldiers to their settlement will be enough of a deterrent.”

“In a nutshell.”

It sounded perfect. The settlement already had an issue with Nez. They had no militia to speak of, which meant there would be very little conflict. They had supplies that would keep his people fed.

Stoyan and Bale had drifted close enough to hear the conversation and were eyeing him.

“What’s the catch?” Hugh asked.

“They don’t trust us,” Lamar said. “We walked away from Patterson. And Willis. Both when they needed us most. They expect us to betray them.”

“We followed orders,” Hugh said.

“It was still a betrayal.”

He puzzled over it. Roland had wanted them out of those conflicts, so he took his people out. He tried to remember if he had argued against it. He wanted to think he did, but his recall was cloudy. The precise memory of the events slipped through his fingers as if he were trying to pick up water in his fist. He pulled his troops out, and their former allies died. An echo of guilt rose from the depths of his memories, and he pushed it away.

Did I even argue against it?

Yes. He did. There was a phone call when Roland told him to abandon Willis. Hugh was sure of it.

Things had been much simpler then. He didn’t have to wonder if it was right. Roland wanted it; therefore, it was right. He longed for that simplicity, and at the same time, a hot, angry thought surfaced in his brain. He went back on his word. His word wasn’t worth shit. He should’ve been able to say “I’ll do it,” and that should’ve been enough assurance to guarantee an alliance.

“Their track record isn’t much better,” Lamar said. “They had an agreement with a town in West Virginia and ended up bailing on them three years ago. Before that, they bounced from town to town, either leaving because they didn’t like it or getting run off by the locals. The information is conflicting.”

“Why do they keep running?”

“There are some nasty rumors about the kind of magic they practice.” Lamar hesitated.

“Spit it out.”

“The story is, our peaceful nature magic users had some disagreements with a few covens in Louisiana. The covens decided to wipe them out and banded together during the flare. Not the last one or the one before that. Two flares back.”

A flare was a magic wave on steroids. It came once every seven years. During a flare, magic reigned for several days. Weird shit crawled out of their hiding places, gods walked the earth, and impossible things became possible.

During that flare, Roland had destroyed Omaha.

“The Louisiana covens called themselves the Arcane Covenant. When the flare came, they summoned something, a horde of dire wolves or demons, nobody quite knows,” Lamar continued. “They should’ve wiped our nature guys off the face of the planet, but here they are alive and thriving, while the Arcane Covenant is dead as a doorknob. Rumor says human sacrifice was involved.”

“Terrific.” Of all the fucked-up magic, human sacrifice was the one threshold even Roland wouldn’t cross. It opened the door to old primal powers nobody wanted to resurrect.

“Nobody has proof that any of it happened,” Lamar said. “But it makes any alliance appear shaky. We’re both desperate, and Nez will expect us to cut and run the moment things get hairy.”

Hugh leaned on the corral’s fence. That was a problem. The only way to hold off Nez was to project a show of strength. The alliance had to appear unbreakable, otherwise Nez would expect them to fracture and attack anyway. Lamar was right. They had to overcome that burden. They had to appear completely united.

“There is a tried-and-true method of making an alliance appear secure,” Lamar said carefully.

Hugh glanced at him.

“A union,” Lamar said, as if worried the word would cut his mouth.

“What union?”

“A civil union, Preceptor.”

“What the hell are you on about?”

Lamar took a deep breath.

“Marriage!” Bale yelled out.

Hugh stared at Lamar. “Marriage?”

“Yes.”

They had to be out of their minds. “Who would be getting married?”

“You.”

The realization hit him like a ton of bricks, and he said the first thing that popped into his head. “Who would marry me?”

“You’re handsome, a big, imposing figure of a man, and um…” Lamar scrounged for some words. “And they’re desperate.”

“What the hell have you been smoking? I’m penniless, I’m exiled, I own nothing…” He left out broken.

“And a recovering alcoholic.” Lamar nodded. “Yes, but again, they’re desperate. And we’re running out of food.”

Hugh shut his eyes for a long moment. The world was sliding sideways, and he really needed to get a grip.

“Who would I be marrying?”

“The White Warlock.”

Hugh’s eyes snapped open. “You want me to marry a man?”

“No!” Lamar shook his head vigorously. “It’s a woman. A woman. Not a man.”

Thank God for small favors. He couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “Well, I’m relieved it hasn’t quite come to that.”

“It’s a business arrangement before anything else,” Lamar said quickly. “But if you’re married, that will cement the alliance. You said yourself, you told Nez you were ready to settle down. He will believe the marriage.”

“They have a castle,” Stoyan said. “Apparently, some rich guy bought an old castle in England before the Shift, had it disassembled and brought to Kentucky.”

“You like castles,” Bale said.

“It’s a good defensible position,” Felix said.

“At least meet the woman,” Lamar said.

“Shut up,” Hugh said.

They fell silent.

“Did you come up with this idiotic idea?” Hugh demanded.

“It was a joint effort between me and my equivalent on the other side,” Lamar said. “If it helps, your prospective bride has to be talked into the marriage as well.”

“Perfect. Just perfect.”

He reviewed his options. He had none. He could marry some woman and feed his troops, or he could let them get slaughtered. What the hell, he’d done worse in his life.

“I’ll see her,” he said.

“That’s all we ask,” Lamar said.