Lancecain was intrigued by the strange circumstances. Both as a knight of the north concerned for his many comrades beyond the walls and as a man with a strong sense of curiosity. There weren’t many things of interest in the never-changing north so the unusual drew attention like a warm fire invited freezing hands.

The Last Rites of an army was not a private affair by tradition. The orders were divided by ideology and specialty but they were one people. Nothing united the people of Victory like loss. The Seekers were despised but they still had friends and family who had friends and family. The majority of the Victorians might have nothing but disdain for the “south seekers”, as they were called behind their backs, and sometimes to their faces, but during their time of mourning, their fellows set aside their reputation and gave them the sympathy they were due.

Mindful of the occasion, Lancecain was careful with his actions as he wheedled out more details of the campaign. He got several variations of the first knight’s story. A routine campaign interrupted by unexpected storms. Terrible storms that threw up a cover of snow from which the monsters ambushed them. Storms that shouldn’t have appeared for at least a month.

The strange weather didn’t stop. The fort itself didn’t experience anything worse than slightly stronger winds but the Paradise Seekers weren’t the only army forced to return early. Lancecain was training outside the south wall when the north gate opened for the second time so he didn’t find out about an army from Winter’s Bounty returning until he returned to the fort for a late drink, having promised to meet with a few of his fellow Duelists.

He almost didn’t believe them when they told him that the army was led by “Old Man” Thomas. Winter’s Bounty was an order motivated by gold as much as it was by tradition. They were responsible for all the research that made the corpses of the northern hordes the knights dropped by the thousands every year valuable. Like the Duelists, they frequently lent their members out to other orders, as they were the most knowledgeable about the monsters and the best at dismantling them without shaving off a few crowns due to a clumsy cut. They also trained their members with little talent for combat as merchants. Bounty handled all the trade between Victory and outsiders, besides what the James claimed for themselves.

His peers’ words were so unbelievable because the private army sent by Bounty was where they truly got their gold. Unlike many orders, they deployed one army at a time, meaning they didn’t have to split their resources between multiple commanders. That meant that said commander deployed greater numbers than most and never had to sacrifice quality.

With great fighters, plenty of resources, and twice as much motivation, Bounty was always one of the last armies to return.

It should have been especially true this year. Old Man Thomas was nearing the end of his campaign career. He wasn’t weak by any means but too many decades fighting meant he wasn’t as fast or strong as he used to be. The healers could only hold back the tide of time for so long. With another capable commander ready to succeed him, many suspected this year would be Thomas’ last campaign.

Knights of the north expected to die in battle. The old man, facing retirement, would have been courting death. If it weren’t in bad taste, Lancecain would have placed a bet that his men would be carrying back his corpse. He’d never suspect that Bounty’s army would be one of the earliest to return.

Experience had taught him not to believe most of what he heard when an army returned. He took the words of his fellows as the usual creative works young men with nothing to do were fond of until a group of Bounty knights entered the small bar. The place wasn’t large, being a room behind a smithy with a few tables arranged haphazardly and a half dozen barrels of beer under the serving table. It was hard to have a private conversation. Once Lancecain overheard they were from Bounty, he invited them to share a table with the lure of free drinks.

Snowcats naturally pounced on vermin and knights naturally told war stories. Lancecain only had to prod them with a single question and the rest poured out of them like the flowing beer.

“Yeah, it was a big surprise,” one of them grumbled. “I almost didn’t believe my ears when I heard the old man wanted to turn around but he was insistent. Started kicking people in the ass when they took too long.”

“A good thing he did!” another shouted. “Storms came. Ancestors watch over us. If we don’t know when the sky is going to turn against us, there’s no way we can fight this war. I’ll take on a hundred monsters any day, but I can’t do anything against wind and snow.”

“So he knew the storms were coming?” Lancecain asked, waving for refills.

“Oh, yeah. Says he can feel it in his bones. I thought it was a crock of shit but the seniors took it to heart.”

“Never doubt the seniors,” the three knights from Bounty said together. The Duelists, Lancecain included, made sounds of agreement. Seniors, those who had survived dozens of campaigns, were a special bunch. None of them could be considered normal. If Thomas said that he could feel storms, Lancecain wouldn’t doubt him.

“Soon as he felt the first one, we double-timed it back here. Left some of our wagons. That’s how we knew it was serious.”

“Serious? I thought he’d finally lost his mind until we got caught in the first storm. It lasted for a week. The snow was being thrown around so hard, we didn’t notice an ancestor’s cursed titan before it was right on top of us. Let me tell you, a few of the men were upset, thinking the old dog had gotten men killed for no reason, but when we walked out of that storm and right into another, we knew we were lucky to get out when we did.”

“I feel bad for the other armies. They don’t have a storm sniffer like we did. We were moving fast but I know there were armies on our tails, maybe even ahead of us. They won’t know something’s wrong until they’re caught in the first bad storm and then they’re going to have to march a lot farther to safety.”

“There’s going to be a lot of casualties this year.”

The mood at the table plummeted as they considered the death toll the unrest in the north would cause. Lancecain frowned as he considered that the storms would keep them from bringing back the bodies. They wouldn’t have the luxury of looking for people and, in the interest of speed, they wouldn’t be dragging corpses behind them. The dead deserved respect but no one wanted to see them drag down the living.

“Does the old man have any thoughts about what’s causing the bad weather?” Lancecain asked. He could do nothing about Victory’s impending losses. All they could hope for was that they could prevent more in the future.

“What? No. Should have heard him cursing about it. All he would say was that whatever it was, it wasn’t natural.” The knight scoffed. “The north doesn’t change. Not the land, not the people, and not the weather. No way seasons we have known for centuries decided to change on their own.”

“I see.” Their words added credence to his fledgling theory that the storms were artificial. If they were, a spell was the best explanation. A spell someone or something had cast and was maintaining. That meant the only way to stop the storms was to find the one responsible and…stop them. Whatever it took.

He didn’t know who in the north would be up to the task of walking through worsening storms to fight what he would guess was an incredibly powerful titan, as no other creature in the north could unleash such a spell. What he didn’t doubt was there’d be plenty of volunteers anyway and, if the situation got any worse, they’d be this generation’s heroes.