One last time, the werewolves saved the escaping prisoners:

When David and the rest of the group emerged from the ruined city onto the open ground, there was nowhere to hide. It had all been trampled during the siege to nothing but flat mud. Even in the dark, a signal sounded at once on the walls of the Valoisian camp.

The and a group of light cavalry raced from the furthest gate. Ragna stopped, leaning her head back as if she wanted to startgaze. David felt the magic flare around her—she had to be on her last leg, too, surely?

She still had enough power left to call in reinforcements. Three werewolves crested the hills in the north on her silent call, and two more came out of Port Neaf’s ruins. A final one raced up from the shadow of the camp.

Six werewolves, converging on the horsemen. He thought there might be as many as two hundred riders, each of them armed with a sabre and a carbine. And yet, when the six giant wolves appeared, racing to cut the cavalry off from their target, an urgent trumpet called them back.

David faltered, stumbling in surprise. Pettau had to grab him to keep him upright.

“Keep going!” Ragna snarled, breathless, still holding her arm. She turned, keeping pace while walking backwards a few steps. David felt her struggling, but then she cursed and turned to run properly.

The six werewolves howled, free of her influence, chasing after the riders. Right into the range of the muskets on the walls.

“Nononono,” Ragna gasped, tears running down her face. The glow of magic had almost left her eyes. Rust reached out as they jogged onwards—when David glanced over his shoulder, two of the wolves had turned away.

The other four were already dead.

David stumbled again, and focused on moving, staring at the ground in front of him. Thanks to the werewolves’ sacrifice, in the end, the hardest part of their escape was the running. After his concussion and five days of just sitting around, David’s legs felt weak, and his pulse grew louder in his ears with every step.

Finally, they crested the hill. He wanted to let himself fall forwards, to just roll down the other slope, but he kept going as fast as his tired legs would move. Tried to imagine it was Nathan in front of him. That the worst that would happen if he gave up was derision from his brother.

Tired already, Old Man?, he heard Nathan’s voice, jaunty and light.

He was stuck so deeply inside his own head, he didn’t even notice that everyone else was slowing down until he stumbled into Pettau’s back and nearly took them both down.

They had run into a larger group of Loegrian soldiers—led by deVale. The count had his men take up formation around the escaped prisoners, and then they were marching again.

One step after the other, David told himself. That was all there was to it. The moon above was already sinking again, touching the treetops of a small forest. Inside, the remains of their army was hiding. There were fires shining through the underbrush, and David had to suppress the urge to just throw himself onto the ground next to the closest one. There were very few soldiers around, considering the number of fires?

Only when he heard a wolf howl in the distance and he reflexively looked around for the best tree to climb did he realised that that was exactly what most of the army had already done. They had dug in for full moon. Except that you couldn’t dig in with werewolves around, because they were better at it than humans. So they had gotten off the ground.

Smart.

DeVale was giving orders, sending out sentries and waving over Ragna and Rust. David made himself walk after them, to listen in. A healer followed, too—the same man who had turned over Fleur hours ago. Awkwardly, the man patted his own arm, before pointing at Ragna’s injury.

“May I…”

“I’ll heal at sunrise,” she grumbled. “Don’t want human magic to get in the way.”

“Perhaps a bandage until then?” the healer offered.

“Will I need to sit down?”

“Not at all,” the healer said.

“What’s the count?” deVale asked, while the man busied himself, carefully rolling up Ragna’s sleeve. “Are these all?”

Rust shook his head. “No way to tell. Neville’s group is still missing, and so are Jody’s and Jerry’s. Boris hasn’t moved, either.”

“All right then,” deVale sighed. “Lord Feleke, it’s good to see you alive.”

“Is there any news from Deva?” David asked.

“Oh, there’s news you won’t believe,” deVale growled. “As a matter of fact, is that Lord Pettau I saw? Why don’t you bring him over, Rust.”

To David’s surprise, Rust obeyed with a snappy salute, collecting two werewolves as he went. DeBurg protested loudly as they laid hands on Pettau, and followed as they dragged him away.

“Marques Pettau is complicit in the poisoning attack in Deva,” deVale explained. “He is awaiting judgement. Lady Berenice Pettau apparently passed a test of faith on her innocence. I will need you to do the same, Lord Pettau, before I can let you walk around this camp unguarded.” He took a long breath, and added: “According to yesterday’s news, it doesn’t look good for the sick.”

The words felt like a physical blow, and David let himself stumble backwards, not listening to Pettau’s surprised defense or deBurg’s disbelief. He nearly fell into one of the campfires. Ungraciously, he sat down, just as a muted cheer went up at the edge of the camp.

Another group had made it, led by another injured elder. Jerry was his name. Lee had found him in the mountains, after Greg nearly had his throat ripped out. Twelve years old and collapsing as soon as the two werewolves he had helped freed let go of him.

Rust hurried over.

“Back up, everyone,” he called. “Humans! Give him space!”

David could hear the wet sound of Jerry’s breathing even over the noise of the camp. As soon as at least the humans had retreated, his body started changing. Rust stood over him, grabbing him by the scruff of his neck as soon as he got onto his four feed, leading him away, out of the camp and the forest, until they disappeared behind a hill.

“Lord—Lord Feleke?” a soft voice asked behind him, making him jump. Alvin’s ghost wagged its tail in the corner of his vision.

When David turned around, it was Millie standing behind him—one of Alvin’s original cell mates in Eoforwic. She was holding his sword, looking embarrased.

Both swords, even the sabre in its silver sheath. She was holding it by the leather loop for the belt, careful not to touch the silver. And still, she had dragged it all the way here.

“Thank you,” David said, hurrying to relief her from the burden.

“Vigo has your crossbow, Sir,” she said softly, rubbing her hands against her dirty uniform. Which reminded David that he hadn’t had a change of clothes in almost a week, too. He wished it were his hunting clothes, not the uniform.

Vigo was one of the veterans. He had lost a hand to a bullet wound, and been lucky enough to get it back when he had been bitten. He hesitatingly stepped out of Millie’s shadow and handed over David’s crossbow with a gesture that bordered on reverence. He had brought the quiver, too, including the remaining five silver bolts.

David checked the weapon over. It didn’t look like the Valoise had had much interest in his crossbow, but the steel-tipped dowels he had put in before the battle were gone—they hadn’t made it back into his quiver, either, if her wasn’t much mistaken. Maybe the prince had tried the double crossbow out?

David rubbed over the weapon. Dirty clothes or not, njust holding it made him feel more like himself again.

Vigo and a lot of the older werewolves retreated away from him, but Millie remained standing right in front of him. “They killed Chandler and Clyde,” she said.

David nodded. “I saw it,” he said softly.

“You saw it?” Millie asked, rocking backwards.

“They made me watch, yes. I’m sorry.”

Millie nodded, fist clenched. Her gaze was piercing. “What are you going to do now?” she wanted to know.

David glanced at Alvin’s ghost, stretched out on the ground. He thought of Berndatte, of Lorenz, barely older than Alvin, and looked up to Millie again.

“I intend to kill them all,” he said calmly into the sudden silence. “I’ll teach them to fear my name like the elders do. I’m going to show them ‘Lord Relentless.’”

All the werewolves within earshot were staring at him, waiting for more. When he didn’t elaborate, Millie shuddered visibly and retreated, restless as all the other werewolves. They whispered to themselves, repeating his words, staring at Alvin’s ghost as they restlessly moved about the camp.

They didn’t calm down until the first pale light of dawn slowly drowned out the moon light. The sun rose a few minutes before the moon set, and as soon as that happened, all around the camp, werewolves took off their clothes and went to sleep.

The final group of escaped prisoners, led by Jody, arrived at the camp an hour later, some humans riding on the back of wolves. Only Boris marched alongside Jody, his face dark with hatred. Quivering with rage, David thought, even as the rest of the wolves slouched off to catch some rest.

Jody’s group had taken the long way around the camp, going south through the outer districts of Port Neaf and then chancing the Rot rather than dealing with the Valoise. Which was why it had taken them so much longer than everyone else to reach the camp. They were the biggest group, too. The surviving unsettled veterans that Ragna and Rust had used in the first diversionary attacks on the camp had followed the group, Jody not being strong enough to keep them at much of a distance, right until sunrise, when they had regained their human side.

This final group put the number of surviving werewolves still with the army at just over two hundred. Ragna and Rust were certain that there were more survivors, but they hadn’t stuck with deVale’s forces. The somewhat older werewolves—those over two years old—had overwhelmingly stuck around. They had a higher rate of survival, too: There were still sixty-two of them left, of the original just over a hundred. Then there were nearly a hundred of the unsettled veterans, and the rest were those convicts who hadn’t run off.

Which meant the werewolf battalion was down to less than a fourth of its original number. Not necessarily down in strength quite that much, given that the elders were still there.

“Care to elaborate on that bold promise you made?” deVale interrupted his thoughts, sitting down next to him. DeBurg took the other side.

David looked right and left between the two lords. “Let’s go for a walk?” he sighed.

When he rose, deBurg and deVale followed, and Boris jumped to his feet, too, tail wagging.

At least they’d have a bodyguard.

“So,” deVale started again, as soon as they left the camp behind. “You said you’re going to kill the whole lot. I’d love to hear how you’ll pull that off. Given that they still outnumber us fifteen to one. And they can reinforce.”

David smiled darkly. “Numbers mean nothing to the Rot.”

“That’s crazy,” deBurg grunted.

“Werewolf hunters generally are, yes,” David said. “Think about it, Marquess. If we are going to be rational about this, we have to surrender. Fifteen to one, and their troops are better trained, their officers are more experienced, and they’ll figure out how to deal with the werewolves soon, too. If we’re going to look at the odds and count the cost, then sacrificing our remaining two hundred werewolves is probably cheaper and certainly safer than to wager it all.”

He waited, but neither deBurg nor deVale argued the point.

“But if we do that,” David went on, “then we let them get away with whatever is happening at Deva right now. Picot sure as sunrise didn’t dare to poison your wife and daughter, my mother—Duke Stuard—without the backing of the Roi Solei.”

DeVale and deBurg still weren’t saying anything, but David caught a glimpse of the marques’s expression, and he was thinking about it.

“So you want us to trade all of Loegrion,” deVale said after a long moment. “For revenge. And nothing else.”

“No,” David said. “I want you to wager the heartlands—half the heartlands, actually—for a chance to win it all. Revenge. Freedom from the Valoise. And a crown for whoever of us survives the war.”

DeVale chuckled. “You already have your lovely fiancée running the show in the capital.”

“And if you follow my plan, you can join her there inside a week,” David said. “Take the army,” he added. “The human army, what remains of it. March them north. Evacuate all the lands you come across, send runners to spread the word. Tell the people to go north, across the White Torrent, or south, across the Berrin River. Tell them I’ll let the werewolves run rampant in the land between, or whatever gets them moving. Just get them out of the way.”

“And how are we going to hold the Berrin River?” deBurg asked.

“That will be your task,” David said. “Go home. Take control of Southshire, and be ready for the refugees. Check the deClares and whoever else thinks they can do an endrun around us. I’ll send you Calder and some younger werewolves to deal with the Rot as it arises.”

“And you’re going to do what, exactly?” deBurg asked.

“You know what scorched earth means, don’t you?” David asked back. “They will march on Deva. And I will take the rest of the werewolves, and I will remind them why should fear Loegrion.”

He saw them think about it, both of them. DeVale was the first to nodd, then deBurg smiled grimly.

“You better send me some good fighters,” he said.