David woke before sunrise the next morning. For a minute, he just lay in the shallow depression he had filled with moss last night, shuddering. Not because of the temperature, but at the thought of what the day would bring. The faintest sliver of the moon was just rising above the meadow. When it set in the afternoon, it wouldn’t come up again for a couple of days.

They still needed to slow down the Valoise.

So David pushed himself up and shouldered his crossbow like he had done a hundred—a thousand times before. Reached for his sword and sabre and the pistols George Louis had given him. He hadn’t often had to wake an army of werewolves in the morning, but it was starting to feel familiar, too. It was amazing how fast you got inured to being surrounded by naked people.

They grumbled and muttered to each other, many of them forgoing clothes and turning wolf right away, if they hadn't slept through the night in that shape anyway. Fleur and her helpers got breakfast ready while David splashed some water into his face and rubbed as much of the moss and dirt off his clothes as he could reach.

He knew the werewolves were watching him, the only human in the whole camp. He tried not to let it bother him as he used the latrines. Which he was glad to abandon soon.

Maybe he should focus his worries on how to stop a plague from going through the small army. Was that something werewolves had to worry about? Diarrhoea?

None of that was on the werewolves’ minds, of course. They were probably thinking of the plan for today and wondering if he was out of his.

Time to show the pisscoats why they should fear him.

The Valoise probably felt quite safe today, given that it was almost new moon and there wasn’t a single cloud in sky. Together with the quickly building summer heat, it was enough to keep the Rot in the ground. David didn’t even have a hint of a headache.

Maybe that was the reason why the Valoise had delayed their attack until summer? Or part of the reason. The army they had sent was bigger than David had ever imagined. Likely, even the Empire had needed time to muster that many troops.

David shook himself. Focus. This was like one of the bad hunts, when the werewolf was barely a teenager, where you felt dirty before you even set out. It didn’t matter how much he hated what was to come.

They still needed to slow the enemy. Teach them the meaning of terror.

“Get ready,” he told Rust and Ragna. “We move out in half an hour.”

He barely ate anything himself, checking his weapons again, and then made sure his horse was ready for combat, too. He was sweating in his leather clothes before they even got moving, cursing softly that he hadn’t taken more shirts for changing.

It was better to focus on how uncomfortable he was with the heat and the weather than to think about the werewolves all around. He needed them to do as he said, to walk into the rain of bullets when he told them to. And he had no way of making them do anything. All he could do was tell Rust and Ragna what he wanted to happen and pray that they would back him.

Once, the two elders may have feared him. But today? They had to know that they could rip him apart before he even knew he was under attack.

It was a thought that was hard to banish when he was about to ask them to go into battle with him. For him. How did the enemy generals deal with that? How were they not aware, every second of the day, that their men—younger than them, fitter than them, and well armed—outnumbered them and their officer corps by the thousands?

Did they trust in the incentive of money alone? The social contract? Fear?

At least his soldiers had something to fight for.

When the time came to move out, he climbed into the saddle, doing his best to look as if there wasn’t a single doubt in his mind that the werewolves would follow him when he said: “Let’s go.”

And amazingly, they did. Splitting into their assigned groups as they went—wolves, for now. For a few more hours.

It wasn’t hard to find the enemy.

By the time the sun was fully up, the Grande Armée marched onwards towards Deva, like a fat snake slithering across the country. Not fast. But steadily. David thought it was rather relentless in that regard itself. The Valoisian officers were certainly not sparing their soldiers. Or animals, for that matter.

Unfortunately, neither could he.

“Ready?” he asked. All he got was a soft growl in answer.

There were only six werewolves with him today, but one of them was Ragna. She still limped a little, but had refused to stay behind.

“On your mark then, Ragna,” David added.

She nodded, ears flicking back and forth. Glancing left and right alongside the rows and rows of soldiers marching on. For a second, her eyes glowed blue and David felt just the faintest push of magic. He nudged his horse into a trot promptly, just as the werewolves started to move. Up the hill they jogged, and then down the other side, picking up speed. David rode at the edge of the line, so that he had room to swing when he drew his sabre. Bullets whistled past him left and right and at least one of the werewolves yelped in pain—but they kept going, six giant wolves and a cavalry horse. Into the gun smoke.

They hit the lines of marching soldiers within the cloud right where they had planned to: where one section had lost the connection to the next one. David swung his sabre just once, felt it hit something—he thought he had gotten the man right in the neck, but he was already turning his horse—he swung again to block a bayonet coming for him—then he was away.

The gelding snorted louder with every breath as they went up the hill once more. It was the loudest sound in the whole world. In the distance, a werewolf howled. Behind him, men screamed for mercy. Around him, six deadly shadows and one silver one flew along.

The next volley of gunshots rang just as they crested the hill, but they were already beyond the muskets’ effective range.

Then they were below the hill and several of the wolves collapsed onto the ground, bodies distorting painfully. Even with Ragna right there, and a sliver of moon in the sky, it took them a few minutes to turn human and then wolf again.

Well, the horse needed the time to catch his breath, anyway.

“Good work,” David said, when the last wolf was wagging his tail lazily. “Let’s get out of here.”

They trotted off, as fast as the horse could sustainably move. Towards the next meeting point, where another group was already splashing in the shallow water of a riverbend to wash off the blood.

Because they hadn’t hit the Valoise just once, but thirty times, all on Ragna’s signal. In and out like the wind that refused to blow on this terribly hot day.

Two hours later, they did it again.

And then again half an hour later.

And one final time, right before the moon set.

Then new moon was upon them, and there was no more healing, safe for Ragna and maybe Rust. If she was close enough. But that didn’t mean David was going to call off the attack.

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He did wait until well after night had fallen. He wanted the pisscoats to feel nice and relaxed, trusting in the moonless dark, before he hit them again. This time, they attacked three campsites with thirty soldiers each, while the other half of their numbers rested—their turn would come with the very first light of pre-dawn.

The night attacks were sneak attacks. Really, they were raids. They needed blackpowder and ammunition if they were to continue fighting. Muskets, too. Clothes. Food.

And David had offered three days of “kitchen service” with Fleur to the soldiers who stole that damn fur coat from the Levant’s wardrobe carriage. Or proof that it had been destroyed.

Was it petty? Probably.

David did warn the soldiers not to take any unnecessary risks while they hunted the prince’s valuables, but he wanted the bastard to suffer at least some discomfort. Not that a lack of fine clothes was in any way sufficient to punish him for what he was doing.

Ragna, Rust and David himself served as distractions for the raiders, walking—or riding, in David’s case—up to the enemy camps to make sure their attention was not on the supplies they were supposed to guard. When the guards started shooting at him, he retreated out of range, came back, and repeated the manoeuvre a few times. Until the soldiers in Ragna’s camp lit something on fire that blew up with enough noise to ensure nobody even looked at him.

David smiled grimly as he disappeared in the darkness. He should make that part of the plan for the raids in the morning. Maybe even go in himself—no, that was too risky. He couldn’t get caught.

It was a fine line between sharing the risks his soldiers took and downright foolishness. He really wished he had General Clermont by his side to help tell the difference.

The werewolves didn’t get the ermine coat. And Ragna got shot again. A lucky hit, or possibly a sharpshooter. It was lucky on Ragna’s side, too, because it was a common lead bullet. And while it did shatter her shoulder blade, she managed to limp away quickly enough for the Valoise not to give chase.

And a few minutes later, she was as good as new again.

That had to be frustrating for the enemy, right?

Provided they had even seen her transformation.

Once they made camp again, David looked over his troops. Vigo bared his teeth at him and Millie was holding onto her musket with both hands. Boris and Fleur sat together in silence, staring up at him when he went past. Nobody was resting, even though he had split his forces just so they could.

Fortunately, this was something David actually felt qualified to address. If there was one thing he knew how to do, then it was conserving strength for the long haul.

“Go rest,” he told Neville, who grinned at him, snapped a salute without standing up, then promptly let himself fall back into a pile of leaves.

“We can—just go and sleep?” Jody asked.

“Yes! In fact, please go take a nap,” David said. “Save every bit of energy you can! We’ll be fighting for weeks, so if you aren’t on duty? Take every second of rest possible.”

Especially on new moon.

The camp finally quietened—mostly, at least—as David went around. There were guards up, sure, and they would need to be relieved soon. But there was still a couple of hours of sleep left for everyone.

Which not everyone appreciated.

David returned to Fleur and Boris last. They both sat atop the small army’s only wagon, wide eyed and twitching as soon as he approached.

“Get some rest yourself,” Boris growled at him when David came by. “I’m not dealing with the dreams.”

David shrugged and settled down on the ground. “Think I’ve never been there?” he asked. “Do you think werewolf hunters never lose anyone near and dear while on the hunt?”

Boris glared at him, but didn’t answer.

Pulling out one of the steel dowels from his quiver, David went on: “I know that feeling. When you feel like you can’t stop. Like you’re letting someone down if you sit down to eat. That thought that if you just push yourself a little more you can avenge whoever you lost.”

He turned the dowel slowly between his fingers. “That feeling is a lie. And because I knew to ignore that lie is why you feared me. Or still fear me, who knows.”

He flipped the little arrow up into the air, caught it again. “If you want the pisscoats to fear you—and everyone else here—you’re going to have to learn to ignore that little voice in your head, Boris. Because chances are, we’re still going to be here next new moon.”

He laid back himself then, closing his eyes and dozing off, trusting in the new moon and the guards to keep him safe.

***

Three days after new moon, finally, some clouds appeared on the bright blue sky. First just a few silvery patches, but by noon, they had grown to the full towering dark grey mountains that promised more than just rain.

He wondered if the Valoise knew what it meant. From what he could see of the fat snake in the distance, it didn’t look like they were making camp. So they probably had no idea what a big thunderstorm was like in Loegrion.

“Going to be a big one,” Rust commented. “Given the heat we had.”

David whipped some sweat off his face and pulled out the spyglass deVale had left him. Glass or not, there still was no sign the Valoise were going to find shelter. “We really could have used that earlier,” he grumbled.

“Better late than never,” Rust replied. “Do we change the plan for today?”

David folded up the spyglass again, and stared up at the clouds instead. Finally, he shook his head. “I reckon it’s going to take a few more hours for that to break,” he said. “We’ll continue with the harassment until then, pull back when the rain starts. Don’t want you and Ragna to get between the Rot and the pisscoats.”

“Don't want to give them a half day of quiet, either,” Rust finished for him.

David nodded. Their attacks were needle points at best anyway. In and out too fast for the enemy to react. Bite a soldier—or three—and escape. David joined in more for morale than anything else. There wasn't time to fight and kill: they were relying on the Valoise to finish off the bitten men themselves.

Would Clermont still call him too soft-hearted if he could see him now? Would the old man be satisfied? Maybe even impressed? They hadn’t given the Valoise more than a few hours of breathing time, attacking day and night, never at set intervals. There had to be way over a thousand dead pisscoats, if not more, and only two dead werewolves so far.

Well, that wasn’t counting the four mad ones David had made Ragna and Rust run into the enemy lines yesterday with the final bit of control they had over them. That was easily the most deadly “attack” they had staged since the werewolves had broken the prisoners out of the camp.

And they’d been fighting without the Rot for backup. So far.

Now, the enemy would finally learn what lurked in Loegrion’s soil.

Despite the heat and the pressure in the air, David felt lighter as he rode along the line of marching soldiers, looking for an opening. It was becoming routine, the same way hunting werewolves had been routine. Find the groups that were marching alone, the broken down wagon, the lame ox or mule, the single soldier who had stepped into the trees to take a piss.

And then kill them.

He didn’t even feel dirty anymore even when he was covered in blood, listening to the screams of the injured and dying. It was exactly like killing werewolves. Killing monsters.

He should probably feel bad about that, shouldn’t he? But he couldn’t muster the energy. He couldn’t talk about it with the other soldiers, either—Rust and Ragna would just think him a hypocrite, and the rest of them didn’t need to be burdened with the ethics of the situation.

Four more men died from his blade in three more attacks. He had never gotten close to killing so many werewolves in a single day.

Meeting point?, Rust asked, pulling him out of his reverie.

David glanced up. The storm clouds overhead had started to move together and blot out the sun. The wind was picking up, too.

“Yeah, call everyone together.”

But before Rust could do so, they heard a high-pitched jowling up ahead, and what sounded like a very angry horse.

Rust took off at a sprint, through the forest they had used for cover, dragging the rest of their attack group along. David cursed and spurred his horse to sprint after the wolves. The gelding stretched himself with what David always thought was anticipation. He didn’t even slow down when Rust used the trick Monroe had taught him.

It sent a group of Valoisian light cavalry into panicked flight, stopping them from finishing off the half dozen werewolves they had been after. With Rust there, four of them transformed easily. Two were dead.

Rust’s attention though was on the pisscoat who had been thrown from the saddle.

He was a man even darker of skin than David. When David raised his sabre, he didn’t reach for his own pistol, or sword. Instead, he dropped to his knees and raised his empty hands.

David lowered the weapon. “Bite him,” he ordered. “But carefully.”

The strange soldier didn't flinch when one of the giant wolves he had just been about to kill walked over, biting him just deep enough to draw blood.

“You survive—a month,” David said, hoping that the stranger understood his mangled Valoise, “you come find us.”

With that, he turned his horse away, leaving the man kneeling there.

They hadn't even gotten out of sight when the thunder roared and the first heavy drops of rain splattered across the horse’s neck.

“Think he can survive the Rot?” David asked, glancing back at the soldier who was still kneeling in the dirt, looking dazed.

Possibly, Rust answered.