The Rot was simply part of warfare. Marshall Allard had never paid it much heed; after all, that was what chasseurs were for. That was why they got to swagger around in head-to-toe silver armour and pull as much pay as a cavalry lieutenant, despite the fact that they all came from the most common of stock and had no education, no craft beyond hitting things that shouldn’t move till they stopped moving.

For a Marshall of the Grande Armee, the Rot was simply something to work around. Much like the weather. Something to consider, but not fear. After all, who feared the rain?

Allard was starting to fear both: the rain and the Rot it brought forth. It could happen anywhere, any time. Even salted ground wasn’t safe around the butchers’ tents. His head ached, despite the alchemy his tent had been soaked in and the consecrated candles burning on the desk.

The rain pelted the tarpaulin. Soldiers cursed just outside and a terrible smell made Allard freeze, despite the chain of silver around his neck. Something harried the tent flaps, creating bright white sparks before it pulled away. Allard didn’t move until a chasseur poked his silver helmet inside, then followed it up with enough of an arm to salute.

“All taken care of, Sir,” he reported, and closed the tent firmly.

Allard cursed and got to his feet, mostly to prove to himself that he could. Pacing up and down the tent, listening for more attacks.

This was the fourth day of rain and sun in quick succession, and there was no sign of it stopping. It was as if Loegrion tried to make up for the dry spell they had enjoyed around new moon. A few short days to lure them in and make them feel safe.

And in a week, it would be full moon again.

As if the storms weren’t bad enough, there were the bloody werewolves, who walked right through the Rot with no fear of the consequences. Led by that crazy werewolf hunter—if that was truly what he was. He seemed quite cosy with the monsters. Maybe that was why he didn’t seem to even feel the Rot. He certainly wasn’t wearing silver armour.

Lord Relentless, the Loggies called him.

The Honourable David Feleke. A baron’s son of a family no one in Rambouillet had ever even heard about. A man who hadn’t joined the Loggy army until after he had pulled off the victory at Oldstone Castle. Who had never risen through the ranks, or studied the art of war. Not even on paper.

And yet, there was a man who would not stop, no matter how deep the blood flowed.

Marshall Allard stopped at his little folding desk, to stare down at the latest reports of the dead and injured. And worse, the material losses.

A howl in the distance chilled his bones.

The Rot wouldn’t have been a problem by itself, and the werewolves wouldn’t have been a problem. But they always came together. There were even a couple of reports by trustworthy officers that the damn Feleke used himself to bait out the Rot, draw it towards the most valuable supplies—and as soon as the chasseurs went in to protect the goods, the barrage from the werewolves followed.

Weren’t they supposed to be afraid of silver? But they kept making away with the full suits of armour. And the horses, too.

Not a single day went by without a fight, even though their intelligence was certain the Loegrian army had run all the way to Deva. To where Duke Stuard had—somehow—survived.

Marshall Allard had served with Stuard, a long time ago. Back when the duke had still been a marques. A young major who had bought his commission for the prestige but didn’t have the stomach for battle. A failed soldier who much preferred the officers’ mess over the actual fighting. Good at making connections, but useless as an officer.

How had that socialite coward won the loyalty of a man like the blasted Feleke?

Maybe the Inquisition would find an answer to that question. Soon as they captured the man. And they would catch him. Sooner or later, he’d run out of monsters.

Allard sighed and threw himself back into the comfortable chair his men logged around for him. An aide jumped to offer him refreshments at once. Such luxury was the privilege of an Imperial marshall.

Unlike the Levant and his favourite—Marshall Soto—Allard hadn’t grown up like this. He came from a rather poor earldom in an eastern province, and had been forced to rise through the ranks entirely on merit. Not that Soto wasn’t capable enough. Even money and connections couldn’t buy a marshall’s staff.

They did make it far easier to be considered, though. Allard could have thought of several generals off the top of his head who he would have preferred to be in Soto’s place.

Allard turned the glass in his hands. He felt a certain kinship with the Feleke in that regard. A baron’s son, from an unimportant family. They might have fought side by side, if it hadn’t been a Loegrian family. If the “Relentless” hadn’t decided to side with monsters.

What a waste.

Allard balled a fist. How did you deal with a bunch of beast-people?

At a generous estimation, there were three hundred werewolves of the original group left. Probably significantly less. Possibly half as many. They were roaming the countryside in packs of less than a dozen—sometimes coming together to stage an attack thirty or fifty strong, but never more than that, making it hard to judge their actual number. It shouldn’t be difficult to wipe them out in one single concentrated attack.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

And yet, here they were.

Their coordination was remarkable. Quite possibly magical. And they were much faster than most troops Allard could send after them, unburdened by riders or heavy weaponry.

If their bite weren’t infectious…

Allard shook his head at himself. If it weren’t for the damn curse they spread, he would have just ignored them, giant, magically healing wolves or not. But he couldn’t do that with these monsters or he’d be forced to kill half his army himself. Was the Feleke aware of what that meant for morale? Having to execute men who were unharmed safe from a small scratch? Men who had done nothing wrong? Who had served long and loyally?

Thrown away for what they might become.

He did know, didn’t he? A werewolf hunter had to know.

“What a monster,” Allard muttered to himself, smiling grimly. They should have killed him when they had the chance.

“Who?”

Allard rolled his eyes before he turned around to bow to the prince who had barged in with a couple of Imperial Guards. No doubt there were more of them outside.

“Your Highness. I was musing on this ‘Lord Relentless.’ I have never seen anyone but the Inquisition weaponize the Rot like this. Let alone the werewolves. For a heathen to take that risk…”

“Monstrous indeed,” the prince muttered. “What do you intend to do about it?”

In the distance, another alarm was blown. Allard pulled out his pocket watch. Six hours this time. The attacks were slowing down after all. Which made sense, too. With the change in weather, the Rot was enough of a nuisance to slow the Grande Armée down all on its own.

No point of tiring out his own people more than necessary. The Relentless might have no formal education, but he wasn’t stupid.

That being said. How many more of his own villages could he raid before he lost the backing of his duke?

“He’s got to be running his beasts ragged at his rate,” Allard said slowly. “He’s depending on the Rot for support. Which makes me think that the solution to this problem is rather simple: We head for the coast. Let the sea guard one of our flanks. Clearly, we will not be taking Deva as easily as planned. So why give him what he wants? Head for Deggan instead. Reinforce there, sail up the river, and Deva is ours.”

The prince didn’t look happy about this. “Are you suggesting we run? From a few hundred werewolves?”

“Run?” Allard had a hard time not rolling his eyes again. “We’re not running, Your Highness. We simply won’t give him the satisfaction of playing his game.”

“I like Marshall Soto’s plan better.”

Of course he did.

“I will look forward to hearing it,” Allard lied. He could just about picture how that plan looked like. If you didn’t avoid the beasts, then cavalry was the only way to catch them. It was risky. Especially if you were up against a man as ruthless as the Relentless.

It was “taking the initiative” though, and the prince was big on that. Nobody wanted a reactive ruler.

Soto’s plan was exactly what Allard had feared.

“I suggest we divert to the west,” the other marshall said, when they discussed the issue over dinner. “We take Erkford, and cross the Lessing with half our forces, into lands the werewolves haven’t burned yet. Then we move towards Deva on both sides of the river.”

“We can’t know the werewolves haven’t been to the western shores yet,” Allard pointed out. “And the Rot might have crossed it on its own, too.”

He thought the werewolves probably hadn’t started their scorched earth tactics on the other side of the river, given the hardship that would mean for their own people. He still didn’t like the thought of splitting their forces. Given how much the Rot loved water, that just meant they would have two more flanks their limited number of chasseurs needed to protect.

“How is this going to help with the werewolf issue, anyway?” he asked.

Soto glared at him. “I don’t understand why you’re so focused on the bloody beasts,” he said, waving his fork. “And in any case: Either, they make a stand and we kill them all at Erkford. Or they let us take the city and then will have to decide if they, too, want to split their much more limited forces.”

“Again, I don’t see how that benefits us,” Allard replied. “Even just a dozen of them are a pest we can’t stomp out right now.”

“That’s because they keep hitting us where we’re least mobile,” Soto said. “I’ll take the cavalry over and our quickest troops. You keep the chasseurs and the artillery over here. That’ll improve the ratio of chasseurs you have per high-value target. And if they try to attack the horses, we can finally ride them down.”

“And your men will live off the land?” Allard asked. “If the werewolves do cross over and start burning fields, you’ll starve.”

“They’re not going to set the Rot loose in both halves of the heartlands, are they?” the prince intercepted.

Marshall Allard inclined his head. “Your Highness, we are dealing with a bunch of literal monsters and a man called ‘Lord Relentless.’ I rather believe that it would be unwise to expect them to behave as civilised people would.”

Not that there was such a thing as civilised warfare. But that wasn’t the point.

The Levant chewed over his words. “Is there a way to stop them from seeding the Rot on the other side of the Lessing, too? Loegrion won’t be worth much if they do.”

“I rather believe that’s the point,” Allard sighed. “They’d rather destroy it than let it fall back into our hands.”

The prince’s frown deepened. “What are they going to do come winter?”

“They have the werewolves, Your Highness. It appears that the Loegrians—or at the very least, Lord Feleke—would trust in their protection over that of the Empire.”

“I suppose it’s not entirely unearned,” the Levant grumbled. “I cannot quite believe our forefathers slaughtered the werewolves rather than using them. What a waste.”

“That is where my plan comes in, Your Highness,” Soto called attention back to himself. “Their main goal appears to slow down our advance and wear down our troops, to whatever end. I therefore believe there is a reasonable chance they’ll try to hold the Lessing crossing. If our intelligence is correct, the bridge is a fortified one, and Erkford has a garrison. They certainly won’t get a better opportunity to fight us before we get to Deva.”

“Which is just another reason why I don’t think we should give them one at all,” Allard sighed.

“We’ll note it for our missive to our father,” the Levant said generously. “If this plan fails, we can always move towards Deggan.”

They’d just lose a few thousand soldiers first. Soldiers they’d be missing dearly once they stood in front of Deva’s walls and tried to take a city of a million people with whatever remained of their army by then.

“Oh, don’t look like that, Allard,” Soto said. “Those monsters are good in the open field, where they can strike and run. There’s no room to run on a bridge.”

If they took up the fight at all.

Lord Relentless hadn’t been seeking fame before the war, had he? There was no reason for him to launch a desperate attempt to defend a doomed city. Not unless he thought the conditions were truly favourable.

Allard sighed. Maybe Soto was right. Maybe they should try to nail them down in battle, rather than running. Keep the monsters where they could see them.

And if it went wrong, at least it wouldn’t be his head.