Marshall Soto rode at the head of his personal guard, whistling softly to himself. There was nothing around but acres and acres of open fields: some kind of beets that left no place for a werewolf or even human to hide. Well, and the five hundred riders following right behind him.

Still, he could have sworn there was something breathing right next to him, moving along between him and General Gavin.

Just his mind playing tricks. There was nothing there, he could see that.

He couldn’t stop thinking of the mad Feleke and his strange ghost, though. Could that turn invisible? But it had never strayed from the cage.

What would his men think if he reached out a little? Just to be sure? Perhaps if he pretended to stretch in the saddle? He didn’t want his men to think he was jumping at shadows.

So he faked a big yawn and stretched—waving his arms much more than he usually would, raking his fingers through the air. There was nothing there. Which made sense. He couldn’t see anything, after all.

“Should we take a break, Sir?” Gavin asked promptly.

“Just enjoying the fresh air,” Soto claimed. “Can’t you smell the glory and victory waiting for us?”

Gavin sniffed, gaze trailing over the open countryside.

“Think we left them behind, Sir?” he asked.

“Not too far behind, I would hope,” Soto said. “I want that black bastard’s head to hang above my fireplace.”

“You’d have to fight the Archbishop for it,” Gavin pointed out.

That got a round of laughter. Morale was quite good, now that they were finally moving at a decent pace. The last village they had arrived at had barely even burned yet, and they’d been able to put out the fire enough to loot some supplies. Soto had taken this group away from the main body straight towards the west, and he hoped that they would soon reach a village that hadn’t been cleared out by the werewolves at all.

And then they’d finally have some fun.

Soto smiled grimly to himself. He was tired of feeling like a rat in a barrel, waiting for the terrier to get him. His men no doubt felt the same. It was time to show the Loggies that the werewolves had nothing on the Grande Armée. And to release some pent up frustration.

His wife at home would understand. So would Lord Mithras, as long as he paid his indulgence to the church.

Loegrian was said to have a lot of blondes, right? A feisty blonde farmer’s daughter, that would be the right thing just about now. He was curious to see how much resistance the Loggies put up once all their children had Valoisian fathers.

Soto chuckled to himself when he thought of Allard, stuck with the Levant and the rest of the army. Maybe he’d save a girl for him. The old man really needed to lighten up a bit. Loegrion was wearing him down faster than the desert ever had.

And there they were. Smoke appeared in the distance, but it wasn’t the big plume of black ash of a burning village. Just the thin lines of chimneys streaking into the blue summer sky. A minute later, they crested the hill, and a nice little Loegrian village appeared in front of them: Maybe a dozen farmsteads of half-timbered houses, built around a little pond. A mill sat a little further down the creek that fed the pond, all of it overlooked by the small church.

“Well then. Let’s introduce ourselves,” Soto said.

His stallion snorted when he drove him onwards, into a comfortable jog. Not the full gallop of a charge—there still wasn’t a werewolf in sight and he wanted the Loggies to have time to get properly scared.

“Gentlemen,” he called over the wind, “it’s time to get a proper leg over this rotten land. Take whatever you want, we’ll burn the rest when we leave.”

His men cheered softly at his words. They went down the hill like a wave of flesh and steel, Soto’s guards moving their horses half a length ahead of him, alert but relaxed. Laughing and jeering as they rode into village, trampling some of the farmers who didn’t get out of the way quickly enough. In front of the church, Soto stopped his horse, watching as his soldiers broke into the houses and chased the farmers like chickens around the village.

“Find me a girl,” he told the closest of his men. “A nice clean blonde.”

Soto looked after the young soldier rushing off to do his bidding. Allard wouldn’t have approved. But he was far away, watching after the Levant. The right job for an old man like Allard.

An old man approached him, throwing herself onto the ground in front of his horse—sobbing in Valoisian so thick it was barely understandable. The sobbing didn’t help. Not that Soto needed to understand him to know the old man was begging him to spare the village. What else would he say in a moment like this?

It didn’t take his soldiers long to return with a girl—two girls, in fact. Sisters, Soto assumed. He jumped down to the ground to take a closer look at them: Both blonde, both freckled, both with the pale eyes and skin of the native Loegrians. Straight noses, too. They whimpered as he forced them to open their mouths so he could check their teeth. He chose the younger one.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

“You can have the other one,” he told the soldiers who had brought them. “Now. Let’s see if they’re virgins still.”

A sudden gust of air blew into Soto’s face when his men enthusiastically complied. A woman came running—probably the girls’ mother—but was restrained by the soldiers. One of them ripped the girdle off the older wrench—

The girl struggled and the soldier stumbled backwards. Another one went flying as if a horse had kicked him. Red blood welled up, like a grotesque fountain—where had the soldier’s hand gone?

Soto stumbled backwards, towards his snorting stallion. He could have sworn he heard a wolf snarl, but there was still nothing there!

No wait—there was blood dripping to the ground, like red rain out of thin air. Soto pulled out his side arm, aimed at the dripping, fired—there was a satisfying wine, and the monster in their midst became visible. It shrunk into its human shape: an old woman, with pearly white hair, entirely naked. It bared its teeth at him, a full set of teeth. In fact, the bullet Soto had just fired fell out of her lined, but unmarred cheek.

While Soto still stared, it contorted in the most grotesque way, fur spreading all over its body. Then the giant wolf was back.

As suddenly as it had appeared, the creature became invisible again. Soto tried to put the horse between himself and where he had seen the monster last. The villagers screamed, and so did some of the soldiers. Another man was thrown backwards, jugular ripped out.

And in the distance, more werewolves howled.

Soto swung himself into the saddle, looking around for his lieutenant. Someone who could give the signal. They needed to get out of here, and quickly. There—a young man came galloping towards him, trumpet already in hand.

“Sound the retreat!” Soto yelled.

A horse died next, a fine cavalry horse. Not Soto’s though, nor the lieutenants. Did the monster understand what the fanfare meant? That it would get the riders out of the village faster than anything else?

How many werewolves were there really? There had to be a limit to the magic, right? Everything had a limit. How long could the bitch stay invisible, and how many shots to the face could it heal?

They’d find out. As soon as they had regrouped.

Soto gathered his men on the hill they had just come down, which afforded them a great view of the area. Before they had even stopped, a half-dozen werewolves swung around them, all of them heading towards the village. A second group followed a moment later.

“They’re not going to make a stand here, are they?” Gavin asked, lowering his spyglass. “What could they possibly want with the place?”

It wasn’t particularly defensible, either, Soto noticed. And yet, there was a third group heading this direction, barely visible on the horizon, even through the spyglass. It couldn’t be, could it? He wasn’t truly going to get the battle he had longed to over this tiny, insignificant village? That damn Feleke couldn’t be that foolish, right?

But the giant wolves kept coming. He either needed to retreat or risk facing unfavourable odds himself.

Or call in the rest of the army. Which might just be a huge waste of time.

Sometimes you had to take that risk. “General Gavin, take twenty men and gather the rest of the troops. If the monsters want to fight over that village, I’m going to oblige them.”

***

Her name was Lea. She had been a werewolf for twenty-nine years, which made her the second oldest of the wolves the Red had gathered. Only Fox was older, and he wasn’t entirely sure just how old he was.

David had made her shadow Marshall Soto because of the few werewolves who could become invisible, she could do it the longest, and could even fight without becoming visible. Which was apparently hard to do. It had sounded like a perfect role for her when he gave the order.

What he hadn’t considered was that Lea and the other werewolves wouldn’t have returned with the Red if they hated humans. They were no warriors. No hunters. No killers.

He should have expected that she wasn’t going to stand by idly as children died and women were abused.

He should have seen that coming. Everything else that followed was just logical—of course Fox would come to aid an old friend, and of course the two elders meeting in the ascend of nowhere would drag in any younger werewolves nearby. Which in turn made Rust and Ragna check out what was going on, and at that point, the rest of the army coalesced into the small village because he had given that order, to check in on the elders if they gathered.

By the time David arrived at the small village, the werewolves had taken over the place, while the pisscoats were gathering on the surrounding hills. As far as David could tell, they had left paths for the werewolves to get into the village on purpose. Right by the main road was Marshall Soto with his entourage of about five hundred. A couple of thousand riders flanked him on hills to both sides.

At least the villagers were in the process of evacuating. It was a scene David had seen more times than he cared to remember by now: oxen and horses hastily put to the carts, which were filled with supplies and what few valuables the people possessed, everything just thrown in as quickly as possible.

A boy stopped to stare at him, a cat pressed to his chest. The kid didn’t even seem to notice how the claws were raking over his arms. When the boy realised David had noticed him, he bent over the cat as if he expected it to be ripped out his arms and hurried away.

Word of the slaughtered animals had apparently spread, even if it hadn’t moved these farmers to evacuate earlier. In all fairness, David wouldn’t have bothered coming here if the Valoise hadn’t prompted Lea to reveal herself. The place was a little out of the way.

Another group of them, Boris commented.

David turned to look, and indeed, there was another troop joining up with Soto’s position. Another regiment, David reckoned—some four to five hundred riders.

The pisscoats outnumbered the werewolves ten to one already. And they had the high ground.

He had said, once, that each wolf was worth ten men on horseback. He was loathe to test the theory here. But on the other hand, he had all his werewolves here, while the Valoise could only bring a third of theirs to bear. And he had the marshall right there.

If they could kill him…

“Rust and Ragna are around, right?” David asked. “Take me to them.”

Boris wagged his tail once, and set off towards the small church. Rust and Ragna were watching the other side of the village, where a smaller group of pisscoats was forming up.

They’re going to encircle us, Rust said.

“I think we shouldn’t let them,” David said. “How many of us are still out there?”

About forty, Ragna said. Nobody we’d miss dearly in a fight.

“Let’s get ready then,” David said. “I want to break through the middle before the Valoise bring the rest of their troops here.”