Glimpse was taking a break. He'd been flying for hours. Between spying, providing overwatch for my assassination mission, and then during the battle against Ashrot, the crow had needed some time off. It's no excuse for what happened, but it's why I failed to react quickly enough to nip it in the bud.

I'd rushed over to Fay and the casters to check on them and was roundly harangued by my wife, the coven, and an angry Kril. This was also a powerful distraction, but I should have caught what happened sooner. The legion had fallen out in good order and reoccupied their fort, beginning hasty repairs. Riders had gone north to turn the nomadic city back around and end their flight away from the now-dead monster of metamorphic flesh.

A handful of the Huskar, the feral ones, had approached the city gates and casually kicked the bronze-bound oak panels to splinters. I wasn't sure if the nomads had some scent for blood, but they'd quickly gotten in on the "fun". First, a few dozen had ridden in through the broken gates, then hundreds had flooded into the conquered town of Settall.

There is a code probably older than Earth's most ancient written records: if you don't surrender to a siege, you should expect no mercy. Three days of rape and looting were the norm for a sacking of a city conquered by ancient armies back on Earth, a reward for the horrors of forcing a breach or taking the walls. My army hadn't done either of those things. We'd obliterated the undead host and the human soldiers when they sallied to attack our camps, and then we'd dealt with the true defence: Ashrot.

We'd taken some losses. Perhaps a few hundred nomads were killed when they were caught in the abominations' attempted retreat, or the handful of accidental friendly fire incidents. Usually, the wounded outnumbered the dead significantly, but not in our case. Anyone injured would be treated with healing magic, and while they would be grumbling about the pain for a few days, they would be fit as a fiddle by the end of the day.

That was more than I could say for the looters. As soon as I realised what was going on, the Fangs and squads of soulbound Huskar from the legion were dispatched to bring order back to my rampaging forces. Still, by then it was too late for several thousand of the starved and brutalised survivors. Of the fifteen thousand or so people held hostage by Mortimer in Settall, fewer than eleven thousand survived the brief rampage.

When I entered my new city after the sun had peaked in the sky, I was followed by Nuk, the Tribunes, tribal chiefs, as well as the coven and Kril. I found that my orders had been carried out to the letter. The long main street that led to the marketplace had been lined with long wooden stakes or spears. Atop each of them sat the severed head of a looter. They stretched away across half a mile, one every few feet along both sides of the road, forming a macabre procession of death.

The coven was surrounding Fay, something I heartily approved of, and glaring at every window and alleyway as though they expected another abomination to flow out and attack them. The chiefs were scowling at the human heads adorning spikes as we passed. Some of them had lost nephews and sons to the punishment details.

"Bit harsh, Mond?" said Kril cheerfully as he pulled some dried fruit from a belt pouch and began noisily chewing on it.

"The rest will think twice next time." I raised my voice. "If the troopers run wild, no loot will be left for the chiefs. This should have been done professionally, not as a rabid mob." The chiefs continued to mutter angrily, but I hoped my point had landed with at least a few of them.

"So you do plan to loot the city?" Kril asked. "Aresk is a big fan of looting."

"Shit. I should have offered Ashrot as tribute to him. Ah, well, there's always next time. Yeah, we're going to loot the place. And a bit more than that, but we're going to be civilised about it."

"How does that work? It's pretty uncivilised work!" Kril tossed the last piece of fruit into the air and let it fall into his mouth.

"Civilised just means organised, bloke. It doesn't mean nice. Once I've dealt with the locals, we'll take the place apart and take our share," I said softly, keeping my voice below the threshold where the chiefs could eavesdrop.

"Dealt with them?" Kril cocked an eyebrow and cackled at me. "Maybe the tribes are rubbing off on you!" I kept quiet. They certainly were, but I was also rubbing off on them, so at worst, it was an unhappy compromise.

Glimpse was back on station, orbiting overhead, so I could see the ponies dragging litters piled with corpses making their way out of the other city gates. Some were the headless bodies of my nomads and Huskar. They were being pulled towards a series of massive pyres being set up to the east of the town. Most of the bodies being thrown into heaps of kindling and animal fat were the civilians, and my blood ran cold as I watched them being heaved into undignified piles to be burned later in the day.

As we approached the marketplace, I heard the murmurs of scared people. Legionaries lined the edges of the vast space that had been cleared of stalls to make space for the throng of terrified humanity now corralled within. The stink of fear washed over me as they fell silent, seeing my party emerge from the street and spread out in front of them.

"Who's your most respected man?" I called as I stopped and tucked my thumbs into my belt. They stared at me in silence for a long minute. "Who can speak for you all?" I demanded more harshly.

"Lord, you killed any who might claim that right!" offered an overweight man in a blue robe in a hesitant voice. Being fat in this world meant being rich, and the voice rang a bell… was he the bloke who'd been arguing with the merchant when Glimpse had done his early reconnaissance?

"Well, in their absence, you'll have to do. We are going to take two-fifths of your wealth as tribute."

"Lord! I'm only a poor merchant! I don't have enough to satisfy such a mighty army!" he wailed.

Stolen story; please report.

"Not just you. Two-fifths of all the metal and valuables in the city are ours by right of conquest. Anyone caught trying to hide their wealth or cheat us will join the street decorations." I waved a hand back at the rows of heads. Hopefully, this would assuage the anger of the chiefs. "Most of you will be allowed to remain here, if you wish, but I have built a city in the north, Riverwheel. It needs talented craftsmen, artists, and scholars."

"You want to kidnap us!" snapped a voice from somewhere in the throng.

"No. You live or die by our choice. My people need your skills. For two years, your finest craftsmen will work for us, then they will be free to return or stay in the north as they like. Those who go north will be given a little power, magic, as a reward." It would also tie the bastards to me and allow me to enforce a "no slave rebellion" order.

"If you take all our crafters, we will starve! How can we survive if you take all the talents from among us?" called fatso. I didn't like the guy, but he couldn't be more perfect if I'd given him a script.

"Not all. Two-fifths. The best two-fifths. Some of my forces will remain here to garrison the city and protect you. Do you think you will struggle to prosper with that kind of security? You'll have the entire steppe as trade partners. Ivory, furs, animals, rare herbs, and all the produce of the north will flow here to make Settall a trade hub the likes of which your world has never seen! I am going to kill the king of Urkash. Not for what he did to your people, although that would be reason enough, but that is part of it. Join me willingly, or I'll find other uses for you that won't be so generous." My voice was flint-like at the end of my speech. The angry mutterings from the chiefs had turned into something a little more supportive as I'd gone on.

"Two-fifths gross or net?" demanded the merchant. "And what taxes will you be levying on our future trade agreement?"

"Whatever I choose! But they won't be too much of a burden. I take it you will cooperate with my people as a representative of Settall?" I replied.

"Yes, Lord! Thank you, Lord. I would be happy to serve as your authority while you continue your war against Urkash."

"What's your name?" I demanded. I'd noticed a quiet susurration of anger from the prisoners aimed at the merchant.

"I am known as Belal, Lord. The greatest merchant in the city!" He gave me a florid bow, his head almost horizontal as both hands swept back behind him.

"I hate merchants. I need five more to form a council for the city. You can petition the lord I leave behind to take control of the city." Hopefully, by making it an even number, they'd spend all their time bickering among themselves, unable to form a majority, and thus not waste the time of whichever chief I picked to take over. "All of you will report to the officers outside the old keep over the next few days to provide your skills and experience to my people. Then those of you going north will receive magic and begin your journey to Riverwheel. You will not be turned into undead; I don't need that terrible magic, but you will serve or die." I cringed inside, but the words seemed to have the desired effect.

My chiefs were almost bubbly now, happy muttering coming from behind as they planned how to jockey for position and claim the title to the city. The locals were suitably cowed as far as I could tell, eyes down but no longer terrified.

"Kril?" I asked quietly.

"What is it, Mond?" There was dread in his voice.

"I remember when we first met. You could tell when I was lying, like you were reading my mind."

"You're a shit liar!" he cackled, drawing the attention of the chiefs and a few of the braver residents of my new city.

"I want you in on the interviews."

"What? But that's going to take days!"

"We aren't going to move south again for a while. The forward-deployed units can push until we find Mortimer's closest field army, but they're to pull back, not engage. Here." I offered him a warrior's clasp, and as his fist clamped down on my wrist—surprisingly strong if you were to judge him by his wrinkled appearance—I transferred five thousand Souls over to him, and he howled with laughter.

"How many did you get?" he asked between gasps of mirth.

"Over three hundred thousand. I'm going to expand the Mage-Huskar units. We need more casters; their base stats are much higher than humans'. Then there's the coven. We're going to need more war-golems to deal with the abominations, and sending one of the women back makes more sense than finding a literate warrior. But first I'm going to do a bit of shopping."

"Bastard! How about a treat for your trusty Dreamer?" His eyes gleamed with avarice, and I couldn't help but chuckle.

"I'll try and pick you up something nice, but you'd better do a good job finding me crafters from among the locals. Smiths, leatherworkers, carpenters, weavers, artists, and scholars are what we want."

"Why the last two?"

"If we're building a civilisation, we need knowledge and art. One to preserve for future generations and the other to show our superiority. If you can support artists, you've got everything you actually need and don't have to dedicate all your people to simply surviving."

"Huh. So that's why the shit-sitters in the south love their artists?" he muttered as he spat to one side.

"Something like that, I reckon. Go start chivvying this lot along. You're in charge until I find somebody better or you're dead." He cackled again and began bossing the chiefs and the locals into something resembling organised chaos.

I turned inward, pulling up the shop screen and browsing what was on offer in the highest tiers. I winced at the prices. Even with my newfound wealth of Souls, I wouldn't be able to get much, and most of my account was earmarked for improving my troops and getting some levels for myself. I flicked back to earlier levels. My dagger and sword hadn't required me to spend a hundred thousand Souls on them, and the damn things could cut stone as easily as butter.

Adjuntium tunic? That was the metal my sword was made from. It looked like it would hang down to my knees, and I was pretty tired of having to get dressed repeatedly during a fight as my clothes got burned or blasted away. Fighting "tackle out" had a certain psychological impact on the enemy, but it made me feel a bit more vulnerable than I'd like. Fifteen thousand Souls marked down for it..

Armour? I'd be running up against enemies with Shop-bought gear soon enough. My HP might be high enough to shrug off most attacks that would have destroyed me when I first arrived on Urth, but… Losing a limb wasn't something I had any way to fix. I was a hybrid build, magic and physical mayhem, but losing a leg or an arm would make my physical stats much less helpful.

Scanning through the options, I got to the medieval section. Then I skipped to the medieval gear's weird, divine metals section. Aborbscis Plate. It was a complete set of plate armour, styled similarly to the Gothic Italian armours of the fifteenth century, back on Earth. The only weak points I could see were the traditional ones: armpits, back of the knees, and groin. I could live with that. I spent fifty-five thousand Souls and the armour and runic appeared over me.

I went from being a tall man in a ragged and burned red tunic, wearing a large black pauldron on my right shoulder, to something far more sinister. My pitch black sabatons clanked as I stepped forward, the sculpted metal now covering my body from head to toe. The enchanted pauldron overlaid the smooth armour that covered my right shoulder, and the helm was sculpted into the face of an imperious warrior, undaunted and uncaring of whatever life could throw at him. I flipped the mask up and drew a breath of air. It was lighter than it should have been. With my strength stat, it weighed almost nothing.

The crowd of locals had shied away as it appeared, and as I spun to face my Tribunes and Chiefs, I saw fear in their eyes as well. Good. I was done fucking around.

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