They were deep inside the jagged, pine-covered mountains separating central Vasia from the fringes of Vetera, and Laczlo was starting to regret his decisions. He had around ten thousand men with him in one long, snaking line over a mile long. If the roads were wider, then his line would be more compact and quite a bit faster, but the paths in these mountains could fit only a few men shoulder-to-shoulder. All that translated into a formation that took thirty minutes for the back of the army to reach the front's initial position, in good terrain.

If they weren't in Vasian-held land, he'd be terrified of an ambush. Even so, he still rode anxiously with his druzhina around him, having to stop himself from glancing at the trees every few minutes. What would the men think of a coward tsar, after all?

Out of his element, as he was with so many men to command, he put Western Commander Voiakh in charge of the regular operations, with the aging Eastern Commander Sanei executing the necessary logistics. Food was no small issue, for one, but there was also water, feed, housing, and more to consider. His scouts found areas to camp ahead of time and prepared the grounds for the night, typically near villages, so he and the voivodes could sleep indoors while the men took to tents. At first, Laczlo wanted to be out there with them. Lead by example and all that… But dammit, it was so cold. How could he be a good tsar if he was frostbitten and sick? He did house his druzhina with him, however, and took some small comfort in looking after them, at the very least.

It was the fourth day after leaving Latna when they were starting to descend, finally, though the snow was still a constant frustration and the cold wind bone-chilling. He'd lost over a hundred men to the cold and perhaps a hundred more to desertion. When a portion of the troops was levied, you had to expect such things. It amazed him more didn't disappear in the mountains earlier, for now it was too late, and they were too far east. Roughing it alone might mean death from here on.

They rode on a once-paved road now long fallen to disrepair. That's what happened when you stop campaigning—the military drove infrastructure, he'd learned. It only made sense.

I suppose now I can encourage rebuilding, he thought, though it wasn't as if repairing miles of roads was an easy thing. Quite the opposite, in fact. Few knew how to build good, straight roads anymore.

He'd called Voiakh over earlier, and now the commander had finally arrived, riding up from behind. He liked to check in on the troops often, or so Laczlo heard. Tall pines and firs covered the mountainscape all around, bearing coats of white, occasionally swaying with the wind, though all were oddly still. The mountain gales mostly behind them.

"Tsar Vilsky," Voiakh said in greeting, giving a slight bow.

"How's our condition?"

"Well, good enough, I'd say. Yes, the weather is harsh, but attrition is not as bad as I feared. It seemed old Sanei was right on." He grinned and shrugged. Indeed, when confronted with the idea of marching into the mountains, Voiakh balked while Sanei begrudgingly considered it possible, though he hesitated to commit. Laczlo would have liked to heed Voiakh's advice, but too much hinged on their early arrival.

"Good," Laczlo said. "Once we arrive in Vetera, I'd like to move as fast as possible."

Voiakh rubbed his chin. A delaying gesture he made unconsciously when he didn't fully agree. "Of course, the Free Cities must be put to heel; we all agree on this, but speed is not always our friend, Great Tsar."

"You know me. Speak to me plainly."

He took a deep breath. "I do know you, but I also know the power of your title."

"You think I'd wield it against you for disagreeing with me? After everything?" When Voiakh shrugged and gave a slight, apologetic smile, Laczlo groaned. "Fine. Well, here's how I see it: each city is weak on its own. We can beat them in detail just fine. But if we allow them to concentrate in Sino Point, then we risk a protracted siege in a foreign land. I don't want to be stuck out east for half a year."

"You're worried about the Rodezians."

"Yes, and about Nova." Laczlo leaned in, placing a palm on his own chest as if to gesture to himself. "I'm a new tsar and not one by blood inheritance. Surely, you can see the danger in leaving Vasia to its own devices."

Voiakh nodded slowly. "But what of the voivodes? You have half of them here, and more coming."

"Likely so. Still, I won't risk it."

"Varul, then?"

"He's part of the concern, yes. And then there's the matter of money, for the coffers aren't exactly bursting right now." A separate, extremely concerning stressor, certainly. One that could be fixed by victory, but that was never a sure thing. "Then there's the tsaritsa… I mean Alasa and then the boy, Amon. If I'm away long enough, even locked away, then they could always become a rallying point for…" he trailed off upon seeing Voiakh's confused expression. "What?"

"Well… Ah, you must pardon me, tsar, but do you intend to keep them alive?"

"I won't execute them if that's what you are insinuating."

"They could be the single biggest threat to your rule."

Laczlo frowned. This was not a line of conversation he wished to have right now. "And wouldn't their cruel murder also be dangerous? Should I start off my reign by killing women and children in captivity? No, I think not."

"Right. My apologies." He smiled and looked ahead as the land appeared to open up to reveal rugged hills below, the snow eventually disappearing in the distance. "I would recommend taking at least a week in Vetera to rest the men, resupply, convene with the voivodes, and establish a plan. We need good intel before even guessing our next moves, Great Tsar. Hitting them hard and fast is a good policy, but uninformative on its own, not to mention moving before our sick recover. We have at least three hundred with a flu of some sort already."

Laczlo wanted to argue with the man and put him in his place. Why wouldn't he just obey? Listen to your advisors, heed good word, and proceed with measured commitment. Those notions served him well as a warlord voivode, so why abandon them? "Very well, we shall do as you suggest. If we fail in this campaign, it would hinder us more than if we succeeded after great lengths."

"A good argument." Voiakh's smile widened. "You'll be just fine, I think. Few tsars can balance self-assuredness, caution, and trust in their advisors."

The commander rode off after Laczlo dismissed him with a thanks and absent-minded wave. Was he balancing those traits? He hardly knew. Everything seemed so sudden, so unpredictable, so violently emotional that it was hard just to hold on, particularly when he could barely do anything himself. It was all up to trusting others to execute his will. Or theirs.

Laczlo sighed once more and looked east. They were soon through the worst of it. A few more days and he'd be in Vetera. Then, to deal with Oskar.

…

Oskar watched from a distance as the village burned. Out here, like most places, homes were made of wattle-and-daub walls, reed-covered dirt floors, and thatch roofs. Village halls, storehouses, and small barns weren't any better, with most built out of timber. Everything burned. Oskar stared at the ashen columns merging together into one great smoky plume and sighed.

This wasn't what he wanted. This wasn't the kind of war he thought would come to pass. But what was he to do? Turn around and knife any trust the voivode had in him? What of Milava? She could support herself, sure enough, but raise a child on her own? She'd probably do just fine at that, too, he thought, grimacing. The point was—she shouldn't have to. It was his responsibility, too. And damn him if he was anything like his shit of a father. So that was that.

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Dead peasants lay in the streets, bleeding out. Most left running for Ermenik, draining it of resources, eating through their thin supplies. Most fields had been harvested already, so he didn't have to bother with burning fields; all he had to do was burn granaries. Those fires were extra tall, grain popping like bubbles of fat on a fire, sounds swallowed up as the flames caught and burned blazing hot. The smoke plumed white and thick like a wall.

He'd hit half a dozen villages like this in the last few days, but now time was running out. Riders had been sent after them, and he didn't want to risk a prolonged engagement, even if there weren't many of the horsemen, as that fool Panos had said.

"This isn't done," he muttered, watching the smoke dissipate high into the sky. "We need to make them bleed." That was the only way to strike fear and unrest into determined bastards like this. Let them see what their naïve courage earned them. Show them how war really worked.

So he took his small warband and rode east and north, hiding in the woods at night only an hour outside Ermenik. At dusk, Oskar had a scout ride hard to light some fires in a half-abandoned village to the south, then return at a breakneck pace. When he was back, and Oskar was sure the good people of Ermenik had spotted it, and therefore would direct their horsemen to assist, he rode hard at the head of his band for Ermenik. The city had a low and thick palisade around its western and southern sides, but many homes and structures spilled down the hill to budge up against the river on the north and eastern edge, where waterwheels, small bridges, and a few docks jutted out. There was an old wall higher up, but in disrepair and with more than a few gaps.

Arrogant bastards thinking Vasia would just attack the closest city and ignore everything else, he thought, studying it from a distance. They just don't know war. They think they're dealing with simple-minded Dead.

Small pools of local light lit it up under a cloudy moon. This part of the city was quiet. He looked around at the faces of his men, a few dozen hardened warriors tempered with raids and small skirmishes over the last week. They weren't good men, per se, but this kind of work didn't need good men. Besides, it wasn't like Oskar was some god's chosen Soul.

They rode in hard and fast, thundering across a mill bridge, leaving two men behind to secure the rear as he led a charge for a gap in the palisade. It took only a minute of galloping to reach it, but by then, people were shrieking and shouting and crying for their loved ones. Doors thrown open and shut again in alarm and horror. Shutters closed over windows. Animals herded inside, squealing and confused. Panic was an infectious, ugly thing. You'd think they'd all hide in their homes and keep their heads down, but panic did something to people. Some ran in the streets, screaming their heads off while others stepped outside and stopped to stare, not in brave resistance but the kind of dumb madness that comes from a life of peace met suddenly and viciously with harsh violence. He cut a few people down as he went and had arrows shot in others. There were no parents here, no children, no good, hardworking, innocent people—just enemies. Just threats to his home, himself, and Milava. Just dumb bags of meat that brought it on themselves when they murdered his druzhina, Thovin, and sent his body back with a letter that told Oskar to go fuck himself.

They rode into the city and found it just like any other: sprawling, messy, and balanced on the knife's edge of chaos. He'd push it over.

"Torches!" Oskar bellowed.

They lit their torches from a portable oil lamp or personal flint and steel. The torches were carefully prepared with ends wrapped in linen, nailed to the wood, and thoroughly soaked in pig fat from a nearby village's own sty, all stowed on the rear of each man's mount. They burned hot for about ten minutes, then slowly died out. Each man also carried bundles of rushes coated in the same fat; they burned quicker but hotter. He'd light the dry and tight-wrapped rushes and toss them onto smaller thatch roofs, then, when he was out of bundles, toss the torch on a bigger target. He had two out of every three men on burning duty, with the third on interference. Somewhere better defended would see fewer men on burning duty, naturally.

The art of burning a village was one Oskar was quite practiced in. Cities just had more people and more buildings.

"You killed my messenger!" he bellowed. "You killed my peace! You slit its throat, you dogs! This won't stop until I see your Overseer's body hung outside your fucking gates!"

In and out in less than ten minutes was the idea, killing and burning in a bloody, fiery orgy of madness. Heart pounding, eyes watering from the smoky fat, skin hot and burning with the heat and rush of emotion. On a horse, well-armored and armed amongst frightened peasantry, a man felt like a god. He could ride about, laying into anyone he crossed with impunity. Oskar did just that, going through his rushes and torch with haste, then unsheathing his sword once more to join a charge against a sloppy group of men hastily forming up with spears and tools. He and a few others crashed through them, and even if he didn't have a proper warhorse, every mount used for scouting and skirmishes was trained for withstanding Dead, and men weren't any scarier. They crushed the defenders within moments, chopping down anyone they could get to, scattering them to the wind.

A wind that caught the flames and spread them.

Oskar stared about, bloodshot eyes open wild. None of his riders bore torches anymore. Counted them. Was everyone there? He counted again, turned, eyes flicking up to catch a woman in a linen shirt caught alight with embers, leaning out the second-story window of a building aflame, smoke billowing out around her, hair a swirling mess, and eyes blazing bright against the black. She fell and hit the ground with a crack half-swallowed up by the roar of hungry flames and shouting men. Oskar stared at her trying to stand, tottering over, stumbling, head bleeding. How many, he thought, turning, horse stamping nervously, sword tight in his grip as he went to recount. His leg was shaking with the tremor of a dying man. He squeezed his horse with his knees to hold tight. He went to recount. Fuck it.

"On me!" he screamed above the din of chaos. "On me now!" He rode hard for the pallisade, scaring back a small crowd of people who thought to try to run to the river to fetch water. Fools. He rode down a broad-shouldered woman carrying a shoddy bucket, her brow pulled high in shock, mouth gaping open. Hooves smashed her into the mud. They rode through the outskirts of the city, causing more panic among those below.

He had to keep going lest his men stop to loot and enjoy themselves in carnage. He had to keep going lest the residents rally. He had to keep going. Moving. Heart thundering and throat scratchy and eyes burning like they'd been scorched with Feia's vials.

Near the bridge were riders. More than his two, who seemed to be engaged in a messy brawl.

The bloody outriders had swung back more quickly than expected. Shit. Shit! He rode ahead, staring at them, doing the cruel math. There were fifteen or twenty of them. Oskar could try to smash into them, breaking them with a good charge. But what if that failed? Gods, he was thirsty. His mouth felt like sawdust. What if it turned into a melee? His own boys likely had better arms and training, but they were also tired, and then there was the matter of escape. Shit. Risk it and save his two men, or leave them for dead? Try to win a quick fight or be gone? Think of Milava. Think of your new home.

"Stay on me!" Oskar shouted back to his men as he turned his mount to lead the way off to the side. "We've got to go!" They went through a few extended yards over low, feeble fences, smashing gardens and plowing through small livestock pens to reach a narrow road leading down to a shallow point in the river—his second point of escape. They crossed, hooves splashing through the water, harsh breaths of man and beast alike filling the air. Gods, he needed to piss. And drink.

Oskar glanced back at the small bridge. He couldn't tell who was who, but it was easy enough to guess his two men were dead or dying. Looking back, beside the two he'd left, Oskar counted only one missing rider among his band. And since his men knew nothing of the Vasian strategy or numbers, there was nothing to interrogate out of them. Cruel thoughts. Three losses out of about thirty, and what had they achieved? Dozens of homes burned, maybe half a city alight by the time the folk got a handle on it, and at least fifty dead or injured.

It'd be the most scarring thing those citizens would ever experience. They'd look to their leaders for answers, for explanations. Some might want revenge, pushing them to join the war, but he figured a whole lot more would be too scared. They saw what a few dozen could do, then what about thousands?

Say you owned some land, looked over a village or two, maybe were even one of those electors, and your chosen leader just refused to save one of your own. And now, because of that, you've seen hundreds of people displaced, countless food stores burned, and maybe even some of your own killed. Oskar knew what he'd do.

He'd stab his so-called overseer in the back and make a deal with the Vasians.

They rode away from the burning city in silence, hooves pounding the dirt roads in the dark, bearing south and then west, toward home. Enough distance between them and the enemy, and no one gave chase, particularly with a stretch of the river between them.

Each man would glance back occasionally, faces pale and slack from the dump of adrenaline, bodies exhausted, murderous glee faded as they took in the orange light smudged against a dark sky. Like a beacon of the damned. It filled Oskar with something cold and sickening just looking at it. But what was he to do? They killed Thovin. Dumb bastard did this to themselves.

The next day, after they rose from their light slumber in a cluster of buildings seized from now-dead forest-dwelling charcoal burners, he sent a few riders to scout Ermenik while the rest ate and kept watch on the immediate area. An hour later, as Oskar waited at the treeline with anxious impatience, they returned bearing grim expressions. Three bodies were on the wall. All men. All his riders, from what they could tell.

"Back to Vetera," he muttered, feeling like vomiting, feeling like curling up and dying. "We're done here."

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