The barracks of the Household Guard were located in the shadow of the curtain wall, a squat stone building that smelled permanently of wet wool, stale ale, and unwashed men.

  Casimir kicked the door open. A gust of autumn wind swirled in behind him, scattering the sawdust on the floor.

  The room was dim, lit only by a dying hearth and a few tallow candles guttering in pools of wax. Six men occupied the space—his "personal retinue." In reality, they were the dregs of the Kovac army. Men too old, too young, or too broken to serve in Stefan’s vanguard or Jan’s patrol.

  Three of them were hunched over a round table, playing a game of dice. Two were asleep in their bunks. One—a boy barely sixteen named Davin—was polishing a helmet that looked two sizes too big for him.

  "On your feet," Casimir said. His voice was still thick from the swelling in his lip, but he pitched it low and sharp.

  Sergeant Kaelen, a man whose face was a topographic map of scar tissue from the Border Wars, looked up from the dice. He held a tankard of ale in a hand missing two fingers. He saw Casimir—the blood, the bruising, the hunting leathers.

  He sighed—the heavy, rattling exhale of a man who knew his quiet night was over. He nudged the man next to him.

  "Lord Casimir," Kaelen said, his voice gravelly. He set his tankard down and stood up. It wasn't a snap-to-attention salute, but a stiff, pained straightening of old bones. "A late hour for the solar."

  The other men followed suit. They were slow, and they looked exhausted, but they stood. They knew the hierarchy. Even the spare heir commanded more authority than they possessed.

  "Pack your kits," Casimir said, acknowledging Kaelen with a nod. "Full marching order. We leave within the hour."

  "Where to?" Merrick, a lanky archer with a nervous twitch, asked, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "The coast? Are we guarding a vineyard?"

  "North," Casimir said. He walked to the weapon rack, inspecting the steel. "The Whispering Pine-Barrens. We’ve been granted stewardship of Blackwood."

  The silence that followed was absolute.

  Kaelen exchanged a look with Merrick. It wasn't fear, exactly. It was the look of men who had just been told the executioner was sharpening his axe.

  "Blackwood?" Davin whispered, clutching the helmet to his chest. "My Lord... it’s November. The Frost-Gate closes in a week. The stories say the Orcs there—"

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  "I know what the stories say," Casimir snapped, though he kept his voice level. He pulled a sword from the rack. The blade was pitted with rust near the crossguard. He shoved it back into the scabbard.

  Useless.

  He turned to face them. He saw the resignation in their eyes. They wouldn't mutiny—they were too beaten down for that—but they had already accepted death.

  He needed to give them a reason to live. He needed to give them a problem to solve.

  "Kaelen," Casimir asked. "What is the standard engagement protocol for a heavy Orc infantry charge?"

  Kaelen blinked, thrown off by the sudden tactical quiz. "Shield wall, my Lord. Brace spears. Hold the line."

  "Wrong," Casimir said. "We have six men. If we form a shield wall against a hundred Orcs, we will be paste in ten seconds. We cannot fight them with steel."

  He began to pace, his mind racing.

  "Orcs are superstitious," Casimir said. "They fear fire, and they fear what they cannot see. They rely on momentum." He looked at Davin. "Davin, can you fletch arrows?"

  "I... yes, my Lord."

  "Good. Forget the broadheads. I want bodkin points for piercing hide, and I want rags soaked in pitch for every third shaft."

  He turned to Merrick. "You were a sapper before you were injured, weren't you?"

  Merrick nodded. "Aye, my Lord. Before the knee took an arrow."

  "Blackwood is a ruin. That means loose stone, timber, and choke points." Casimir grabbed a piece of charcoal from the hearth and began sketching rapidly on the table. "We aren't going to meet them in the field. We’re going to turn the village into a kill-box. Caltrops in the snow. Tripwires. Pits dug into the permafrost."

  He looked up. "We don't need to kill them all. We just need to make them bleed enough that they decide we aren't worth the effort. We are fighting a psychological war, not a physical one."

  Kaelen leaned over the table, looking at the drawing. A spark of interest—professional curiosity—lit his good eye. "But my Lord... we have no pitch. We have no caltrops. The Quartermaster won't release siege supplies to a solely appointed steward."

  "I know," Casimir said. "Which is why we aren't going to ask him."

  He checked the dagger at his belt. "My brother Stefan is currently in the South. And Jan is on patrol. It is a good thing they are so generous."

  Kaelen nodded slowly, a glint of understanding entering his good eye.

  "Take Davin and Merrick," Casimir ordered. "Go to the lower stores. I want six barrels of lamp oil. I want three crates of mining explosives—the unstable stuff they use for the quarries. I want two coils of heavy iron chain and every bear trap you can find."

  "The Quartermaster will demand a signature," Kaelen warned.

  "Then sign it," Casimir said. "Sign it 'Commander Stefan Kovac.' Tell him it's for a classified operation in the Weeping Valley."

  Kaelen’s scarred lip twitched upward. It wasn't quite a smile, but the tension in his shoulders dropped. "Forgery and theft. It’s been a while since we had a proper objective, my Lord."

  "It’s not theft," Casimir said, opening the door. "It’s aggressive inheritance. Move. We meet at the North Gate in one hour. If you aren't there, I leave you to explain to my father why you're still in his city."

  The men moved. They didn't scramble with fear; they moved with purpose. They finally had orders that made sense.

  Casimir watched them go, then looked down at the charcoal drawing on the table.

  Let Stefan have the glory, Casimir thought, wiping the charcoal dust from his fingers. I’ll kill the bastards with math.