Role

Chapter 3

Zorn, head of the so-called "expedition," had begun to rue
the day he had taken The Bloodoath. He could no longer
tell if this fiasco was part of The Emperor's madness or if
the cursed Specter accompanying the caravan was the true
source of this misery.

Blades hated Blacks, this was well known, but each night
in his tent Zorn found himself wishing that an Ice Wyrm
would swallow the damn Death-Mage, or at the very least,
himself.

On the surface the task was simple enough: Transport one-
hundred Imperial slaves and a garrison of twenty Sheathed
Blades to an Imperial Outreach named Frostfingers. It had
been, five Emperors ago, a village of Cloud Giants or was
it Frost Giants, Zorn could never remember. An Imperial
assault had left the locals dead or driven away and it had
become one of the most far-flung outposts of The Empire.

The slaves, fify men, forty women, and ten children had
dwindled to about sixty all-told due to the cold. The
garrison was down to eighteen. One had been taken by a wolf.
Zorn was nearly certain the Specter had taken the other.
What a cursed lot this was.

He could not glean what the purpose of this misery was, but
it was not his place to question the Elite who had handed
him the papers, emblazoned with the Codex and stamped with
the seal of The Emperor. Why had he not joined The Blood
Tribunal? He could be sipping wine in Seantryn Modan at this
very moment, not freezing his balls off at the end of the
world.