Varg growled in the negative. “Nasaug was already pushing the letter of the codes by training makers to fight. Bringing demons into a warrior camp? He would have been forced to kill some of his own officers to keep his place.” Varg squinted at a team of Aleran engineers who were using earthcrafting to soften the stone so that they could drive the posts of the palisade into it.

Tavi watched them for a moment, considering. “There was more to it than that.”

Varg inclined his head slightly. “Can’t just tell a soul it is free, Tavar. Freedom must be done for oneself. Important that the slaves created their own freedom. Nasaug gave them advisors. They did everything else on their own.”

Tavi glanced up at Varg. “Are you going to be forced to kill some of your officers tonight?”

Varg was silent for a moment. Then he shrugged. “Possible. But I think unlikely.”

“Why?”

“Because their opposition would be based upon tradition. Tradition needs a world to exist. And the world has been destroyed, Aleran. My world. Yours, too. Even if we could defeat the vord tomorrow, nothing would change that.”

Tavi frowned. “Do you really think that?”

Varg flicked his ears in the affirmative. “We are in uncharted waters, Tavar. And the storm has not yet abated. If we are still alive when it is over, we will find ourselves on unknown shores.”

Tavi sighed. “Yes. And then what?”

Varg shrugged. “We are enemies, Tavar. What do enemies do?”

Tavi thought about it for a moment. Then he said, “I only know what they did in the old world.”

Varg stopped in his tracks. He eyed Tavi for several seconds, then shook his ears and began walking again. “Wasted breath to talk about it now.”

Tavi nodded. “Survive today. Then face tomorrow.”

Varg flicked his ears in agreement. They had crossed into the Canim side of the camp as they spoke. Varg came to a halt outside a large, black tent. There was an odd smell of incense in the air, and the stench of rotting meat. From inside the tent, a deep-bellied drum kept a slow, reverberating cadence. Deep voices chanted in the snarling tongue of the wolf-warriors.

Varg stopped outside the tent and drew his sword in a long, slow rasp of steel on brass. Then he hurled it point down into the earth before the tent. It sank into the ground with a thump, and the bubbling whisper of its quivering went on for several seconds.

The chanting voices inside the tent stopped.

“I am here regarding the matter of the dead makers at Antillus,” Varg called.

There was a low murmur of voices. Then a dozen of them spoke in ragged concert. “Their blood cries out for justice.”

“Agreed,” said Varg in a very hard voice. “What wisdom have the bloodspeakers to give such justice a shape?”