Lochland stared at his father's axe, its head worn and dull. A stark reminder of his inability to properly fell trees. He had failed his family. Unable to fill his father's shoes, and now… he looked up at the caravan of wagons.

  Three were filled with gaunt-faced youths, sickly old men, and those bearing the marks of hardship. One wagon, its iron cage rattling with each bump, held manacled prisoners. Their eyes hollow and resigned. All had signed themselves over to Lord Darius's Famine Crusade.

  "You look a bit ill, my boy. Don't fret, I was a soldier back during the collapse. I think I could take you lot and maybe form a serviceable shield wall, eh?" A frail old man, a tarnished blade in a makeshift scabbard at his hip, surveyed the wagon with a surprising spark in his eyes.

  "Hah, you'll take these half-starved street urchins and turn them into a fighting unit during a wagon ride, old man? No, best we just try not to hit one another while we're flailing away in the dark." A middle-aged man, his stout staff gripped tightly in a hand missing two fingers, scowled at the elder.

  "We don't need training, just to listen. If we take the ones with close-range weapons, especially him with the shield, and put them up front, then you, me, and the boy with the pitchfork can strike from behind. That girl has a cooking knife, for Amalta's sake, have her hold a torch and stay in back too. Safer for us all to organize."

  The elder looked around for support. One boy, his barrel lid shield dented and scarred, nodded in agreement. "Bah, safer for you is what you mean. Why not give that blade to someone young enough to make use of it?" The middle-aged man and the elder locked eyes across the wagon, a silent challenge passing between them.

  "Calm down, you ornery old goats. We're all likely about to die together. Doesn't matter much to me who goes first." The girl with the cooking knife spoke with surprising confidence.

  Lochland looked out at the rolling green hills, the morning sun casting long shadows, and tried to savor the moment of peace as the bickering continued. He hoped his mother and sister were alright. When the peddlers had come to take him to Barrowfell, they had dropped off the first round of rations he had signed himself over for. His mother was sad, but they would need food if his sister was to recover from her fever. At least this way, he had some kind of chance, rather than all of them starving. One of the last three to sign themselves over to the crusade from his town of Ashwood had lasted three weeks even. That was a long time to receive rations, and upon their death, a Martyr's Meal was sent to the home of the family, they could live off that for a while.

  "What kind of Valk do you hope to meet?" The kid with the barrel lid was speaking to him.

  "I hope I find one like the Hawk of Grovlund. Noble, part of an established cluster. I would be able to live the high life and make decisions for myself with a Valk like that at my side." Lochland thought for a moment, he hadn't really thought what might happen if he did become a Warsoul. It felt like something that only happened in tales.

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  Lochland had wrapped a cloth around two parts of the axe's handle to improve the grip. One from his mother, one from his sister. He smiled at this. "A Valk that provides for its Warsoul is all I ask, I suppose. Your weaponry is well fashioned for something so homemade." The boy smiled at his chair leg club. "Yeah, back home me and my family are carpenters. We have probably worked wood your family felled for us." He set the club down in the dirty hay and reached a calloused hand out toward Lochland, who almost reflexively recoiled. In these times, strangers had become a dangerous thing. "I'm Eiric of Cobbleport," he said. Lochland grabbed his hand firmly. "Lochland of Ashwood."

  The elder saw this exchange and said, "See? This is good, we should know each other's names if we're watching each other's backs. I'm Eldrin of Vael." He looked at the middle-aged man across from him almost smugly. "Torvin of Cobbleport," he said begrudgingly. "Brynn of Barrowfell," said the girl with the cook knife. "P-p-porvin of Durdenshire," the boy with the pitchfork added, clearing his throat and looking a bit ill as he had all ride, his eyes darting from face to face. "Maerna of Durdenshire," said a young woman who Lochland thought had been sleeping this whole ride, her eyes however, had been watching every person in the wagon. Eldrin nodded around as the warm sun beat down upon their tattered clothes and the dirty golden hay. "Looks like I can see Quarryfield Abbey on the horizon. May we all find the favor of the Valk, my new friends. I think with the shield and close weapons up front, then polearms behind, and torches in the back we will have a great formation." He looked around again. "Does my plan seem sound, or did someone have a better one?" Torvin sighed in exasperation at this.

  The wagons pulled up to an overgrown iron gate on the side of the hill just outside the abbey proper. Bloodred flowers dotted the vines and wove a verdant tapestry over what was surely a gateway to suffering and death for today's crusade. The tunnels here led from underneath the abbey to the city of Cobbleport. Something had been attacking civilians and bringing them here until they collapsed the entrance by Cobbleport. Now Darius was looking to clear out the creatures inhabiting the abbey, and he wanted to start with the vermin-infested tunnels. Dire rats had been seen, but that often foretold more. Lochland shivered in the warm sun and saw Porvin retch over the side of the wagon, his face ashen. Torvin grabbed him and tried to speak some steel into his bones, but he just looked paler. Eldrin looked amused, but Eiric remained focused on the gate, his posture tense. Lochland hoped he could mirror that as he gripped his axe and squared his shoulders.

  "Alright, gather up you lot. You have 15 minutes, then it's in you go." Their handlers, faces grim and unreadable, had been short with them from the start, herding them like cattle. This caused Lochland to look toward the caged prisoners. "Eldrin, what are they here for?" Lochland asked.

  "Eh? Oh, them, poor saps signed up rather than face the noose. If they survive, they'll get a chance at redemption, but they go in first to trip traps and draw out enemies. Be glad they're here, they'll save us a couple deaths more than likely." Eldrin began coughing, a wet, ugly sound. "You alright, old man?" Eiric helped him up.

  "Off with you!" Eldrin shoved him away. "Why do you think me and any other old, lonely git is here? Warsouls have great vitality, could buy me some years. So no worries, lad, after this trip, I'll be right as rain. I'll prove my worth by the blade, I will." He smiled proudly at Eiric, who shook his head.

  Lochland looked away toward the prisoners. So they might be cattle the lord was hoping to fatten into Warsouls, but these were simply headed for the slaughterhouse. He watched their handlers feed them water from a small, chipped cup. He had heard the Valk empower Warsouls by having them drink mana from blessed cups, and this felt a pale mockery of that. As one girl dipped her head toward the cup, Lochland was shocked to see she had slipped her bonds. He almost said something, but then he remembered, they were both warriors in the same crusade, best they all have a fighting chance. Cause in the end that was what it was about, the lord needed struggle and battle to awaken Warsouls. Sending defenseless men and women simply to die felt unnecessary in the face of that goal.

  "Alright, after the prisoners go, team one will go in and take the left tunnel, your team will take the central tunnel, and team three the right. According to the maps, you should meet at the other side of the abbey, and we will have the wagons waiting. Each team will have a handler standing apart, simply prepared to extract any Warsouls that might awaken before risking them further."