"For someone with an empty stomach,

there is neither obedience nor fear."



From an early age I had dreamed of being someone important.

A valiant hero.

A powerful wizard.

An influential magistrate.

But I was only the miller's son from a small frontier town, and I had realized very early on how few chances fate had decided to give me.

I wasn't born with the Gift, so I couldn't be a wizard.

I could never afford membership in the Imperial Academy, so I could not become a judge or an official.

Only the hero's path remained, but even then I would have had to start from the bottom.

When I was still a schoolchild, I had told my parents that I would join the legions when I grew up, and they had nearly thrown me out of the house. Because on top of that, being a servant of the Empire wasn't a profession to be proud of where I grew up.

But I stubbornly had not lost heart, and in the end, my perseverance had been rewarded; after only a year of leaving my home to enlist, I was already a Decurion of the Fifteenth Legion "Invicta."

I had personally asked to be assigned to that task, so that I could return to my birthplace and have the opportunity to demonstrate to everyone that I could be a soldier of the Empire without denying or forgetting my origins.

As a Decurion, they had assigned me to the small fort outside Dundee. Officially, I was second in command, but since our Centurion liked getting drunk at the tavern more than doing his duty, I basically took his place.

Since the peace agreements with the Union of Patria forbade the presence of large garrisons in every region overlooking the banks of the Jesi River, we were only a small group of soldiers, but coming almost all from the territories of old Eirinn we felt comfortable, and we all knew each other.

Obviously, I didn't intend to rot away in that suburban garrison, and I was counting on putting myself in the spotlight at the first opportunity to get a new promotion as soon as possible.

Unfortunately, fate mocks us, and enjoys putting the toughest trials in front of us when they are least expected.



West Eirinn had never been the friendliest place in the world, and stockpiling after harvest to get through the winter was normal for us.

Daemon, whose guesses had almost never turned out to be inaccurate, had suggested putting aside even more food than usual, since according to some instrument he had built, the upcoming winter would be much worse than usual. Obviously, he had been right, and luckily for us the mayor had listened to him by giving orders to stockpile a mountain of food.

That same food that was now burning before our eyes.

The roar was so strong that it threw us all out of bed in the middle of the night, and when we arrived, we could only helplessly watch the product of so many months of hard work literally go to ashes.

The only consolation was that we managed to prevent the fire from spreading and save something, but when the sun came up, the barn and almost all its contents were gone.

Between the militiamen and legionaries, we spent almost an hour accusing each other of what happened under the incredulous, worried, and rightly hostile eyes of the inhabitants. Daemon called us all back to order.

"Enough! You look like a bunch of fighting brats! Instead of arguing about who is more guilty, let's try to understand what happened and how to fix this disaster."

"You're right," I growled at that idiot Beek. "It's not worth it."

"Be careful how you talk, kid. I was in uniform when you were still wetting the bed."

Without the Commander and I stopping for a moment to peck at each other, we inspected the inside.

"I don't understand that explosion we heard. There is nothing in here that could have produced something like that."

"You're wrong," Daemon answered as he lifted a charred sack of flour off the ground. "Flour is almost as flammable as gunpowder. It takes nothing to trigger it. If you add a closed room filled with dust, plus an old building almost entirely made of wood..."

"So it was an accident," the Mayor said.

"Probably. Maybe some crates fell and caused a spark."

My orderly Jorn, a contemporary of mine from the North who had never seen the frontier and his problems in his life, was in low spirits. I had tried to explain to the Centurion Costanzio that he was not yet ready to take command of the night patrol, and now he was trying in every way to remedy what he considered his personal mistake by exploiting his famous intuition.

"Decurion, come here! I've got something!"

Following his voice, we came close to the wall, where we saw a sort of black line on the floor emerging from a crack in the stone, which continued straight up to where most of the flour had been stored.

"Now we know what happened," Daemon said.

"What do you mean?"

"This is the mark left by a primer. Someone ran a fuse under the wall to set the mounds of flour on fire. The closed environment, dry wood, and other flammable materials did the rest."

"So it was..."

"Sabotage."

Just what Beek was waiting for to rock out.

"I knew it! It was definitely those reunionist bastards! The same ones that you Mayor persist in not wanting to repress!"

"Now don't start again. This is certainly not the way of the reunonists."

"Shut up, brat in armor. What do you think you know? I've been chasing those wayward scumbags for years – they're nothing but a pack of animals!"

"Septimus is right, Commander. The reunionists see themselves as patriots fighting for the people and for the reunification of Eirinn. They would not starve an entire region teeming with their sympathizers."

"You said it right, Sheriff! This place is a den of snakes! And I'm willing to bet that among them there are those who had this brilliant idea! Who do you think will be the first to suffer from food shortages? Militiamen and soldiers of course! But if they hope that this will be enough to bend us, they have miscalculated! Vig!"

"Sir?"

"Call the general meeting! I want everyone in the barracks in ten minutes and a full hostile list by tonight! We will eliminate those bastards once and for all!"

The Mayor and I, on the other hand, had other ideas on our minds.

"What do we do now, Sheriff? It will be almost impossible to get through the winter without this food."

"The Mayor is right. What we managed to save will never be able to feed everyone."

"I'll go talk to the Governor, although I'm not sure he'll listen to me."

"And do you really think that pig will agree to share his food with us? He'd rather let us starve."

"Mayor, I suggest you pay more attention to what you say. With the Commander in that state, now is not the time to say things like that."

"The hell with Beek, boy. He is nothing but a butcher. The only reason I can't get rid of him is because geeks like him are always welcome in places like this."



Unfortunately, Beek had not joked that he wanted to stamp out reunionism in the region for good.

That same night the raids began – home to home, door to door. Anyone who was even minimally suspected of having belonged or still being part of some reunionist cell was surprised in his sleep, beaten almost to death, and taken away.

The few who were lucky enough to be from respectable families or with the right connections were locked up in prison awaiting phantom trials. All the others ended up being sent directly to the gallows, obviously not before having been properly tortured in an attempt to track down other alleged terrorists or reveal the names of the real perpetrators of the attack on the barn.

The short road between the courthouse and the gallows was traveled non-stop by carts loaded with desperate people, and there was not a moment's rest for the executioner.

In a few days, a climate of terror had established itself throughout the region, recalling the darkest period of the border disputes with the Union. Anyone could be arrested, and since every name reported to the militia was worth two goldies, whether true or false, there was no shortage of informers – it was the perfect opportunity to settle old pending disputes.

Meanwhile the winter was getting worse and worse. Not a day went by without snow, and temperatures had dropped to the point that even the Jesi had begun to freeze in some places.

Daemon had done everything he could to get the Governor to open the granaries, but all he'd gotten were two wagons meant only for the militia and garrison. Someone had had the bright idea of suggesting the fat fellow do something to boost his popularity among the local gentry, and he had thought of turning an event a trivial like the Winter Ball into a party worthy of the Emperor himself.

Meanwhile our fellow citizens were starving.

Most of my companions and I obviously did everything possible to share our already meager rations with the people, but between the hunger, the cold and the never-ending executions, anger mounted more and more. Some of us were even afraid to venture out into the street alone, so great was their dread of being lynched by a mob that seemed so close to rioting.

And through it all, my hands were tied.

My superior, the Centurion Constanzio was a good-for-nothing who couldn't wait to finish the three years of compulsory service that all the nobles of the Empire had to do in order to escape back to Maligrad to enjoy his father's legacy, and wouldn't lift a finger to stop Beek and the militia fanatics following him. Indeed, in a couple of cases he ordered us to actively collaborate in the roundups, perhaps thinking that discovering the identity of the saboteurs could be a good way to shorten his military service.

If the situation in Dundee and among humans in general was bad, it was even worse in the ghetto.

Those poor souls ate almost nothing, but they were always expected to give more than they were actually capable of.

Some others and I would have liked to do something for them too, but we could only visit the mines and construction sites to curb the sadism of the militiamen, and seeing them like this made us feel very bad.

No one deserves such a miserable existence, no matter his or her crime.

Obviously, the arrests, tortures and executions led to nothing, and a month after the fire, no one still had any idea who was responsible for triggering that explosive situation.

All that time, the other legionaries and I had observed without reacting, but it got to the point where we all decided together that we had to do something before the situation exploded – not because our legionary duty required it, but rather because these were our people. Though Beek and his butchers seemed to have forgotten it, we were all sons of Eirinn, ready to give our lives for each other.

At first, we began to get on the militia's way by trumpeting orders from above to limit their raiding activities. Since they were nothing more than legionaries without insignias – civilians lent to the army and put under the legion's authority – our orders always overruled theirs.

Therefore, we started handing out medals for merit. To wear one pinned on the dress was enough to be recognized as a faithful servant of the Empire and prove any claim of cooperation with the reunionists to be absurd.

But these were only expedients that were of little use – also because, as I feared, many refused our help or wear the medals, with the result of giving the militiamen further pretexts to justify their arrests.

We had to find a way to resolve that situation as quickly as possible, or the way I saw it, there was a real risk of a riot.

Luckily for us, Jorn's brain had never stopped working. It so happened that he was the first to discover what none of us had been able to understand.

"Decurion, I was thinking. What if what may seem like sabotage is nothing more than an attempt to cover up for something else? Maybe a theft?"

"Impossible. We have carefully searched the barn and its surroundings. Even assuming they managed to evade the guards, there was nothing to indicate that anything had been taken that night."

"You are right. But there is another possibility that we have not considered."

"And what would that be?"

"Whoever committed this theft intended to earn a big profit from it, stealing enough provisions to justify the risk of getting caught. Moving that much food all at once without leaving a trace would be difficult for anyone, especially now that snow and mud make roads impassable. However, if it's little by little, everything becomes much easier."

"Are you saying they would have kept burglarizing the barn for days?"

"Or maybe even more. As suggested by the Sheriff, the barn has been closed and monitored since the end of autumn. Getting in and out despite surveillance wouldn't have been difficult for professionals, provided they looted the supplies little by little."

"If this is true, then I'm afraid it will be useless to look for them. They could be anywhere by now."

"No, I don't think so. Of course, they can't hope to resell food here, but certainly we aren't the only ones who have been put to the test by winter. However, moving such a load in the middle of winter and with the militia pounding every path day and night in search of rebels can't be easy at all."

"Are you telling me they might still be here around?!"

"Probably. That's why they staged the sabotage, so we wouldn't find out about the theft, and they'd be able to escape at the earliest opportunity unnoticed."

If Jorn's hypothesis was correct, we still had to act quickly, before the thieves had time to get rid of even part of the stolen goods.

But could we hope to find them if they had been so careful to go unnoticed? Once again, my friend had accurate intuition.

"Although they probably planned to resell the stolen goods on their own, they could have turned to a smuggler. And we know that there is a very powerful one right here."



I'd never been in Borg's presence, but standing in front of him reminded me why five hundred years later, there was still someone who believed the Empire's treatment of his kind was right and proper.

That pig was so sure of his being untouchable that he built a warehouse overflowing with precious goods a stone's throw from the Via Magna, and even had humans at his service as bodyguards.

His office was rather humble, in contrast to the rich robes and jewels with which he loved to dress himself.

"So? What can I do for the respectable delegates of the Fifteenth Legion?"

"We need information."

"Expensive goods. I suppose you have enough to pay for it."

We knew that everything had a price for Borg, including information – and since the legion had unsurprisingly denied us access to the funds we had been forced to make a collection among ourselves to raise some money.

The kobold and lizard standing behind us chuckled at the sight of that half-empty bag that had cost us so much sacrifice. Instead, Borg said nothing, sliding the coins across the desk and smiling.

"I'm at your disposal."

"We would like to know if in the last few months you have been contacted by someone who has proposed to buy or receive stolen goods," said Jorn. "Mainly food, but also working tools, animal fat, and furs."

"My boy, if you knew me you should know that my dealings are perfectly legal. My clients are all respectable people, and as an honest merchant, I devotedly obey the laws of the Empire governing trade. I would never do something as dishonest as buying and selling the results of a robbery."

"You are not a merchant, you are a smuggler."

Jorn had a light in his eyes I'd never seen before, staring at that pig as if he wanted to jump on him and turn him into bacon.

"You seem to know a lot about me, boy."

"I come from the province of Tingas, where you also lived before moving here. My father is one of the men you conned with your furs business."

Impressed by his courage, I too decided to put all fears aside.

"Now listen to me, you damned pig. We both know we can't hurt you. What we can do though is make your job extremely difficult. I will give orders to thoroughly inspect every stone that leaves this place, I will have the guards and customs officers on the bridge changed at least five times a day. You'll have to pay so many bribes to get your wares around that you won't even have enough left to pay your men. So now give up the honest merchant story and tell us what you know."

His two guardians were ready to pounce on us, and both of us had our hands on the hilt of our swords already. Instead, Borg nodded to them, indicating that they calm down, and lit one of his famous Torian cigars.

"No wonder he's got his eye on you."

"What are you talking about?"

"Never mind. Anyway yes, they came to me. About a month ago."

"Who were they?"

"Foreigners. Bandits. Probably Torians. They asked me if I was interested in smuggling stolen food, but I kicked them out and told them not to come back. Like I said, I don't share deals with people like that."

"Do you have any idea where they might be hiding?"

"If I were a punter, which I'm not, I'd bet on no man's land, somewhere along the riverbanks."

"Right where the treaty with the Union prevent us from entering in force."

"At this point, the agreement between us is fulfilled. If you don't mind, I have a lot to do. I salute you, gentlemen."

Once outside, Jorn and I discussed the situation.

"Do you think they might be still there?"

"The bridge has been under constant surveillance since Beek went on the rampage. And even if the river is partially frozen, I would never risk trying to cross it, carrying several quintals of stolen goods with me. I think they're still around."

"The problem is that only the guards assigned to watch the bridge are allowed to enter no man's land. How can we search such a vast area without our comrades' help?"

And the worst was yet to come. As we rode back to the village, our comrade Finn galloped towards us, as pale as if he had looked death in the face.

"Decurion, we have a serious problem!"

"What now?"

"The ghetto! You must come quickly!"