Bulloch died in the night. The barbarians here coat their weapons with their own dirt. Even the smallest wound can get infected and poison the blood. Too far out from Sarmatian lines for aid. We tried to make a crossing through the moors, but the fog and lack of clear path forced us back. Think the damp made the fever worse. He was rabid by the end. Royce and Harrington had to hold him down so he wouldn’t harm anyone. A strong man, but the drive faded quickly and he was gone.

Too damp to light a pyre. The light would draw the wildmen even if we could. Not enough soil beneath us to bury the poor bastard. We took what gear we could use, and stacked a cairn of stones around the body. The locals will pick it apart when we’ve gone, but what else could we do?

We waited 11 days, but they never returned. Then the storms became too relentless to endure, and we were driven off our station. We circled east and made our way south, hoping that they had left us some sign to follow. Two weeks later, we were passing near Sørjorder holdings along the Windfell Shores when we came across signs of battle. The locals had been massacred in their homes, which had been ransacked and torched. Simple farmers who traded with the Sarmatian villages to the north.

We followed the trail, and after four days of tracking along the coast, had located a tribe of barbarians, holed up in a seaside cave. We attacked at high tide, when the sea cut off any line of retreat. Their numbers were far greater than our own, and they fought like rabid dogs, but they were ragged and fatigued. The storms had hit them hard, ruining food and supplies and promoting sickness. The attack on the farmers must have been an act of desperation.

We found their leader semi-conscious, with his left arm swollen and festered, wrapped in cloth caked in dried blood. He died slowly. Among his trophies, a Peacekeeper sword, but no sign of its brother. Clutching the blade, I hoped that it had been the ruination of the barbarian’s arm. Peacekeepers don’t go down without a fight.            

We’ve spent the winter patrolling these passes, right on the edge of Sarmatia. The raiding hordes from the Scourged Lands have gotten worse in recent times. The snow is deep and the wind finds its way through every crack. We’ve used the furs of mountain wolves caught while hunting for warmth.

Spotted a raiding party in the high passes during deep winter. Making for Allach by a dangerous route, but one unprotected by Sarmatian lancers. Numbers too great to face head-on. The wolf pelts gave me an idea. These wildermen fear the beasts, they kill livestock, and desperate packs of mountain wolves have been known to take down horse and rider. We waited long after nightfall, with the moon veiled. Used wolf-calls to panic the raiders, split them up and cut them off. They fought like desperate men, but broke and fled back the way they came. With our wolf cloaks and howls, we must have seemed like demons to them, man and beast united.

Since then, we have made our own raids against Sørjorder tribes uniting a horde for a spring conquest, harrying isolated bands before they could unite under the banner of a newly risen Hrun. By winter’s end, we’d broken the back of the gathering war band and the tribes had dispersed south.     

The men enjoy the irony. We’ve become the most feared wolf pack in the Scourged Lands.

Bit of a delicate situation back in Areeve. Force of Sørjorders had captured the Sarmatian fort, taking hostages, both Atharian and Sarmatian officials among their number. Local Sarmatian commander wanted to storm the keep, overwhelm the occupants and drive them away. The other Atharian troops elected to wait for direct orders from command. The tribesmen would have killed their captives before any action was taken.

We went in while Sarmatian command was still arguing with the Atharian officers. A few of the men disguised themselves as Southron scouts and infiltrated the fort among a group of newly-arrived tribesmen. The rest of us scaled the walls and hit the fort from multiple angles. Came at the central keep through the cellars, pulled the hostages from beneath them. Left the front door open for the Sarmatians, and were gone before anyone had noticed. Risky move, I know, would have been thrown in the brig for insubordination if any of my direct superiors had been involved. But there was a job to be done, and we did it right.        

We rode north with lightened hearts. Last time we passed this way we had lost too many men, and had too little to show for it. Now, the men joked and laughed, revelling in our victories. Eager to sleep in real beds and eat real food after so long in the wild.

Arrived in Volcairn and reported to Commandant Kreel in Atharan Command. I handed over my reports, but he wanted a full debrief. Word of our actions and their impact on the prosperity of southern Sarmatia had obviously reached him, and after hearing my account of events, he cracked a smile and handed over a wooden box – a Captain’s badge.

The men’s celebrations redoubled upon hearing the news. We sat around the tavern fire long into the night, drinking too much mead. The men were eager to tell our tales to the gathered band of Sarmatain riders, who were particularly impressed with the accounts of our actions last winter. Of course, the retelling got more and more embellished as the mead flowed freely.

I suppose it was inevitable, but Bradley made it official: we are The Wolves. So obvious it could only have come out as a stroke of drunken genius, but I reckon it’ll stick. The tavern was shaking with chants of “Wolves!” and wolf howls by the end of the night.         

Our ship arrived yesterday, when the sun was at its peak. The perfect time to first lay eyes upon Althara they say. And they are not wrong: The sea is the deepest azure, perfectly clear, and as I stood on deck, I watched shoals of the most oddly-coloured fish dart and weave under the hull. Land shimmered into sight; the distinct golden-yellow that has won it its name. We passed scores of fishing boats and pleasure craft, their triangular sails the most brilliant white.

I spotted the famed lighthouse first. Far offshore, at the end of the Great Quay. It is said that the first Atharian colonists lit it with a flame carried all this way east from the Grand Cathedral in Mendingrad, and that it has never gone out. Beyond, the harbour bustles with activity, the epicentre of trade along the Gold Coast. Over a forest of masts rises the city, towers and minarets pointing to the clear sky, gold-capped domes gleaming in the afternoon sun.

It’s little wonder that this city is considered the crown jewel of Atharan’s colonies in Shada. I’ll have plenty of time to judge the other Western cities and towns here in the coming months, as we are scheduled to complete a deployment in each colony along the Gold Coast.  

Three weeks in the baking sun and sand, guarding this researcher and his team. He’s not what I expected from an academic - leather coat, hat, knows how to handle himself in a fight. At first I thought he was just leading us aimlessly through the desert, but he was convinced he knew the location of some ancient ruins of great importance. His hunch proved correct, and now we stand guard as he explores the ruins and oversees their excavation. How he managed to find this exact spot in the endless desert I will never know.

The Kashah of Pardaen is less than pleased with our presence – though he has no ownership over this swath of desert. He claims the ruins are of religious importance, but the fact is he desires any wealth and treasure hidden within. We’ve seen off the men he has sent to deal with us, but we must be wary of their cunning. When direct attack failed, they released poisonous snakes while the camp slept. This unnerved the Doctor, but we’ve been here long enough to know how to deal with a few blacktail vipers.   

We’ve spent some time trying to break smuggling operations across the southern Abyssal Sands. Trade is the lifeblood of the sultanates, caliphates and merchant-states, and the desert is the barrier that separates the supply from the demand. Smuggling in Atharan is a few fisherman and a boat with a false hull. The operations here are professional, wealthy, and well connected. They could run a state if they put their minds to it – in fact, some do. Organising coups and overthrowing local leaders, for the right price or to seize control of the region.

There is a standing bounty for stolen goods retrieved from the smugglers. We’ve pulled enough successful operations that I wouldn’t be surprised if this bounty was reconsidered before the coffers run dry.

Recently we’ve been collaborating with 9^th Company. Caught a few of them running an operation on the side. Concealing some of the confiscated goods and selling them back to whichever dealer offered the highest price. Lucky I discovered them first. The local Kufurah would have had the right to behead them for the treachery. They’ll face Atharan justice instead.

This is the first time I’ve passed through Kabal since the fall of the Pash. You’d think that battle had never taken place. I recall scenes of utter destruction, buildings levelled as the sorcerers’ barriers fell, streets turned to glass under a relentless magical firestorm, citizens screaming and fleeing in panic. But the sorcerers here are powerful, and well versed in magical conflict and the reconstruction necessary afterwards. They conjure walls and streets from the ground beneath their feet, and what would take weeks or months to accomplish back in Atharan is completed in a matter of days.

Still not sure how I feel about the whole situation. Not sure that Atharan Command would have been so eager to award me the Major’s Star if they hadn’t been trying to overshadow General Bradbury’s incompetence that led to the whole mess getting out of control. I guess it doesn’t really mean much; out here it’s just me and the Wolves, and the job to be done. We’ve never been ones to be easily impressed by rank or shiny armour. Respect is earned, not bought or demanded by some badge or title.   

I’d almost forgotten what day it was until Donovan showed up to breakfast with a few bunches of White Teardrops, or something that closely resembles its blossom. Don’t know where he managed to find the flowers in this parched land. Some of the newer transfers questioned why the Wolves were wearing the flower; the more seasoned Peacekeepers at the base know not to ask. We went about our daily duties with an air of solemnity and introspection. It’s funny how old memories can reach out of the past and weigh you down.

After 8th bell, we sat on a dune outside the base, watching the setting sun. Mason lit a fire as the cool night winds blew across the sands. Bradley produced a bottle of Westfold Whiskey he must have paid a month’s wages for in Althara. One or two stories were told, but no-one was much in the mood for talking. Not on this night. We sat and watched the sky darken, the stars twinkle into view. Hannigan started the song, her voice sharp and clear in the night air. The rest of us picked up the melody, the breeze carrying the words out into the empty desert. In the firelight, I looked from face to face, seeing the same sadness I knew was visible on my own. When the fire had burned down to embers, we quietly bid each other good night and returned to base.

The third attack in a week. A market this time. These bastards won’t stop until they’ve driven every colonist out of Shada. Their leader is so damn arrogant: he shows up in a town, giving sermons and great speeches glorifying his actions. Always one step ahead, long gone by the time we get there. We’re left to face down a mob he’s riled up into a frenzy of hatred and xenophobia.

The non-natives have started retreating to the cities by the coast, as if that will do any good. These terrorists don’t fly under any banner nor pledge allegiance to any state. They could just as easily show up in Althara or Lathian as Kaseen or Al-Pahara.

We were so goddamn close this time. The explosion shook half the city. They set it off just as we were closing in. Murran is dead; Batran won’t walk again. The rest of us will live, but it will take us time to recover and get on the trail again. Time we don’t have.  

It was over eight years ago that I first arrived in Althara, and tonight is to be my last night upon these shores. I’ve signed on for a fourth tour. It’s strange; I’ve spent so long fighting for Atharan abroad that I’d be a foreigner if I was to return to it. Many of the King’s 11^th are rotating out and heading back to Atharan, but the old Wolves are too loyal and stubborn to go with them. Donovan joked that they’d still be following me when we depart this realm and are cast straight to The Void. I fear he’s not wrong.

Not all the faces are the same as those that stood beside me when we stepped off that ship docked by the Great Quay so many years ago. We’ve lost more than a few, but gained some also. I’d give my life for every last one of them, and expect that they’d do the same for me.

Our destination is the Veiled Shores, across the Hadean Ocean. It seems that Atharan has interests in the lands along the coast, and the resources available from the shrouded continent beyond. But the journey is currently too perilous, and the safety upon arrival too uncertain, to make permanent colonies viable. I guess that’s where we come in. “Protect the people and lands of Atharan, its allies and supporters – wherever they may be” – so it says in the Peacekeeper’s Oath.