“Try some sugar,” Edmund suggested, ladling in a spoonful. “And cream,” he added, dumping a dollop in the cup.

Herzer stirred and then sipped again, smiling appreciatively. “Now that’s more like it.”

“Not as good as a cup of tea, damnit,” Edmund replied, walking back around the desk and sitting down. “But there have been ships coming up from the Southern Isles with it. Unfortunately, they’ve all been calling at Blackbeard Base where those Navy bastards have been diverting it. But Jason managed to get his hands on three hundred kilos for me in the last shipment. Just arrived. How’s the class?”

“Good,” Herzer admitted. “They think, which is a blessed relief compared to the first group of jugheads that got sent. They don’t take what I say for granted so I set them to doing research projects until the reality sinks in. Of course, most of them haven’t seen the edge of a blade wielded in anger, but I think they’ll do.”

“And all qualified Blood Lords?” Edmund said.

“They have to be to attend the Academy,” Herzer pointed out. The advanced infantry training course for the growing UFS legions was a ball-buster on purpose. Its graduates were the hard core of the legions, an elite that had proven that they would stop at nothing to excel. The course had proven its worth in the first months after the Fall, defending Raven’s Mill from a force ten times their size and stopping it butt cold.

But the course was not just about “fight until you die and drop” but about creating a force that could outmaneuver the enemy in almost any terrain. A force that could drop a hard legion of utter bastards on the enemy’s rear and cut off their supplies until they died on the vine.