Fritha stood on the lakeshore, Morn and a few score of her Red Right Hand standing beside her, watching as teams of harnessed auroch dragged three huge cages on wains onto the piers that stood above the water of Starstone Lake. Timber posts and boards creaked under the strain as the wains rolled out over the lake, coming to a halt beside three fat-bellied ships moored and bobbing on the swell.
Orders were shouted, acolytes attaching straps and hooks, levers and pulleys, and then teams of men were using harbour cranes to winch the cages into the air. With a squeal of iron and wood, the cages were swung over the boats and lowered into the hulls of the moored vessels. Gunil manned one winch himself, stripped to the waist and sweating as he wound the pulley and treadmill.
“Farewell, my lovelies,” Fritha breathed, blowing a kiss to the cacophony of howls and growls that reverberated from the cages. Hundreds of her Ferals were contained within those cages, the ones she had determined were beyond obedience to her in the coming conflict.
But Gulla found a use for all of her creations, even the disobedient ones.
Crews of acolytes manned the boats, tightening leather straps about the cages and attaching them to an array of iron hooks sunk deep into timber decks.
Fritha looked to her left, where the prow of a ship emerged from one of the boat sheds, a sleeker vessel than the ones the Ferals had been loaded upon. A spume of water exploded into the air as the ship’s prow cut into the lake, and Fritha saw more boats emerging from a row of boat sheds along the lakeshore, seven, eight, ten, more of them, all shallow-draughted, oars appearing and dipping into the water, rowing slowly towards the piers.
Gulla strode from the mine towards her, his wings folded and arched like a great cloak. Behind him a shadow-swarm followed, like a dark cloud, a multitude of shambling Revenants marching, their limbs strangely stiff and jerking, their skin pale and stretched, many of them gnashing their too-many teeth as they walked.
Gulla snapped a command and one of the Revenants peeled away from Gulla’s side—Ulf, coming to stand close to Fritha. He did not look at her.
Gulla and his dark host passed Fritha in unsettling silence as they moved from the piers into the boats like a dark mist, filling the vessels with shadow.
Gulla took to flight, his wings snapping wide, rising high above the lake, and then he was gliding down to Fritha, alighting before her and Morn.
Gunil stomped his way back along a pier to join them.
“Farewell, my daughter,” Gulla said, reaching down and cupping Morn’s face in his hands. He leaned forwards and kissed her brow.
She is consumed by the need to avenge her brother still.
Morn had begged to remain with Fritha once she had been told of the plan, knowing that Drem was sure to be found with the Order of the Bright Star.
“I will avenge your son,” Morn said.
Gulla turned to Fritha.
“Ulf is yours to command,” Gulla said to her.
She looked at Ulf, unsure that he even heard Gulla’s words, giving no sign that he had. She seriously doubted that he would acknowledge her existence, let alone follow her orders.
She raised an eyebrow.
“Give Ulf an order,” Gulla said.
Fritha shrugged. “Tear out your left eye,” she said to the grey-skinned Revenant.
Without hesitation Ulf lifted a hand up to his face, a taloned finger reaching for his eyeball.
Fritha opened her mouth to yell Stop, but it was too late. With a sucking pop Ulf’s eyeball flopped onto his cheek. He grabbed it in his fist and tore it free of its socket, then held it out on the flat of his palm for Fritha. She felt revulsion and shock, but also a thrill at such unwavering loyalty.
That is the loyalty I want.
“Much rests on your victory,” Gulla said to her. Fritha knew what was left unsaid.
Do not fail.
“I will see you on Midsummer’s Day,” she said to Gulla.
He flashed a smile at her, not as charming as it had once been now that his mouth was filled with jagged rows of needle-sharp teeth.
“Gunil, watch over Fritha and my daughter, and let no harm come to Ulf.”
Gunil grunted a nod.
“Victory or death,” Gulla said to Fritha, and then he was leaping into the air, his wings driving him higher, into a climbing spiral, then swooping and dropping low over his ships.
“WE ARE FOR WAR,” he bellowed, his crew of acolytes answering with a cheer. Then Gulla’s small fleet of Ferals and Revenants set sail. Fritha watched as they rowed east, sails unfurling as they headed towards the Grinding Sea.
“With me,” Fritha said and turned on her heel, crunching up the slope towards the mine.
Fritha marched through the tunnels, her followers gathering behind her, until she had over three hundred men in her wake. She strode into the clearing before the caves, saw all that she had ordered had been done, an array of cages set about her great table.
She turned to face her followers.
“Two days and we march. This is the beginning of the end for the Ben-Elim,” she called out. A rippling cheer.
“The beginning of our vengeance, when we shall make the world ours, and take what we are owed. Freedom and glory, vengeance and gold,” she cried, louder, which received a louder cheer.
Of those, vengeance and gold are the sharpest spurs.
“Two days,” she repeated. “Until then, train hard, fight easy,” she said, dismissing them.
Fritha turned to look at the table.
The white wyrm sat coiled in its cage, watching her with a malignant eye. On the other side of the table her draig’s cage had been placed, wooden bars exchanged for iron, and far bigger than the one Gunil had originally made, as the beast continued to grow in shocking spurts. It was already the size of a small pony.
Fritha dug a bucket into a barrel of fish guts, meat and offal and poured it into the cage. The draig began to eat with an abundance of repulsive slapping, tearing and slurping noises.
“Are you hungry, Flick?” Fritha said, waving the bucket close to the crow’s cage, digging her hand in and showing him a pile of fish guts.
Flick glared up at her. He was hunched at the bottom of his cage, one wing hanging limp, feathers torn and bloody. Fritha felt a brief wave of sympathy for the creature, and a flicker of respect for how long the crow had held out against their questions.
This is war, and he has served my enemy, she reminded herself.
Flick looked at the pile of guts in Fritha’s palm, but he said nothing.
“You’re a brave bird,” Fritha said and dropped the contents into his cage.
A last supper for you, she thought.
“Arn, do it now,” Fritha called, and the warrior strode to the cages set in the cliff face, accompanied by four others. They entered a cage and emerged with one of the Bonefells’ great bats, a chain about one of its claws. It was a bull-sire, its wingspan far wider than Morn’s. They dragged the beast from the cage by a chain, hanging on as it lifted into the air and tried to fly for freedom, then jabbing with spears to keep it from attacking them.
They laboured across the clearing to the table. Arn swung the chain, dragging the bat down, his two comrades grabbing at its wings, and then they were slamming it onto the table, pulling its wings wide, hammering iron nails into it, pinning it to the timber. The bat screeched and hissed, head twisting frantically, jaws snapping in a frenzy.
Fritha nodded to herself.
“Gunil,” she commanded, and the giant slid the bolts on the draig’s cage. The draig’s muzzle came up, red tongue flickering, and then it was scuttling out of the cage, a shocking display of speed for so much bulk. It stood in the open ground, head swaying from side to side. Fritha stepped in front of it, still holding her bucket.
“Come to me, Wrath,” she said gently.
The draig’s eyes fixed on her and it became perfectly still, then burst into motion, talons on its bowed legs raking the ground as it exploded towards her. It skidded to a halt, circling her and rubbing itself against her legs like an excited puppy. She reached out and patted its head, as high as her waist, now, and scratched its scaly neck.
Leaning down, she rested her head against its muzzle, felt its teeth pressing into her cheek.
“I will make you magnificent,” she whispered to the draig, “your name and renown will live on forever.” Then she drew a razored knife from her belt and plunged it into the draig’s neck.
A jet of dark arterial blood, the draig shuddering, as Fritha threw herself out of the reach of its snapping jaws.
“Gunil, now,” Fritha cried, and the giant stepped forwards, squatting and putting his arms beneath the belly of the draig as it began to slump, its strength failing as it bled out. Gunil heaved, veins bulging, legs straining, wobbling as he tried to stand with the draig.
“Help him,” Fritha shouted, a handful of her Red Right Hand running to Gunil’s aid, taking the weight of the draig’s tail, lifting, and with a great heave the dying beast was placed next to the pinned bat.
Fritha sped to the table, excitement jolting through her, and she reached for her tools, picking up a serrated-edged knife and a hammer.
“Morn, bring me the crow,” she said, and Morn opened Flick’s cage, reaching in. Flick flapped away to the rear of the cage, fear giving him strength, but he could not evade Morn’s grasping hand and it closed about the big bird, dragging him out.
“Bad people, bad people,” Flick squawked as he pecked at Morn’s hand.
“No, not bad people,” Fritha said, “but sometimes dark deeds must be done to accomplish great ends. I am sorry, Flick, you are brave and wise, but you have something I need.” She held up her knife and the bird squawked in fear.
“Your bloodline.”
Fritha drew the knife blade across her forearm, flesh parting and blood welling, though it was hard to differentiate her blood from the gore that coated her. But she knew her blood was joining that on the table, pooling and seeping into the concoction of her new creation.
“Reiptílí, bás sciatháin, guth éan, ar cheann,” Fritha chanted, her arms drenched in blood to her elbows. “Reiptílí, bás sciatháin, guth éan, ar cheann,” she breathed again, and again as she hunched over the mound of flesh spread upon her table.
Then she stepped back.
Body parts were scattered on the ground, parts of bat, crow and draig intermingled. Fritha’s off-cuts.
Upon the table lay a huge mound of flesh and bone, still as death.
Fritha sucked in a deep shuddering breath.
She raised her arms.
“Anáil agus beo,” she yelled with all the strength of her lungs and stepped forwards, slamming her clenched fists onto the lifeless form on the table, her blow rippling through it.
A silence settled on the clearing as she and those around her watched.
A gasping tremor shifted through the thing before her, its chest rising and falling.
A thrill of excitement, the greatest, most wonderful feeling Fritha had ever known swept through her. The creature on the table raised its head.
Her draig, transformed.
Made new.
It rolled, flopped to the ground, and slowly took its weight upon its bowed legs.
“Wrath,” Fritha said, hoping.
Will he still love me, or will he remember our last moment, my knife across his throat? My blood is mixed with his now—that should bind him to me deeper than all things, should override any resentment of that one, fleeting moment of pain.
Its head weaved, side to side, then its small dark eyes filled with a new intelligence. They fixed upon her, and Fritha smiled.
The draig spread its wings wide, a ripple of muscle, testing its new limbs. A hesitant beat of air, then harder, and the draig’s bulk shifted, its chest and forelegs lifting a handspan from the ground.
With a scraping growl its head swivelled, regarding its wings.
“Wrath,” Fritha said, taking a step towards the creature.
It regarded her for a long, timeless moment, then took an unsteady step towards her. It opened its jaws wide, saliva dripping.
“Wrath hungry,” the draig croaked.