Fritha smiled as the dark mist rolled over the battlefield. Ulf was standing behind her, amidst the trees.
The Revenants will win this for us, Fritha thought. Without them, even with my Ferals, I do not think we would have triumphed.
Victory was so close now that she could almost taste it.
She saw a figure riding into the trees, leaping from his horse’s back when the branches became too low, and breaking into a run, straight up the slope towards her.
It was Drem.
Fritha wanted to clap her hands and thank whatever fate was smiling down upon her.
Behind him she glimpsed other figures running into the woodland.
Are the Order of the Bright Star breaking already? Have the Revenants won the day?
Then Drem was crashing into the glade where Fritha was. She saw his eyes flicker to Elise and Wrath, saw the shock register, saw his run falter a moment.
He has changed, she thought. He was dressed in fine war gear, for a start, not in his trapper’s leathers, a mail shirt that was streaked with gore. He looked older, somehow, less childlike, though his face held that same determined set that she had always liked about him.
Once he sets his mind to something, he tries to see it through. Unfortunately, I think this time he has set his mind on killing me.
Let him try. I will take him, bind him in chains and make him into something new, just so he can follow at my heels for the rest of his life.
“Don’t kill him,” Fritha snapped to those about her, “or eat him,” she added to Wrath, who was growling at Drem and licking his lips as if the young man was lunch.
She saw the resolve return in Drem’s eyes, despite the odds, and then he was stepping forwards.
Arn and Fritha’s other guards moved to meet Drem, six of her best.
Drem drew a short axe from his belt, without any hesitation hurled it at Arn.
It spun through the air, Arn leaping away, the axe slamming into the face of the warrior behind him, a crunch like wet wood being split as the axe blade buried itself in her face, the warrior hurled backwards from her feet. Drem drew his seax and another axe at his belt and ran at them.
Arn swung his spear at Drem, the other warriors spreading wide, trying to encircle him, but he was moving so quickly, his axe snaking out, wrapping around Arn’s spear and tugging him off balance. Drem’s momentum carried him on, a slash of his seax at another warrior, a red line across the warrior’s face, a splash of blood, and Drem was backhanding his axe at Arn, who blocked it with his spear shaft and stepped in close, trying to snare Drem’s axe arm.
He’s learned a few things from the Order, Fritha thought dispassionately, but he’s not good enough for Arn and the others yet.
A blow landed across Drem’s back, sent him stumbling into Arn, who put his knee into Drem’s gut, doubling him over. More blows, and Drem dropped to one knee, twisted to the side, slashing with his seax. A scream, another of Fritha’s warriors dropping, clutching his leg, Drem rolling to the side, back onto his feet, crouched, seax and axe ready.
Fritha sighed.
“Elise, take him for me.”
“With pleasssure,” Elise hissed, slithering towards Drem.
Suddenly, more figures were bursting out of the woodland, three wolven-hounds, huge beasts, one grey, one black, one red-furred. They crunched into the warriors around Drem, screams and blood spraying, the sounds of flesh tearing.
Two men ran into the glade, one more limping behind them, setting upon Fritha’s warriors. Two Fritha recognized: the young red-haired warrior and the older huntsman from the starstone mine attack. There was another huntsman with them, slim and black-bearded. As Fritha watched, he blocked a sword-blow from one of her warriors, turned the blade and buried his axe in her man’s neck. A burst of blood and her warrior was falling to the ground, clutching at the jet of blood that pulsed between his fingers.
“Wrath,” Fritha snarled. “Kill them.”
“Yes,” Wrath growled and burst forwards, a pulse of his wings adding to his speed.
At the same time a figure dropped from the trees above, Morn, her wings spreading, and she was stabbing with her spear at the red-haired warrior.
He shrugged his shield from his back, blocking her spear-thrust, slashing with his sword, but she flew out of reach.
The black-bearded huntsman saw Wrath hurtling towards him, a moment of fear washing over his face, changing to resolve, and he was setting his feet, sword and knife in his fist. He sidestepped Wrath’s charge, slashed with his sword at the draig’s side, leaving a red line, Fritha feeling a moment of pure rage at her creation’s injury. Wrath roared at the pain, his thick tail lashing as he skidded past the huntsman, crashing into his legs, the man going down hard, trying to roll, but Wrath was turning with startling speed and leaping upon the prone warrior, jaws snapping at his head.
Two wolven-hounds appeared out of nowhere, hurling themselves at Wrath, jaws biting, claws raking as they latched onto the draig.
Wrath just ignored them, even though red wounds were appearing, his jaws clamping around the huntsman’s head. The man stabbed and hacked at Wrath’s belly with his sword and knife. A sickening crunching sound, a savage wrench, and the huntsman’s head was torn from his shoulders, his body collapsing, limbs juddering.
“STEPOR,” the older huntsman cried, hurling his hand-axe at Wrath, the blade sinking deep into the draig’s shoulder. Again, it ignored the blow and set about removing the wolven-hounds from its body, both of them frenziedly ripping and biting into Wrath’s flesh.
Fritha saw the old huntsman slash at his palm, heard him yelling words of power, and he threw a handful of blood, sparks of incandescent fire appearing in the droplets even as they sprayed one of Fritha’s guards and splattered upon Wrath’s muzzle.
A sizzle and the stench of burning flesh, Fritha’s guard collapsing, screaming, hands gouging at his face.
Wrath roared his pain, charred splotches appearing on his muzzle, wisps of smoke curling into the air. The fire-blood seemed to do little more than irk the draig, though. It gave a violent shake of its body, like a terrier with a rat, and one of the wolven-hounds lost its grip and struck the ground, Wrath scuttling forwards and slashing with a long-taloned foot. The wolven-hound howled as Wrath disembowelled it, entrails spilling onto the ground.
Then other figures were around them.
Fritha looked up, saw that they had moved to the very fringe of the woodland, and the battle on the slope was pressing in upon them. Giants and bears were there, riders of the Order as well as Ferals and her own Red Right Hand.
And Revenants.
Fritha had seen them many times at the mine and on the journey here, but they were different creatures now.
They were killing machines. Fritha stared in a moment of abject awe. They were devastatingly fast, and they were merciless, snatching at warriors, leaping up at horses to tear men and women from saddles, swarming over a bear and rending it with tooth and claw.
A bear lumbered past, a male giant with a long black warrior braid upon its back. He was wielding two long-hafted axes like threshing poles, a constant blur of motion. Fritha saw his axe take the head from a Revenant, a burst of blue light exploding from its neck as the creature dropped slowly to the ground, body spasming, though its hands raked and clawed at the ground for far longer than it should have before it stilled in death.
They can die, then, Fritha noted.
“Frithhhha,” a voice called out and Fritha saw that Elise had Drem wrapped in her coils.
Wonderful, Fritha thought and strode towards her prize.