Fritha cut the leather cords binding Asroth’s arm to the anvil, then stepped back, her own arms from her hands up to her elbows thick with blood.
Asroth’s blood.
She smiled, looking slowly around the chamber. A dozen Kadoshim were all staring, but not at her.
Asroth stood with his right arm raised in front of him. He looked at his new hand, a thick line of stitches around his wrist, clotted blood crusting around seared flesh. Asroth made a fist.
“It feels… strange,” he said. Knuckles cracked and popped as his fist clenched tighter. He spread his fingers, wiggled them, looked at Fritha. “Will this ever feel right?”
Fritha shrugged. “Ask Wrath,” she said. “His wings work well enough.”
Asroth smiled at that. “Ask a draig,” he muttered, shaking his head.
“It will feel stiff and alien at first,” Fritha continued. “The more you use it, the more natural it will feel. And it will feel better with the gauntlet on,” she added.
Asroth reached for the gauntlet, lifted it and slipped his new hand into it.
“It is cold,” Asroth observed.
“I am not finished, yet. It needs a leather liner. Let me help you.” Fritha stepped closer, reaching for leather cords that threaded under the wrist.
When it was secure Asroth flexed it, twisting his hand. After long moments of studying it, flexing the fingers, twisting to test the articulation, Asroth looked at Vald’s corpse.
“Lift him up,” he said. Bune and Choron grabbed the dead White-Wing and held him before Asroth.
“On the anvil,” Asroth grunted, and they lay him upon the huge slab of iron. Asroth stood over him, then raised his hand, curled it into a fist and slammed it into Vald’s face.
The head exploded, blood, bone and brain spraying. Asroth pulled his fist away and there was nothing recognizable of Vald left, just a pulped mess of meat and fluid.
“Huh,” Asroth grunted, “it works, then.” He looked up at Fritha and wiped a chip of bone from his cheek. Then he took a step towards her and wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her close to him, crushing her lips to his.
For long moments Fritha was lost in a dark storm, a whirlpool of black water pulling her ever deeper.
“Ha!” Asroth exclaimed, as he released her from his embrace. “And to think, once I hated all you humans. I have to concede, Elyon may have been onto something in your creation. You can be quite useful when you set your minds to it.”
Kadoshim laughter rippled around the chamber, more like hissing and spluttering. Fritha found it unsettling, though she was only dimly aware of them. Asroth’s closeness and his attention were dizzying. She could still taste him.
Something filtered through the haze of pleasure that was filling Fritha’s head. A tickling at the back of her skull, a whisper in her mind.
“Frithaaaaaa,” the voice said.
Fritha jerked away from Asroth.
“Elise?” she said.
“Frrrithaaaaa,” the voice in her head said again.
Asroth frowned, raised an eyebrow at Fritha.
Fritha heard Wrath growl, somewhere up in Drassil’s great chamber.
“Elise, where are you?” Fritha said.
“I am heeere,” the voice said.
Without thinking, Fritha was leaping up the stairs. She burst into Drassil’s hall, past the bulk of Wrath, who had been sleeping close to the doorway. Fritha took a few steps and then froze, staring up at the entrance to the chamber.
Elise was slithering down the wide steps of the hall, part woman, part white wyrm, her great coils sinuously looping and bunching. She still wore her coat of mail, though it was ragged and torn, streaked red with blood and rust. Beside Elise strode a tall, lean warrior—Arn, Elise’s father, and Fritha’s friend. He was grey and travel-stained, his hair long and lank. Behind them both were a few score warriors, men and women of Fritha’s warband. And around them were other creatures. Part man, part beast, creatures of tooth and claw, hunched and muscled, limbs elongated.
My Ferals.
Fritha sighed, a sense of joy blooming in her belly.
They were surrounded by acolytes, looking more like warriors now that Drassil’s armouries had been thrown open to them. They were clothed in coats of mail and boiled leather, iron caps on their heads, swords at their hips and spears in their fists. Aenor, Lord of the Acolytes, led them; despite his newfound and very fine war gear, he still looked more like a brigand than a warrior, short and squat, barrel-chested.
Above them Kadoshim flew in lazy circles. Fritha saw Morn and smiled at her. Morn did not return the smile, her face flat. She nodded her head, directing Fritha’s gaze ahead of her.
Fritha met the cold, flat gaze of Gulla, who was staring at her, his face twisted with rage.
He knows about Ulf. Elise or Arn must have told him.
Of those on the ground, the Ferals saw Fritha first, a ripple of whimpering passed amongst them. They bounded towards her, claws scraping on stone.
Fritha held her hands out, the Ferals swarming around her, nuzzling her, grunting and snuffling. There were more than Fritha had dared hope after the terrible slaughter in the Desolation, forty or fifty of them.
Gulla swooped down from above, the blast of his wings opening a space before Fritha. He landed, striding towards her, his one red eye blazing.
“You lied,” he snarled, a long-taloned hand reaching for her throat.
Fritha stepped back, Ferals filling the gap between her and Gulla. They crouched low, snapping and snarling at the Kadoshim. They felt his power, like terriers before a wolven.
But even so they would protect me. Fritha smiled at them, stroking fur.
“Call them off, else they will die,” Gulla snapped, his hand moving to the hilt of his sword. In the edges of Fritha’s vision she saw mist-wrapped shadows detach from dark recesses in the hall.
Gulla’s Seven. Or Five, now that Ulf is dead and Arvid is hunting in Ardain.
“You owe everything to me,” she said. “I found the Starstone Sword, took Asroth’s hand. I made you.”
“Ulf is dead, you lost the battle; you lied to me,” Gulla answered, knuckles tightening around his sword hilt. His Revenants were closer now, mist-wrapped pillars of death, standing motionless beyond her Ferals, all of them staring at her.
“You will die for your deception,” Gulla snarled.
Wrath growled, a deep tremor that Fritha felt through her feet.
“Touch Fritha, you die,” the draig rumbled.
“You dare threaten me,” Gulla said. He half-drew his sword.
“No threat,” Wrath growled. “Promise. I will eat you.”
“What is all this?” Asroth’s voice called out, as he emerged from the blue-flickered stairwell carved into Drassil’s great tree. He strode into the chamber, Bune and a dozen Kadoshim spreading wide behind him. More Kadoshim and half-breeds appeared, the sound of leathery wings above as Drassil’s hall filled.
“Gulla, what are you doing?” Asroth asked as he drew close. His voice was calm, but Fritha detected something within it, an undercurrent of deep malice that gave her pause. Asroth stopped at the Ferals, stared at Fritha. She whispered a command and the Ferals parted for him, until he was only one step away from Fritha and Gulla.
This is the moment. Life or death, on a knife-edge. I must be cunning.
“Ulf, one of my Seven,” Gulla said, sucking in a deep breath and trembling with the effort of controlling his rage. “I left him and his warband with Fritha, to help her fight the Order of the Bright Star. She told me they were defeated, that she had won. But survivors of the battle have arrived.” He gestured to Elise and the others; Asroth’s eyebrow rose as he saw the wyrm-woman.
“Another of your creations?” he said to Fritha.
“Yes,” Fritha said, the sight of Elise filling her chest with pride.
“Fritha lied to me, to us all,” Gulla said. “She lost the battle, Ulf is dead, his warband destroyed.”
“They were impossible odds,” Fritha said. “I held the Order in the north, took their attention away from Drassil. If they had been here, Asroth would still be in his prison. I had five hundred swords against two thousand, what did you expect?”
“I gave you Ulf!” Gulla said, fury cracking his voice. “He had thousands of Revenants in his warband.”
“It was Ulf who lost us the battle,” Fritha snapped. “I told him to stay back, to stay hidden, but he could not control his bloodlust. It was his own fault he died.”
“You failed and you LIED!” Gulla yelled, spittle flying from his razored teeth. “And now you stand before me, in Drassil’s Great Hall, and you threaten me. Me, Gulla, High Captain of the Kadoshim. I have fought the Ben-Elim in this world of flesh for over a hundred years, saved my kin from extinction, orchestrated Asroth’s freedom, and you dare to threaten me.”
“I did not threaten you,” Fritha said.
“Your draig did, and you control him,” Gulla hissed.
“He is loyal,” Fritha said with a shrug. “That is no crime.”
Gulla took a step towards her.
“No,” Asroth said. “You—” he pointed at Elise and Arn—“come here.”
Aenor led them over, Elise’s coils scraping on the flagstoned floor. Fritha could not help but smile at her, though Elise regarded Fritha with pain in her eyes. Arn’s stare was flat and cold.
“You left usssss,” Elise said to Fritha.
“My friend, I am sorry but I had to be here,” Fritha said. “I vow I was coming back for you. I sent Morn to find you.”
Gulla twitched at that, a twist of his lips.
Fritha held a hand out to Elise, who remained where she was, though her tail-tip rattled, and Fritha saw her fingers move involuntarily.
“You are survivors of the battle in the Desolation?” Asroth asked them.
Elise and Arn were staring at Asroth with expressions of awe.
“Yessss, my King,” Elise said first.
Asroth regarded her, his black eyes taking her in from tail-tip to head. “You are a work of art,” he breathed. “Fritha, you are nothing if not… talented.”
Fritha smiled.
I know. And Elise is just a fraction of what I can do.
“What happened in the Desolation?” Asroth asked Arn and Elise.
“We fought the Order of the Bright Star,” Arn said, his voice flat, as if he were reporting after an uneventful patrol. “Pits were dug, the Order was tricked. Ulf’s Revenants flanked them. The battle was going well.” Arn stopped.
“What happened then?” Asroth prompted.
Arn looked to Gulla. He had been Arn’s commander for countless years, the figure of highest authority in his life. Arn opened his mouth, but no words came out.
“Tell him what you told me,” Elise hissed at her father.
“Tell me,” Asroth commanded.
“Ulf came out from hiding and was seen by Drem,” Arn continued. “Drem slew Ulf. The Revenant host died.”
“See, I told you,” Fritha said to Gulla. “Ulf disobeyed my order and died because of it. The battle was almost won, the idiot just had to stay alive.”
“He was my firstborn,” Gulla said, teeth grinding.
“He was a witless fool,” Fritha retorted.
“I will see you on a spike for this,” Gulla hissed.
“You would have to fight through my children first,” Fritha snarled at him.
“You think I cannot? I have legions ten thousand strong beyond these walls.”
“Your word is no longer the last say, you are not lord here,” Fritha said loudly. “You may think yourself Lord of Drassil, but you are just another captain, no different from me.”
Gulla’s face twisted in a paroxysm of rage; he lunged forwards and grabbed Fritha by the throat, heaving her into the air.
All around the chamber motion blurred. Gulla’s Revenants burst forwards, the Ferals crouched, snarling, muscles bunching. The hiss of blades drawn in the air above. Wrath let out a deafening roar, claws scratching on stone. Elise jerked towards Gulla, lips pulling back to reveal long fangs. Gulla’s grip tightened about Fritha’s neck; there was a pounding of blood in her head. Her hand reached for her sword hilt, her palm still slick with Asroth’s blood.
“HOLD!” Asroth’s voice boomed. He stepped in, his new gauntleted fist clamping around Gulla’s forearm.
All movement around the chamber stopped, a frozen, sharp intake of breath.
“Release her,” Asroth said, quiet as death.
Gulla’s one red eye snapped from Fritha to Asroth.
“She lied to me, betrayed me, lost the battle,” he hissed. “And she is a human worm.”
Asroth looked from Gulla to Fritha, whose face was purpling, eyes bulging. His eyes shifted to his new hand.
“She is valuable,” Asroth said thoughtfully.
Gulla’s eye widened, but he did not release Fritha’s throat.
Asroth squeezed, the gauntlet constricting. Fritha heard bones grind and suddenly she was free, dropping to a heap on the ground, her legs weak. Wrath’s bulk was beside her, his fetid breath washing over her.
Asroth released Gulla. The Kadoshim stepped back, holding his arm tight to his chest. He was staring at Asroth, and at his gauntlet.
“You would choose her, over me?” Gulla hissed.
“It would do you well to remember this,” Asroth said, wings snapping wide behind him and beating slowly, lifting him from the ground. “I am king here, not you.” He held Gulla with his baleful eyes, then looked at his new hand, flexing it into a fist. He smiled at the sight of it. “And Fritha is my bride and shall be your queen.”