Fritha braced herself as Wrath crashed into the gate tower of Balara. There was an explosion of rock and masonry cascading down into the courtyard beyond the wall, a cloud of dust enveloping Fritha.
“Wrath sorry,” the draig growled, shaking himself.
The rising sun sent Wrath’s shadow stretching across an empty courtyard. Fritha peered into Balara and saw a deserted fortress, gates open and streets empty. The sound of hooves behind her as the Cheren approached and Jin cantered through the gate arch, Cheren riders behind her, spreading out, bows bristling.
Jin looked at the rubble in the courtyard, then up at Wrath and Fritha, perched on a half-destroyed section of the wall. She raised an eyebrow.
“He is still working on his landings,” Fritha said. She looked around. “I don’t think anyone is here.”
“I’ll find out,” Jin said, a touch to her reins and she rode on, along the central street that led to Balara’s tower. Fritha watched the Cheren filter into the fortress, three thousand riders. They broke into groups, some dismounting, going through building after building, checking every room, alcove and hidden space. Others stayed mounted, patrolling the streets. Fritha was impressed with their methodical thoroughness.
There were more hoofbeats on the hill beyond the wall and Arn rode into the courtyard, a hundred of Fritha’s hand-picked warriors with him. Elise was there, gleaming in her mail, her scales shining in the sunrise. Ferals loped around her, some sniffing the ground, others looking up at Fritha.
Asroth had given Fritha the honour of leading the attack on Balara. She had chosen Jin and Morn as her captains. Morn had scouted the fortress from high above last night, before the sun had set, and reported that it looked deserted, but that was not to say that there was not some nasty ambush-in-waiting lurking in the shadows.
“Hold this courtyard and the gate,” Fritha said to Arn and Elise. “Let the Cheren do the hunting. There are enough of them.”
A shadow passed over the courtyard and Morn swept down to her, two score half-breed Kadoshim behind her. Morn alighted on the wall beside Fritha, her kin spreading over the fortress, swooping low.
“It looks empty,” Fritha said.
“Aye,” Morn grunted. “A pity. I would have liked to kill some more of the Order of the Bright Star.”
“Where is your father?” Fritha asked.
“With the war-host, half a day behind us,” Morn growled.
“This has been a long time coming, hasn’t it?” Fritha said. “And yet, now we are a day away from Ripa and the Ben-Elim, it feels so far away.”
“Yes, I am sick of this waiting, eager for the battle to begin.”
“Let’s get a better look.” Fritha leaned over Wrath’s neck.
“Take me up, my darling,” she whispered.
Wrath shook, snapped his wings out and stepped off the gate tower. They fell towards the courtyard, Arn’s eyes flaring wide, but Wrath’s wings caught the air and they started to glide, then his wings were beating and they were rising, over the rooftops of the fortress, up, towards the tower, circling around it, spiralling upwards, until they were at the very top of the tower.
“Can you land there, without destroying the tower and killing all the Cheren on the ground?” Fritha asked Wrath.
“Don’t know, Wrath try,” Wrath growled.
Fritha laughed.
Wrath’s wings changed angle and he hovered above the tower, slowly descended, his bowed legs searching for purchase. Tiles cracked, crumbled to powder, and Fritha felt the whole tower strain. And then Wrath was balanced, the tower holding, though stones and timber creaked and groaned. A tile slid and skittered down the roof, fell spinning into air, a long drop and then the tinkle of it splintering on the ground.
Morn circled them, then landed.
“He’s learning,” Morn said.
“Well done, my darling,” Fritha said, patting Wrath’s neck. The draig rumbled contentedly.
Fritha looked to the north and saw the mist of Gulla’s Revenants, moving slowly across the land like spilt oil. In the sky Kadoshim and their half-breed offspring circled like crows, all moving inexorably south, towards Balara. As Fritha looked she saw some of those specks in the sky were much closer. They were moving fast, with every heartbeat growing closer, larger.
“He is coming,” she whispered.
Asroth was easy to spot in the sky, bigger than the others, his black mail and helm seeming to suck all light into it, a dark shadow around him, the very air dimmer.
He saw Fritha upon Balara’s tower and angled towards her, hovered over her a moment, his long axe slung across his back, his honour guard of Kadoshim swirling around them, a storm of wings, and then Asroth was alighting beside Fritha and Morn, his wings snapping closed.
“Are they here?” Asroth asked them.
“No, my beloved,” Fritha said, “they have fled your coming.”
“Ah, that’s a great pity,” Asroth said, looking genuinely disappointed. “I wanted to whet my axe in battle. It is different from executing prisoners. And this Order of the Bright Star were founded by Corban. Killing them will be the next best thing to killing that maggot.”
“You’ll get your chance, I’m sure,” Fritha said. “But first, you’ll have to make do with Ben-Elim and White-Wings.”
She looked to the south, Asroth and Morn following her gaze.
To the south a plain of sun-dried grass rolled towards the sea, dotted with low hills and clusters of woodland. A curling timber wall enclosed the plain before Ripa.
Someone’s been busy, Fritha thought.
“There it is,” she said. “Ripa, and our enemy.”
“On the morrow they will all be dead,” Asroth growled, his voice cold as a winter’s grave.