The courtyard was a cauldron of steel and screams. Bodies piled high against the broken gates, the dead indistinguishable from the dying. The stink of blood mixed with pitch fires and the harsh iron tang of shattered weapons.
Aldric fought with a terrible clarity, each swing of his sword guided by a will that refused to break. The Vulture King loomed before him, a walking nightmare clad in grave-spoil skins, his great curved sword slicing down like the butcher's cleaver of some unholy god.
Their blades rang together again and again. Sparks leapt with each clash, flying like fireflies into the thick smoke. Aldric's muscles burned, and his breath tore ragged through his throat, but he would not yield.
The Vulture King's voice was low, hate-fueled, a serpent's hiss.
"You will kneel, wolf-king. I will chain your sons. Mount your wives' bones upon my gate."
Aldric snarled, lunging forward, blade skimming past the iron beak of the Vulture King's helm to tear a rent in his armor. Black blood splattered, hissing against the stones. The giant reeled back with an inhuman cry.
But Aldric had no time to savor it — another wave of marsh soldiers crashed toward him, spears lunging. He pivoted, blade flashing, cutting down one, two, three before they could surround him.
From the tower above, Rowena saw it all, heart hammering so hard she thought it might break her ribs. Her quiver was nearly empty. Each arrow felt like a prayer. She took aim at the men closing around Aldric, her eyes cold and sharp, loosing one shaft after another, each finding its mark.
He cannot fall, she thought, not while I still have strength.
The siege towers had crashed against the walls now, their bridges falling like monstrous tongues to disgorge more of the Vulture King's troops. Frostfang's defenders met them on the parapets in desperate battle — pitch poured down, swords hacked, and bodies tumbled from the ramparts like broken dolls.
Kaelin stood among her skirmishers near the southern breach, hammer dripping gore, eyes alight with savage joy. She fought like a berserk goddess, every blow shattering shield and bone.
"Come on then!" she roared at a knot of marsh warriors, her voice cracking with laughter. "Come feed the crows!"
They came at her with axes and knives, thinking to bring her down by numbers alone. But Kaelin danced among them, hammer rising, falling, crushing. She lost track of her kills, moving in a trance of rage and defiance, until her arms felt made of stone.
Still they came.
Still she fought.
---
In the crypts, the dead began to stir.
Maerlyn's chants rose in pitch, the words twisting the air until it felt too thick to breathe. Her runes blazed with a blue fire, crawling across the ancient vaults like a thousand spiders.
The bones of the old kings lay in their marble tombs, crowns resting upon eyeless skulls, and now they answered. Fingers twitched. Sockets glowed with witch-light. Breastplates of bronze and steel rattled as long-dead heroes climbed to their feet once more.
A young soldier, barely more than a boy, watched with open horror as the dead of Frostfang rose.
"Lady…are you making them fight?" he whispered, voice quavering.
Maerlyn turned, her dark hair plastered to her sweat-slick face, eyes full of storm.
"I am giving them one last chance to protect what they built," she answered.
The boy crossed himself and fled, leaving Maerlyn alone among her revenants. She raised a blood-smeared hand.
"Come," she commanded. "The city calls."
And the dead obeyed.
---
They burst into the courtyard moments later — an army of ancient kings, their crowned skulls grinning, blades glimmering with witch-light. They fell upon the Vulture King's soldiers with a fury no living soul could match, cutting down the marsh warriors in a tide of vengeful steel.
The Vulture King staggered back, momentarily disoriented by the impossible sight of these walking ancestors. He bellowed a command to his priestess, who began to shriek in some unholy tongue, summoning dark flames to burn the risen dead.
But Maerlyn was faster. Her staff slammed into the stones, sending a wave of black power crashing over the courtyard. The priestess was thrown aside like a rag doll, her voice silenced, eyes rolling back into her head.
For an instant, a hush fell across the battle. Even the Vulture King seemed to pause, staring at Maerlyn with something like fear.
She met his gaze, lips curling into a cold smile.
"You came to bury us," she spat. "Instead, we bury you."
---
Aldric saw the momentary falter in the Vulture King's stance and seized it. With a roar, he lunged forward, sword flashing in the sun, driving the Vulture King back across the gore-slick courtyard. Their blades clashed, locked, twisted.
"Die!" Aldric roared.
"Never!" the Vulture King answered, and headbutted him, the iron beak of his helm cracking Aldric across the brow. Stars exploded behind Aldric's eyes, and he stumbled.
The Vulture King swung in a brutal arc, cutting through Aldric's side. Blood sprayed, red as a banner in the dawn.
Rowena screamed from the tower.
Kaelin saw the blow and, without hesitation, hurled her hammer with all the strength left in her battered body. It spun through the smoky air and slammed into the Vulture King's back, knocking him sideways just long enough for Aldric to recover.
Pain lanced through Aldric's body, but he rose. One more strike. Just one more.
He met the Vulture King's hollow gaze and rammed his sword forward, burying the blade in the space between helm and gorget, straight through the monster's throat.
The Vulture King let out a wet, bubbling gasp, arms flailing. Aldric ripped the sword free, and the tyrant fell to his knees, choking on his own black blood.
A hush fell.
Slowly, the marsh soldiers around the courtyard realized their god-king was dying. Their cries faltered, blades lowering.
Aldric, panting, bloody, lifted his sword high.
"FROSTFANG STANDS!"
From the walls, the surviving defenders screamed their answer.
"FROSTFANG!"
---
The rout began. The marsh soldiers broke, running for the shattered gates, only to find the risen dead waiting. The kings of Frostfang would grant no mercy.
Kaelin retrieved her hammer, leaning on it, sweat and blood dripping from every inch of her battered frame. She grinned, teeth pink with gore.
"Good swing," she wheezed to Aldric.
He nodded, half-dazed, pressing a hand to the wound in his ribs. "Good throw."
Rowena came down from the tower, leaping the last steps, and flung her arms around Aldric. She wept against his breastplate, uncaring of the blood.
"I thought—"
"I know," he rasped. "But I'm here."
Maerlyn emerged, walking among the dead — the living and the revenant alike. The witch looked ten years older, power spent, shoulders slumped. The risen kings watched her in silence, waiting for a command.
She raised her staff one final time. "Rest now," she told them softly.
The dead kings nodded, and their bones fell where they stood, at last laid to peace.
---
As the sun climbed higher, Frostfang began to count the price of its survival. Fires were doused. Wounds were bound. The banners of carrion birds were cast into the guttering flames.
Kaelin gathered the surviving warriors, voice hoarse.
"Look around you!" she shouted. "We stand. We stand because none of us broke!"
The soldiers roared their triumph, though many wept as they did so.
Aldric stood beside Rowena, his sword still dripping black blood. The pain in his side was a dull, savage throb, but he forced himself to straighten, forced himself to look beyond the gates.
Frostfang had survived the sea. It had survived the Vulture King.
But somewhere in the pit of his heart, Aldric felt a chill. Each victory took something from them. Each time they survived, they were changed.
And what they had become, after so many nightmares, he could no longer say.
---
Beyond the broken plain, vultures circled overhead, waiting for carrion.
But there would be no easy feast in Frostfang today.