Sylvia scurried through the camp long before dawn. She led her group past the glowing embers of last night, to where their sticky fire lay. They wrapped each ball in leaves, and stacked them onto a small cart. When they were finished, they pushed the stockpile to the edge of camp. By now, the entire caravan was on its feet. Soldiers were readying their horses, and themselves, helping another put on armour and checking, and double checking their equipment. Some spent a ritual moment sharpening their weapons or counting their arrows and bolts. Sylvia looked to the high walls of Holms Fäste. She eyed the balls of moss and sap, and then the walls again. She just hoped they would not be too heavy. Perhaps she should have made them smaller. Now it was too late to make adjustments.

“Good weather for a fight”, Yri greeted. She filed out onto the grassy plane with seventeen men and women, each in chainmail and leather, and each carrying a bow.

“Good morning. I hope so”, Sylvia responded.

“Meet Balder, the best shot in all of Sev”, Yri introduced. She made a flourish, motioning to one of the archers.

Stepping forward, Balder bowed her head ever so lightly.

“Balder”, Sylvia repeated politely.

“Sylvia”, the archer smiled. “What is this magical fire you have for us?”

“This—”, Yri declared, making a sweeping gesture toward Sylvia and her group of workers, “This is going to make your day.”

The archers exchanged glances, some excited, other apprehensive.

Sylvia cleared her throat. “An arrow, please.”

Balder pulled an arrow out of the quiver on her back, and offered it to Sylvia for her demonstration. Holding the long arrow firmly below the tip, Sylvia stuck it into one of the leaf covered balls. Sliding her hand back, to create some distance between herself and the fire, she held the heavy tip over a torch, and the ball burst into flames. Smiling proudly, she handed the arrow back.

Wearily eyeing the spiking flame coming from such a small bundle of leaves and dirt, Balder was slow in unclasping her longbow. Putting the arrow to the string, she pulled it back, far, but not far enough to let the fire touch her gloved hand. She aimed for the city in the distance. The arrow flew high, and fell hard. As it landed, the sap splashed out over the wet ground, but the fire roared on, bubbling violently, and setting the grass around it ablaze despite the recent rain.

“These are going to be hard to handle”, Balder commented.

“You will need to ride closer to loosen them”, Yri agreed. “Load one, ride in, loosen it, ride back for another. It will be a challenge, but I have never heard of an archer who shies from a challenge. Have you?”, she teased.

“Never”, Balder agreed. “What are we aiming for?”

“People”, Sylvia stated.

The archers exchanged glances again.

“That is the whole point”, Sylvia elaborated. “It is sticky fire. These do not need to fall on hay or roofing. You can target the enemy directly and the fire will stay with them. There is no need to damage the city.”

“You will create a diversion for Thorun and her troop”, Yri elaborated. “Distribute the sticky fire across the walls, especially around the gate. Give Thorun the upper hand. As soon as you see friendly arms, make sure you aim away from them with a generous margin. If you hit one of our own, you will be their doom.” She spoke firmly, letting her gaze wander over the group.

The archers straightened their backs. Eyes hardened, Balder nodded sternly. “Very well.”

“I will back you up”, Yri stated, pulling her helmet on. “Hand off five arrows each for Sylvia to prepare. Let us get ready.”

It took mere minutes for the Fri to saddle up and emerge from their camp. Horses shifted in their lines, each carrying a soldier, dressed in metal plates, or chainmail and leather. Yri and Kaija wore similar layers of leather. Each had tied their hair into a neat braid. They were nearly indistinguishable from behind. The clearest tell was their weaponry. Both had an arbalest, but where Kaija carried a sword, Yri had an axe strapped to her belt.

On the mighty walls of the city, Wolves were lazily lining up in the dark. A few torches indicated their slowly increasing numbers.

Yri huffed and shook her head. “They are getting lazy.”

“Perfect”, Kaija chuckled.

She held her hand up. Bothilder raised his arm in answer. All was ready.

Turning to her archers, Yri shouted, “Go!”

Sylvia and her five workers lit and handed out the arrows. They watched the group of archers gallop away in a disorganised zigzag, to avoid enemy fire. Halfway across the field, they loosened their arrows, without slowing down, and then doubled back. One arrow missed its mark entirely, leaving a smear of fire on the wall. The rest flew straight and true, hitting Wolves atop the wall. One man toppled off the barrier, out of the city itself. He fell hard onto his back and the fire lashed at his face. Flailing, he dragged his gloves over the sticky mass, smearing it out, and sending it dribbling into the joints and seams of his armour. His scream rang through the fields, jostling the rest of the Wolves out of their groggy state.

Yri observed the spectacle with a stoic expression. The archers returned, reloaded, and rode back in. As they loosened the second wave, one of their own was hit by a Wolf arrow. Rolling off her horse, Balder threw the thick hood hanging around her shoulders over her head, and swept her long coat around herself, before scrambling to her feet. Yri and Kaija rode out to meet her.

Kaija loosened a bolt toward the guards on the wall, puncturing someone’s chest. Yri grabbed Balder’s arm, and pulled her up onto the horse. With the injured woman draped over her knees, Yri galloped back. Kaija was right at her heel. As soon as they reached the camp, Balder toppled off the side of Yri’s horse, and Aimo helped her behind his wagon. Sylvia noticed a streak of blood lining the grass, but she had other things to focus on. Readying the next round of sticky fire, she focused on supplying the remaining archers.

In the meantime, Thorun led her most skilled fighters though the woods of Holms Fäste. The entrance to the tunnel had been cleared. Climbing over the displaced shrubberies and stones, the troop squeezed into the dark. It was a claustrophobia inducing place, dug into the soil and reinforced with thick wooden beams, which further restricted the space. Carrying lamps or torches into the passage was not an option. They crawled forward in complete darkness, feeling their way along the cold, moist dirt. Thorun lead the way, feeling for sharp rocks, and setting them aside to avoid injured knees as they made their slow advance.

Reaching the end of the tunnel, the troop quietly filed into the cellar of the trading post. Inside the hidden room, torches offered a little more light. Thorun picked out the loose stones from the wall, and opened the passage. Along the corridor, and up the stairs, the Fri scurried with clinking armour and weaponry. They overran to the handful of guards, which were inside the trading post playing cards and getting drunk.

Gagged and bound, the Wolves were lined up along the wall. The local teller, and a handful of women who had been picked off the street to serve alcohol, were ushered into the basement and instructed to remain silent until someone came for them.

Thorun peeked through the windows of the main hall. She had a clear view of the iron gates. Wolves were making their way up the slender steps of the barricade on tired feet. It would not be long now. Thorun reached for her swords, pulling them out of their sheaths again.

When the sticky fire caused turmoil among the Wolves upon the walls, Thorun gave the signal and the Fri burst into the street. They fought their way across the street and gained access to the stairs. Barely any arrows were aimed toward them as the Wolves tried to deal with the fire. Thorun called out. Her voice echoed though the city, sending a chill down the Wolves’ spines and emboldening the Fri. From camp, Yri gave answer. The bombardment stopped and Thorun stormed the stairs. They gained control over the gate within minutes. Thorun defended her soldiers while they wound the heavy old mechanism. The metal gates groaned under their own weight. Hinges screeched and chains rattled. The first lazy rays of morning poured into the fields beyond as the gate opened, greeting the storm of approaching cavalry.

Bothilder and Hilda led the assault. Dashing through the open gates, the horses spread out through the city, trampling and cutting down anyone who bore the red wolf head. Kvist and Thorun split their group in two, Kvist clearing the wall to the east, and Thorun to the west. Once the wall was secure, Yri led her archers into the city as well. When no archers came back for sticky fire for over ten minutes, Sylvia left her group, and went to check on Aimo.

The camp was eerily quiet in contrast to the yelling from the city. Walking around Aimo’s wagon, Sylvia found no sign of the wagoner. Instead, she found Balder sitting with her back against a crate. Her cap was lying beside her in a puddle of her own blood. She was drenched in it, and in sweat. Her black hair clung to her skin. Aimo had used bandages to tie a thick branch to her leg in order to keep it straight, but he had clearly failed to stem her bleeding. Sylvia came to Balder’s side. The injured archer shifted, but did not open her eyes. Sylvia crouched down. She pulled the sleeve of Afi’s tunic over her hand and dabbed the sweat of Balder’s furrowed brow. A hum left Balder at the careful touch. Her chest was raising and falling rapidly. She opened her eyes and squinted up at Sylvia. She offered a tried smile.

“Anything I can do for you?”, Balder jested.

“I was about to ask the same”, Sylvia replied.

“I could use a drink”, Balder said. She nudged an empty bottle at her side.

Picking the bottle up, Sylvia could smell the distinct sour and sweet aroma of sweetened wine. It was a potent and delightful drink, a spiked wine suited to craftsmen and miners. She let her gaze run along the bandaged leg again, and the puddle of red under it. What would her mother do? What would Father Ryther do? Getting up, she left Balder’s side.

Taking the small bottle of spirit, which Aimo had left them to clean off any excess sap, Sylvia poured half of it into the wine bottle. Then, she went to the section of the woods where they had prepared the sticky fire, and gathered the remnants of the dry stonemoss. Finally, she went to the baker’s tent, and convinced Frida to give her some fish oil. When she returned to Aimo’s wagon, Balder had closed her eyes again. Her arms hung loose from her shoulders and her head lulled to the side. Sylvia placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, rousing her.

“Here”, Sylvia offered, holding out a brown bottle.

Frowning, Balder took it. Her hands were shaking. Sylvia helped her open the bottle, and steadied her hand.

Taking a whiff, Balder coughed in disgust. “Really?”, she complained.

“You have lost a lot of blood. Surely this is not the first time you have had fish oil”, Sylvia insisted.

“Be honest, I am dead anyway”, Balder sighed.

“You are if you do not drink it”, Sylvia reprimanded.

Balder grumbled, but brought the bottle to her lips. She took a generous swing, before swallowing and making a gagging noise. She shook her head in disgust. The oil splashed around in the bottle as she moved. Sylvia took it from her, and instead pressed the wine bottle into her hands. Balder inspected it with suspicion, but after smelling the contents, she swung the entirety back in three greedy gulps. Letting her head fall back against the wooden crate, she sighed tiredly. Setting the bottle down, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and hummed.

“Thank you.”

“Of course”, Sylvia nodded. She kneeled down beside Balder and placed a hand on her knee. “I will be careful, but this might hurt”, she warned.

“Do not worry. I am blissfully drunk”, Balder smiled.

“I figured”, Sylvia chuckled.

She untied the blood stained bandage from Balder’s leg. Then, she pulled at the hole in the thick trousers, tearing them further in order to get a better look at the injury. The skin was pierced, and the wound ran deep into the flesh. Aimo had cleaned off any dirt, and the blood had coagulated by now, but there was nothing to prevent an infection. Sylvia pressed the dry moss together, until she had a tightly packed bundle in hand. Placing it over the flesh wound, she wrapped the bandage back around. Balder did not even flinch. She leaned lazily against the crate, her eyes closed. A dribble of saliva ran down her chin. Given the situation, Sylvia figured it mattered little. After tying a firm knot, she stood back up. She filled the wine bottle with fresh water and set it down along with the fish oil, before taking her leave.

Returning to the open field, Sylvia could not hear any more screaming. The last of the spirit had been used, and her troop of five had left. They were probably resting. Herself, Sylvia could not imagine returning to her tent yet. She was far too agitated, too curious. Just what had happened? How bad was it? What did her ammunition accomplish? Was Thorun okay? Would Aimo be able to help other injured soldiers? Maybe she could. She had been able to help Balder at least. She wondered if it was safe to approach. She grabbed a ball of sticky fire and a torch. Armed with these, she swung up on Rise’s back and rode for the city.

Slowing to a trot as they reached the shadow of the walls, Sylvia steered Rise toward the man who had first fallen off the barricade. There were several corpses littering the ground now, but this Wolf in particular was of interest to her. She dropped from Rise’s back and crouched down to examine the blackened chest plate. What was visible of the man’s neck was red and burned, lined with residue of boiled sap. The smell of cooked meat hung in the air. Pleased, Sylvia made to remount, but she quickly thought better of it. She took the dead man’s sword and tied it to her belt, before pulling herself back up on the saddle.

She rode along the wall, to the large iron gate. Standing under the high archway, she could see the devastation. The soft morning light fell on a gruesome scene. The road was littered with the bodies of the dead, some Fri, but most Wolf. Sylvia only recognised one face. Heida lay dead just past the gate. A gust of wind whirled up the stench of blood, and the Wolf flag billowed above Sylvia's head. Glancing up at it, she raised her torch and set it on fire. The cloth fell off its hooks after a few seconds, and collapsed into a smouldering pile on the cobbles. Sylvia smirked and steered Rise into Holms Fäste itself.

Fri were looking through the pockets of the dead. Fallen comrades were carried into the open square, and laid out side by side, their eyes and mouths closed, and their arms crossed over the chest. Wolves were dragged across the ground and thrown into a pile. Many men native to Holms Fäste were helping along, clearing the streets and gathering valuables. Money was pocketed. Metal was stacked up near a large house, which throned beside the stables. Aimo stood there, counting the items and taking notes.

“Aimo”, Sylvia greeted.

He did not look up before he had counted, taken a note, and closed his booklet. “What can I do for you, Young Sylvia?”, he asked.

“I saw Balder at the wagon. She is unconscious, but breathing.“

“Oh, I know. I just hope we do not need to remove the leg”, Aimo said calmly. “I left her a bottle of wine. It should help with the pain for now.”

“I checked the wound. She should be able to heal alright”, Sylvia told him.

“You know something about medicine? That is very useful. Good thing Yri found you”, Aimo smiled.

“Is anyone else injured?”, Sylvia wondered.

Aimo shrugged. “Yes and no. In these battles, an injury is typically either not worth mentioning, or you do not find the time to be bothered by it before you die. No one fights to disarm. Everyone aims to kill on a battlefield. If you get hurt, you are an easy target.”

“I was surprised Yri rode out for Balder”, Sylvia commented.

“The Wolves were pulling new arrows. It was relatively safe”, Aimo explained.

Nodding, Sylvia let her gaze wander over the looted armour and weaponry. Then, her eyes found an older woman, washing blood off her porch.

“I also saw Heida”, Sylvia added.

Aimo hummed in agreement. “A shame. Do not bother the sisters about it. We all know life is not permanent, but dwelling on it will do no good.”

“I will keep that in mind.”

“If you are looking for something to do, I suggest you check in with the sisters. They are inside”, Aimo said, pointing the tip of his pencil at the large building behind him.

“Okay. I will”, Sylvia agreed.

She dismounted and tied Rise to a hitching rail. After sticking her torch into the ground, and laying the sticky fire aside, she entered the building. She quickly realised that it was the trading post which Yri and Thorun had mentioned. The space was but a warehouse with the addition of a few tables and chairs, and a counter for the teller to work at. Thorun and Yri stood among a group of soldiers, listening to their reports and giving instructions. The search for Wolves hiding in the city was still ongoing. Any lack of cooperation from the locals was not to be tolerated.

Along one wall, a group of Wolves were lying on the ground. Their hands and feet were bound. Kvist was standing at one end of the line of captives, her expressionless gaze lost in the space between the Wolves and the door. Sylvia let her eyes wander over the dishevelled lot. Her heart cramped together in her chest when she found an all too familiar face among them. The light skin, the bent nose, and those poisonous green eyes were seared into her mind. The memory was a recurring nightmare. There was no doubt. It was the rat who had killed her beloved Rebecca, the Wolf with the dagger and the brown horse. Hatred burned over her skin. It ran down her back, and along her arms, until her hands were shaking. Brandishing the sword she had looted, she strode across the room.