They returned to the surface as dawn broke, the ship of living hide heaving itself ashore with a final shudder before dissolving into a slick of foul-smelling oil. The warriors of Frostfang who had waited on the beach fell to their knees, some weeping, others crossing their chests in silent awe.
Kaelin staggered onto solid ground first, dripping seawater, face pale as salt. She spat, then laughed, half-mad with relief. "Never again," she growled. "If I see another crab, I'll crush it on principle."
Rowena helped Aldric out of the surf, their hands lingering together, finding reassurance in the warmth of each other. The sky overhead was a pale lavender, gentle and innocent after the green nightmares below.
Maerlyn stood apart, staring back at the sea with eyes like broken glass. She spoke softly, almost to herself.
"They will dream no more. But other dreams will come. They always do."
Aldric stepped closer. "Is it finished?"
The witch shook her head. "Nothing is ever finished, wolf-king. One wound heals. Another breaks open."
---
The New War
By the time they reached Frostfang's gate, a fresh disaster had arrived to greet them. A rider from the southern marshes waited, mud-caked and terrified.
He dropped to one knee before Aldric, voice quavering. "Your grace — they come from the marshes. War parties. Ten thousand strong, wearing the vulture banner."
Aldric felt as though the sea's cold claws still clutched at his heart. "The Vulture King?"
The messenger nodded, eyes wide. "He rises. He means to strike north. They say he's building siege towers the likes of which we've never seen."
Kaelin slammed her fist into her palm. "Blood and ash, can we never have a moment's peace?"
Rowena looked to Aldric, her voice quiet but sure. "We stopped the sea. We will stop him too."
Aldric exhaled slowly, shoulders set. "We have no choice."
---
Night Council
That evening, the battered high council of Frostfang gathered in the scorched hall. The walls still carried salt stains from the ocean's undead, and the banners hung ragged.
Aldric stood at the head of the long table, armor repaired and polished, though the dent over his heart still showed.
He swept his eyes across the gathering: Kaelin, unbowed and restless as ever; Rowena, her bow near at hand; Maerlyn, silent, coiled in her ragged robes like a serpent in a basket; and the few remaining lords and knights of Frostfang who had survived.
"We face a new threat," Aldric began, his voice ringing against the stone. "The Vulture King comes. We will meet him with everything we have left."
A thin, older knight, his beard streaked with white, spoke up. "Our walls will not stand against ten thousand."
Kaelin snorted. "Then we break their bones before they ever reach the walls."
Aldric nodded. "Kaelin will lead skirmishers to harry their march. Slow them down. Buy us time."
He turned to Rowena. "You will command the archers. Hit them from the towers. Bleed them until their courage fails."
Rowena met his gaze with a small, determined nod.
"And me?" Maerlyn's voice was like a knife drawn across slate.
Aldric hesitated only a moment. "You will ward the gates. I will not have their sorcerers breaking through our walls."
Maerlyn bared her teeth in a smile. "Wise."
---
The March of Carrion
Far to the south, even as they planned, the Vulture King's host rolled forward like a living storm. The air over the marshes stank of rotting meat and swamp gas. Drums pounded through the night, a relentless heartbeat that carried across the waterlogged plains.
His warriors wore ragged iron and carried blades crusted with poisons drawn from snake pits and spider dens. Their shields were marked with the black wings of a carrion bird, and every one of them had sworn an oath: no surrender, no retreat, no mercy.
In the center of that vile army rode the Vulture King himself, a giant of a man, his black helm shaped like the head of a carrion crow, beak-like and cruel. His cloak was sewn from the hides of a dozen kings who had dared stand against him.
At his side walked a pale priestess, barefoot and singing a song of madness, her eyes milky with some terrible sight only she could see. Her voice made children in far-off villages wake screaming, though they could never name the nightmare.
They advanced toward Frostfang, unstoppable as the plague.
---
Preparing the City
Frostfang roared with preparation. Hammers rang against anvils night and day. Women carried buckets of pitch to the walls. Boys scarcely old enough to lift a blade practiced with dulled spears in the yards.
Kaelin oversaw every skirmish drill, bellowing corrections until her voice gave out. She broke three practice swords and two shields before the sun had set.
Rowena walked the ramparts, setting markers where her archers could rain death most effectively. She taught them to strike fast, then vanish before return fire could find them.
Maerlyn moved through the city like a dark wraith, scrawling runes across doorways and windows, leaving strange chalk marks that made grown men shiver.
Aldric found her in the crypts beneath the keep one night, lighting candles among the bones of old kings.
"What are you doing down here?" he asked.
Maerlyn did not look up. "Asking the dead for permission."
Aldric swallowed. "For what?"
Her black eyes glittered like a storm. "To wake them, if it comes to that."
Aldric flinched. "You would raise our ancestors?"
She smiled. "Would you rather the Vulture King wear their bones instead?"
---
The Storm Approaches
By the third day, scouts arrived breathless at the gates.
"They are here!" one cried, mud-smeared and wild-eyed. "The marsh army! Less than a day away!"
A horn sounded from Frostfang's highest tower, a long, mournful blast that carried through every alley and courtyard. The city braced, every man, woman, and child knowing it might be their last stand.
Aldric climbed the southern wall, Kaelin and Rowena flanking him.
Across the broken plain, like a rising flood, came the Vulture King's host — a mass of ragged iron, torn banners, and cruel-eyed killers, stretching beyond the horizon.
Kaelin muttered, "I've seen enough monsters to last ten lifetimes. And yet here we are again."
Rowena fitted an arrow to her bow, jaw clenched. "They will break like the rest."
Aldric looked out over the doomed fields, his voice steady and certain.
"We will not yield," he said. "Not to sea, not to plague, not to carrion. We are Frostfang. And we will stand."
---
The Calm Before
Night fell, heavy and absolute.
Within the walls, families gathered by candlelight. Priests moved through the ranks of soldiers, blessing their blades and their hearts alike.
Rowena stole a moment with Aldric on a deserted rampart. The wind tugged at her hair, carrying the scent of marsh rot and fear.
"I'm afraid," she admitted softly.
He pulled her close. "So am I."
They stood there in silence, hearts beating against each other, until the first light of dawn began to rise.
From the southern hills, horns wailed — a terrible, ragged cry that seemed to scrape the soul itself.
Kaelin pounded her hammer against her shield. "Let them come!"
The gates shuddered as the enemy reached them.
Aldric raised his sword, voice ringing like a bell.
"Frostfang! Stand with me!"
And as the sun rose, the final battle began.