Chapter Text
"Behind you!"
Vesta's voice broke above the screaming wind.
Asterin banked hard to the left, narrowly avoiding the jaws of the Yellowlegs wyvern from snapping closed round Narene's neck. Her sky-blue mount roared in challenge, wings pounding as the Thirteen, now numbered only twelve, wingbeats thundered through the clouds.
Their pursuers echoed in response.
Wind lashed against her face, her eye's watering despite having blinked that clear lid into place the moment she'd been airborne. It lashed at the remnants of that very real whipping she'd endured across her body, her golden hair a wild veil at her back. Her body barely clung to the saddle as Asterin banked again. Again. Again. Narene's barbed tail swinging as an enemy wyvern made another pass, claws now trying to swipe at her underbelly.
Instead, Narene's claws drove deep into the other wyvern's body, to wear the wing connected to shoulder. Hanging on as she shook, tearing away flesh and muscle and sinew until she tore the wing clear off in a spray of blood. The Yellowlegs died screaming as she and her ruined wyvern plummeted.
But more came.
Fly. It had been Manon's command to them, maybe her last. Fly.
Asterin knew if she were going to die, it would be here, fighting amongst the Thirteen and their wyverns. Skyward, with the wind in her hair, blood in her mouth.
Sorrell's blue-black bull rose from the cloud like the shadow of some ancient nightmare. The mist shivered at the assent like ripples in a dark lake, only moments before the bull's body made impact with the nearby witch. a Blackbeak, one of the Matron's.
"I'll kill you, traitorous bitch!"
The witch's wyvern roared, as if in agreement.
The rider untethered herself from her saddle, hands reaching for the daggers strapped across her upper thighs. Iron teeth snapping downward, she rose, as if making herself ready to leap from her flailing wyvern on to Sorell's bull.
As arrow through her chest put an end to the notion.
Sorrell barely caught sight of one of the shadows, Briar, weaving through the chaos, bow still clutched in hand. Before the dark haired witch melded once again into the fray.
Vesta was coming in fast, a falling star across the skies. She flattened herself to her mare's back, head turned so that her head lay flat against the leathery skin as they dove. Barreling into the enemy wyvern that had tried to slip beneath the cover of the clouds, sending them both tumbling through the open air.
They rolled, over and over, like barrel down a hill. Vesta couldn't tell from one moment to the next whether she was upside down, not with the wind roaring in her ears, the sky and earth all a blur.
Clinging to the mare's saddle, Vesta's knuckles strained, bone-white as she held on. As if by sheer will, or perhaps the hand of the Three Faced Goddess Herself, the mare managed to straighten, wings extending so that they began to glide rather than plummet. This time, the thunder in her ears wasn't from her wyvern, but the skies themselves. Rain, frozen and sharp, struck Vesta's face as she rightened herself.
She drew one of her daggers, and with deadly accuracy sent it flying through the eye of the enemy witch, still struggling to control her wyvern. Vesta sent a send dagger through the wyvern's exposed throat. Her fingers grew slick as the rain beat in a heavy torrent down on them. Wings and claws and steel flashes between the gaps.
Asterin was roaring as she flew. Her wounds momentarily inconsequential as the battle-lust consumed her. As witches died, each throat she tore open was Iskra, or the Matron. The hot blood soaking her as much as the rain. And all around her, she could hear the Thirteen bellowing in response.
One by one the enemy witches fell to the Thirteen, until those few that remained turned to retreat, dodging rain and arrows and teeth as lightning light flashed. For a moment, Asterin nearly called the others to pursue, to tear about the half-dozen witches before they could return to Morath. But lightning tore across the sky, so close that Asterin felt the heat of it crackling across her skin. And she knew it would be foolish to risk it. She could only pray to the Goddess that their enemies fell to the elements before reaching the Matrons and their host of ironteeth.
They flew. Against the storm that gave them cover, as much as it threatened to strike them from the sky. Flew until the rain finally broke, hours later, and Vesta spotted a small clearing below, large enough to safely land their mounts and retreat into the thick trees surrounding the patch of grass.
Asterin's feet hit the ground, churned with mud from the rainfall, only seconds before her knees followed suit. It took all the scraps of strength that remained not to let the rest of her collapse. To lay down in the carnage and shut her eyes, let the Three Faced Goddess do with her what She willed. She would have, not for that single word.
Fly.
Manon.
Wingleader, Heir, Cousin.
The last glimpse the Thirteen had seen of her, Manon had been lunging at her grandmother, the Matron. Had been prepared to kill, to die. For them. For her.
Take my body back to the cabin.
It was all Asterin could hope for, that final request. As her face turned to that final sunrise, her final look at Manon, the Thirteen. And when Manon had raised Windcleaver, sparing her the slow and excruciating death that had been arranged, Asterin smiled. And then Manon had swung that blade. Not to kill her, not to deliver that swift mercy, but to save her. Save them all.
The other's dismounted, their wyverns battered and exhausted, but victorious, alive. For now.
"Set up camp." Asterin told them others, voice barely audible. "We rest here until dusk."
She was still Manon's Second, and in her absence, to be obeyed without question. The others broke apart to obey, the exhaustion so bone-deep that none protested the prospect of a few stolen hours of rest. They had no bedrolls, no food, no supplies. Just their wyverns, weapons and the sister witches at their side. No idea if Manon had survived, or if the Matron had torn her apart piece by piece.
The sun broke from the watery sky above, bright, though casting little heat. Asterin rested against Narene, the wyvern's body warmth enough against her aching back. Rest. She needed rest.
Asterin hadn't slept at all the previous night. Not with the constant beatings by Iskra, who'd savored every lash, every involuntary scream that tore from Asterin's throat. At one point, the pain had taken her from her body entirely. She'd been adrift, watching from afar as Iskra pummeled her, over and over.
Not once did she consider how easy it would be to make it all stop. The truth, to reveal what exactly had happened in Rifthold. But Asterin would rather die, die a thousand slow and painful deaths than betray Manon. Her wingleader had had her reasons that night, just as Asterin had her reasons for staying silent.
Asterin opened her eyes as she heard the approached for familiar footsteps. Vesta, Sorrell beside her. The former's hair, the same sanguine shade of red that stained her skin and clothes, tumbled down her back. Wordlessly, she crouched, eye to eye with Asterin.
"I'm fine." Asterin snarled.
Unfazed, Sorrell, still standing, shook her head. "No, you're not."
While neither witch had any doubts the Second's spirit was as fierce as always, it was her body that concerned them. Another attack like the one they'd just survived? They'd all be dead before their wyvern's could take to the skies.
"Pain won't kill me." Asterin forced a crooked, wicked grin. "It's just pain."
"Pain won't kill you, but it will slow you down." Vesta pointed out.
Anger flashed in Asterin's chest. Burned bright. In another time, Asterin would have seen Sorrell's words as a challenge, to her position as Second. To her ability to serve Manon and the coven effectively. Even now, her iron nails seemed to strain beneath the surface. But Asterin beat back that instinct, exercising a control over the impulsiveness she so rarely leashed.
"I just need rest." The witch admitted, adding; "We all do."
Sorrell nodded in agreement. "And then?"
"Then, what?" Asterin looked at her, incredulous. "We find Manon."
"We want her to be alive just as much as you." Sorrell touched three fingers to her forehead. "But we need to consider an alternative course in case....in case..." Sorrell swallowed, as close to emotion as the witch would show. "Until we know for sure."
Again, Asterin's first instinct was to lash out, to strike Sorrell so hard her fist split open just for speaking the possibility Manon was dead. But, Sorrell was right.
"Then we focus on keeping our own asses alive." Asterin determined. "We're no good to her dead."
"Agreed." Vesta cut through the tension.
"Give them time, only an hour, but then send the shadows to scout." Asterin's head tilted back, eyes surveying the grey skies above. "Not just for Ironteeth, but for game. We're too far from any of the nearby mountain tribes to raid for our supper."
The witches could go longer than mortals without food, but not indefinitely. But they'd been spread across mountain ranges and deep forests before; stalking like beasts for their prey as they'd been the last century hunting the Crochan.
"I'll see to it." Sorrell gave Asterin a final, surveying look.
"If I feel like dying, I'll let you know." Asterin snapped. "But you'll find yourself disappointed; you won't be Second again, so long as I'm breathing." And for the first time that morning, the familiar spark of mischief seemed to glint once more in her eyes. "But if you wake me up before my watch, I'm going to snap your arm."
Sorrell scoffed. "Very well." But a bit of the tension seemed to loosen from her shoulders as she and Vesta retreated.
Narene let out a long, hot breath against the back of her neck, as if the mare too was in agreement. Asterin let the wyvern tuck one of her massive wings across her body and fell into oblivion.