Elizaveta let the silence drag on for a few moments, her eyes sweeping across the rain-drenched horizon. The black wall of clouds seemed to press down upon the siege field, where dozens of smouldering fires marked the presence of the Ferralian host. The wind carried the acrid smell of damp gunpowder, iron and mud, and yet her gaze lingered on the two men at her side.
– What do you make of this? – she asked, her voice low but cutting, like a blade sliding across a throat.
Gregor, taciturn as always, scratched his thick beard before answering. His voice came out deep, filled with the pragmatism of a soldier hardened by both defeats and victories.
– Darcos is no fool – he said, staring at the enemy camp, which resembled a fortress of iron. – He has built defences around the whole camp. Stakes, trenches, barricades. To attack head-on would be like hurling ourselves against a wall. He is a true general, and he knows that, if we come, it will not be swagger that brings him down.
Gregor's words fell heavy, like stones into a river, but it was Dário who broke the following silence, the brightness in his eyes contrasting with his companion's gravity.
– Not the whole camp, Gregor – his tone was firm, almost impatient. – No one closes every flank, not when their gaze is fixed on another target. And his target is the fortress, not us. If we are swift, if we descend upon them like lightning, we shall sow panic before they even realise what struck them. By the time they wake from the shock, it will already be too late.
Elizaveta listened impassively, like a queen hearing her councillors dispute the fate of a realm, letting slip a brief laugh, cold as drawn steel.
– There is more than gaps and palisades – she murmured, her voice clear amidst the wind that rattled the standards of her regiment. – Look well beyond the trenches… the artillery – their eyes fixed on the Ferralian batteries, exposed in line against the fortress. – No walls, no stakes, no guards worth their salt. Fine beasts, alone in the mud. The serpent's head lies unprotected… let us cut it off.
Gregor said nothing, but the tightening of his jaw betrayed his thought: pragmatism or not, he recognised the opportunity. Dário, on the other hand, smiled as though he already sensed victory.
It was in that instant that the plan took shape. Not on maps, but in the heavy silence that precedes a battle. Strike the artillery, shatter its iron teeth; isolate the companies that hurled themselves too deep into the breach of the wall, cut their wings before they could retreat; and above all, spread panic, let the rumour fly that the Wolves of Winter had risen from every side, until the entire army dissolved in flight.
Elizaveta straightened herself in the saddle, her white-and-grey cloak lifted by the wind like the wing of a falcon. Her gaze swept over the faces of her mercenaries, one by one, before fixing upon the expectant mass of horsemen, lances held high, horses restless. She felt their breath, the sweat of the animals, the silence before the storm.
– Wolves of Winter… – she began, in a grave tone that silenced even the nervous stamping of hooves. – Today we do not fight only against Darcos, nor against the fortifications he raised before us. We fight for something greater than each of us – her hand rose, pointing a finger towards the veiled horizon. – Today rises the dream of a new nation, more imposing than any kingdom forged in the blood of the past.
Gregor watched her with the hard gaze of one who had seen too many battles, yet even he felt his heart quicken at those words. Dário smiled, his horse growing restless, as if it understood what was about to unfold.
– Yes, many shall fall – Elizaveta went on, her voice clear as thunder. – Many shall not see the sun rise tomorrow. But their deaths shall not be in vain. Every drop of blood shed shall be the seed of this new land that does not yet exist, but shall be born. A land that shall stretch to the south, where the children of our children shall ride free and sovereign, with neither chains nor masters.
The Wolves raised their lances and sabres, first in silence, then with a roar torn from the bowels of the earth. The sound spread across the drenched plain, echoing like a thunderclap of flesh and iron.
Elizaveta smiled, cold and implacable, as she saw them rise as one body. They were ready. Destiny already awaited them, but it was not death that guided them: it was the promise of something greater than them all.
The plain trembled beneath the rumble of hooves. At first a distant echo, like thunder in the mountains, then a breath-stealing roar that made the earth quake as if the very world shuddered. The Wolves descended in tight formation, cloaks and plumes streaming in the wind, lances lowered, pistols and carbines strapped to their belts, ready to spit fire when the clash came.
At the front, Elizaveta rode like a white shadow, her sword gleaming bare with the promise of blood. Gregor kept firm at her flank, his lance aimed at enemy flesh; Dário, further behind, already had a pistol in hand, a feral grin upon his face.
The enemy realised what was happening too late. The Ferralians shouted orders, tried to realign their formations, but the improvised fortifications of stakes and barrels could not withstand the onslaught. Horses leapt over the barriers with the fury of a storm, crushing soldiers, breaking formations. The sound was a chorus of steel rending flesh, of bones shattered beneath iron-shod hooves.
The cannon batteries, so proud at dawn, were now defenceless prey. The gunners barely had time to turn the pieces; the first musket volleys scattered them, and then the Wolves' lances found their chests, their throats, their bellies. Ferralians fell screaming amid broken wheels and spilled powder, the stench of sulphur mingling with the hot blood soaking into the mud.
Elizaveta was the first to slice the fuse of a cannon with her blade, laughing like one who tears the heart from a giant. Gregor struck down one gunner after another, each blow of his axe dry and precise. Dário fired his pistol into an officer trying to rally soldiers, and the next instant already had his carbine braced upon the saddle, spitting yet more fire and iron.
It was then that Dante's rebels poured out of the fortress like a loosed swarm, hoarse cries echoing from the walls. They fell upon the disordered Ferralian army, striking at the companies that had pushed too deep into the breach. The siege became utter chaos, a whirlpool of steel and fear.
The Ferralian troops, caught between the hammer of the Wolves and the anvil of the rebels, began to collapse. Lines broken, standards toppled and seized, cries of command drowned in panic. The siege field, which hours before had seemed impregnable, now turned into a slaughterhouse.
The crack of a shot was lost in the tumult of battle, but its impact rang clear as a cloven bell. The bullet struck Elizaveta's chest with the force of a hammer, the iron of her cuirass splitting beneath the shock, and the air burst from her lungs in a muffled cry. Her body was hurled backwards, and the captain of the Wolves fell from the saddle, crashing into the black mud.
The world spun, blurred by the shock. Each breath was a dagger driven into her chest; she felt the blood rising to her mouth, though the cuirass had held. She was still alive – but only by a thread.
Before her, the curtain of smoke parted, and the figure that emerged seemed born of a nightmare. Lucien Darcos. The Iron General. His left arm, encased in a gleaming iron talon, dripped with fresh blood; in his other hand he raised a sword, marked by long use. His gaze was as cold as that of an executioner who had already chosen his victim.
– Here is the mother of the little wolves – said Darcos, his deep voice resonating amid the clamour of combat. – Let us see if you howl when I cut your throat.
Elizaveta pushed herself up from the mud. Her chest throbbed, every movement was torture, but rage lifted her body when strength had already abandoned her. With effort, she grasped her sword, the blade steeped in mud and blood, and raised it in guard.
The blades met. The clash of steel threw up sparks, as though the very sky spat fire. Elizaveta stepped back two paces, still feeling the crack in her cuirass upon her chest, each breath a torment. Darcos pressed forward without pause, relentless, his sword cutting the air with the force of an executioner.
She turned aside the blow, twisting the blade and letting it pass by her shoulder. In that same instant, she answered with a swift, sure thrust that would have pierced any man but him. Darcos blocked it with his iron talon, the crack of the impact echoing across the battlefield, and shoved her back with brutal strength.
Elizaveta's boots slid in the mud. She spun, slashed upwards, aiming for his throat. He stepped aside, the cold smile never leaving his face.
– Too slow, she-wolf – he murmured.
The next clash almost tore her arm away. Darcos's sword fell with the weight of an axe, crushing her defence. The blade quivered in her hand, yet still she resisted, sweat and rain blinding her eyes. She tried to turn into a counter, striking at his thigh, but the talon caught the blade mid-swing, with a sharp snap, like a rat caught in a trap.
Darcos laughed, a low laugh, one of satisfaction. He twisted his wrist, and Elizaveta's sword flew from her hand, spinning before plunging into the mud.
For an instant, the entire world seemed suspended: the clangour of battle around her, the shouts, the shots, all smothered by the sound of her own breath, short and painful. On her knees in the mud, chest aflame, she saw his shadow rise over her, sword in one hand, bloodied talon in the other.
Elizaveta glared at him with rage, not fear.
– End this, then – she spat, blood staining her lips. – I have awaited this day for years.
And Darcos raised the sword, triumphant, like an iron god already claiming victory.
His blade was already descending when a bellow broke out behind him. Gregor surged forth like a bear from the forest, the axe whirling through the air with a cutting whistle. The blow struck Darcos's sword and wrenched it from his hands, the steel flying in an arc before vanishing into the mud.
Before the Iron General could recover his breath, he felt the chill of steel at his throat. Dário stood behind him, dagger pressed to his skin, a smile gleaming on his face.
– One false move, and I take your voice – he murmured, low and sharp as the blade itself.
Darcos stood motionless. His broad chest heaved, but his eyes betrayed no fear. He turned slowly, the iron claw still raised, and looked about. What he saw drew from him a brief, bitter laugh: the siege field in flames, companies in flight, the Ferralian standards toppled into the mud. His soldiers were in retreat, crushed by the rebels' counter-attack and by the implacable charge of the Wolves of Winter.
– So then… – he said, his deep voice steady. – It seems today's victory is yours. I do not know you – his eyes fixed on Elizaveta, now standing, her chest burning beneath the shattered cuirass, yet her sword once more in her hand. – Who is the she-wolf who has stolen my siege?
Elizaveta wiped the blood from her lips with the back of her glove. Her gaze was hard, without a trace of submission.
– I am Elizaveta Volkova – she declared, her voice clear despite the pain. – Captain of the Wolves of Winter. These are my lieutenants: Gregor Malhov and Dário Solvani.
Gregor said nothing, his axe still firm in his hands. Dário smiled, pressing the dagger lightly against the general's throat.
Darcos lifted his head, as though finally recognising the dignity of those before him.
– Lucien Darcos – he introduced himself, almost with solemnity. – General of the Iron Dominion.
At that moment, hurried steps were heard behind them. Dante appeared, his sword still stained with blood, the loyal Iago of the Cauldrons at his side. The rebel bore in his eyes the exhaustion of one who had fought to the limit, but also the fierce gleam of one who had just broken the yoke of a greater foe.
– Victor Ferroforte… – said Dante. – What has become of him?
Lucien lifted his gaze, the shadow of a weary smile breaking across his battle-worn face.
– Marshal Ferroforte… no longer walks this world – he said, almost in a whisper, yet firm. – He died in his tent two days ago, a bullet lodged in his chest. A sure shot… fired by that dog who follows you like a shadow.
For a moment, silence fell upon those present, broken only by the wind whipping the fallen banners and the distant ringing of steel on steel. Iago, standing at Dante's side, could not restrain his smile. It was discreet, almost timid, yet in his eyes shone the spark of a personal triumph, the glimmer of one who had felled a giant with his own hands.
Elizaveta took a step forward, still breathless, the pain in her chest throbbing beneath the dented cuirass. Blood trickled from her lip, yet her voice rose clear as a winter clarion.
– Be that as it may, Lucien Darcos, you are my prisoner – she declared, firm, sabre pointed at the general's chest.
For a moment, it seemed the old general would resist, that the iron talon would rise one last time to spill blood. But none of that came to pass. Darcos lowered his head, the weight of defeat and of age settling upon his shoulders like a broken armour.
– So be it – he murmured, looking her in the eyes. – I have no stomach left for fighting.