The first of part of the plan was arguably the most entertaining. Sylvia often sat on the roof of Aimo’s wagon during the days of siege, watching the spectacle unfold. Every day, the Fri teased the Wolves standing guard on the city walls, putting on armour as though readying for battle, but never attacking. Wolves gathered, scrambling to get ready in time, only to stare the enemy down for over an hour, and then putting their weapons down again. The Fri cut down a few trees and lazily began to build a ram. In the meantime, Wolves hurried to further barricade the gates. Needless to say, the ram was never made mobile. The Fri also stacked a few large rocks near camp, but never built a sling for them, which sent the Wolves looking for tower shields, and forced them to drag many goods further into the city centre. Even in the middle of the night, a few Fri would light torches, shoot a flaming arrow over the wall, or ride for the city in loud gallop, only to retreat before the Wolves realised they were not an army approaching in the dark.

On the second day, Sylvia sat near her tent when Yri came to her. “Ready to test your idea?”

Sylvia got to her feet. “I think so.”

“Take five people. That should be enough. Just make sure you are not seen”, Yri instructed.

“You are not coming with me?”, Sylvia asked.

“Why would I?”

Sylvia shrugged. “Because you are a leader?”

“As are you”, Yri argued.

“The only leading I have ever done is herding animals and teaching my little sister”, Sylvia protested.

Smiling softly, Yri placed a hand on her shoulder. “Then let me be your teacher today. Gather five soldiers and meet me at Aimo’s wagon.”

“How will I do that?”, Sylvia asked.

“Do what?”

“Gather soldiers.”

An amused huff left Yri. She crouched down and took Sylvia’s hands in her own. Looking up at Sylvia with all the warmth of a concerned mother, she explained, “You are Fri. You are Sylvia Fri, survivor of a Wolf raid, a veteran of Nyberg. That alone gives you authority. Command a sworn, any sworn, and they will follow. If they do not, give me their description and I will make sure they never dare disrespect you again. Alright?”

“How do I know who is a sworn?”, Sylvia wondered.

Yri’s smile widened. “If there is a man, in our camp, he is sworn.”

A frown spread over Sylvia’s face. “There are no male Fri?”

Frowning as well, Yri shook her head. “It is not a name for a man to have. It is a great honour to bear the name of a Fri, as my sworn Bothilder Yris does, but a man cannot be Fri. It would not make any sense.”

Sylvia contemplated this for a moment. “What about children? The son of a Fri?”

Yri shrugged. “Regular naming will suffice. Our name is not a birthright.”

Sylvia hummed in understanding. “What about the women? How would I know if someone is Fri or sworn?”

“That, I am afraid, I cannot give you any simple answer to. You simply have to know them. For example, Mellory over there is sworn”, Yri said, motioning toward a woman sitting nearby.

When Sylvia did not ask any further questions, Yri stood back up and patted her on the arm. “Meet me and Aimo as soon as you have your five.”

Sylvia tried to remember how Yri and Thorun usually addressed the sworn. It was rather curt. It was similar to the way her mother would direct her and her sisters around the farm. Sylvia observed the woman Yri had pointed out. She was sitting on a tree stump, tending to her sword. Sylvia could use someone handy. Taking a measured breath, she straightened her back and strode over to Mellory.

“Sworn!”

Mellory looked up, her hands stilling. She did not speak, but her eyes were fixed on Sylvia.

“Find four others and meet me back here”, Sylvia ordered.

“Now?”, Mellory asked.

“Yes. Now.”

Getting up at once, Mellory sheathed her sword and hurried off. Sylvia watched her duck between some tents. While she had appeared perfectly relaxed a moment ago, there was now a tangible urgency to her movements. A smile crept onto Sylvia’s face. She could get used to this.

Arriving at Aimo’s carts with a retinue of five soldiers, Sylvia noticed a smile spreading over Yri’s lips. Yri nudged Aimo, who nodded knowingly, before turning his attention to the approaching group. He handed over drills, buckets, and a handful of wooden taps he had spent the morning carving. Leading her group into the woods under Yri’s supervision, Sylvia had them find pine trees and gather the sap. In the meantime, she gathered moss and laid it out around the fires to dry.

The next day, Sylvia gathered her five again and set them to work, mixing balls of sap, sawdust, and dry stonemoss. It was painful work. The sawdust was full of splinters, and the sap pulled at their skin. They worked all afternoon, laying out over a hundred fist sized balls in neat rows on the ground. Yri came by in the evening to inspect the array of ammunition.

“This sure looks interesting.” She bent down to pick up one of balls.

“Ah, I would not—”, Sylvia began, but it was too late. Yri had one of the sticky balls in her palm.

Turning her hand over, Yri chuckled. The mass stuck firmly to her skin. “Not bad.”

“Thank you. And I tried it out first. They burn as I expected, long and hot”, Sylvia declared proudly.

“Yea?”, Yri asked. She made to chuck the ball into the fireplace, but it stubbornly held onto her hand.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

“Yea. You probably want to avoid touching those with your bare hands”, Sylvia said.

She made an attempt to hide her amused, but it was hardly a success. She finished forming another ball and placed it in the space which Yri had left empty. “Unless you want to help us with this.”

“Yea right”, Yri laughed.

She looked around, searching the ground for something that might help her. Sylvia handed her a maple leaf to wrap around the ball. Finally managing to separate the thing from her skin, Yri chucked it into the firepit and watched with glee as the fire flared up, swallowing the ammunition whole. When the ball settled at the bottom of the firepit, a jet of flame lashed for the sky. A wave of heat rolled over her face. The fire did not sputter or smoke, and the sap melted out across the logs, burning hot and long. Pressing the tips of her fingers together, Yri inspected the sticky residue still glistening in her palm. It really was a potent mixture.

“Very clever. How did you come up with that?”

Finishing another ball, Sylvia shrugged. “There are a lot of pine trees here. Pine sap burns well and it is very sticky. There is also plenty of stonemoss around. Mother always used stonemoss for kindling. It burns easy, long, and hot. It will make any wood burn, even moist logs. The sawdust is to make sure the fire spreads through the entire ball quickly.”

“And do you have a name for your ammunition?”, Yri asked.

“A name?”, Sylvia repeated.

“You do not expect everyone to say ‘pine, sap, and stonemoss balls’ every time they refer to this stuff, do you?”

Sylvia thought for a moment. Her hands stilled and she looked into the fire where the sap was still bubbling aggressively. “Sticky fire”, she finally said.

“Not very creative, but clear. I like it”, Yri agreed. “And how do I get the sap off my hand again?”, she asked, holding her palm up.

Sylvia laughed. “Alcohol should do the trick.”

“Then I guess I will see Aimo about some spirit. Good work, Sylvia”, she added, before taking her leave.

Sylvia was brimming with pride. She kept working on the sticky fire until all the buckets of mixture were empty. Her hands barely hurt any more after the words of encouragement. Once the work was done, she led her group to Aimo for some spirit. The alcohol burned across the small cuts in their hands. Sylvia rubbed her hands together to spread it, making sure every last bit of sap was gone before rinsing with water and sighing in relief. Looking to the sworn she had enlisted, she saw them wincing as they hurriedly scrubbed their throbbing hands.

“Sorry about the discomfort, but believe me, it will be worth it when morning comes”, she encouraged.

The group did not seem impressed with her motivational speech.

“I do not doubt you, Fri”, Mellory said. “But for now it hurts, and tomorrow will be difficult.”

“I know.”, Sylvia agreed.

Looking down at her hands, she balled them into fists and then uncurled them again, stretching her fingers. “I will need your help tomorrow to handle and distribute the sticky fire, so do not expect to participate in the assault yourselves.”

Mellory nodded, making every attempt not to smile. Sylvia dried her hands and left them. Before she was out of earshot, she heard one of the men praise Gaia for the gift. They would not have to risk their lives tomorrow. It eased Sylvia’s mind a little to have some reward to give them for their hard work.

Fetching dinner from the baker’s tent, Sylvia sat down by one of the central fires. The hot bowl burned against her hands, but she relished in the throbbing pain. Right now, it was not a matter about whether her hands would hurt, but only about how. The promising burn of hot food was a lot more pleasant than the stinging of abused skin. Eating slowly, she appreciated every chewy chunk and slimy slurp.

When Sylvia returned her empty bowl, Frida held out a sweet roll.

Sylvia frowned at the young cook. “For me?”

“I heard about your work. Impressive”, Frida smiled, urging the roll toward her.

Taking it with both hands, Sylvia smiled widely. “Thank you!” She slimmed her lips and hummed in question. “Hm. Any chance you have five more of these?”

“Oh, worry not. I will give the rest their fair share as well”, Frida ensured. She winked at Sylvia before refocusing on her work.

Returning to her place by the fire, Sylvia took a greedy bite of the sweet roll. The outside was all light and moist dough, and the inside all dark caramel and berry preserve. The sweetness coated her tongue like the kiss of a dearly missed lover. Groaning, Sylvia took another bite.

A delighted chuckle brought Sylvia back to reality. Yri had settled down at the fire as well. She smiled while she worked, tending to her arbalest. “Do not let your treat escape”, she teased.

Sylvia realised the preserve was threatening to drip. Quickly taking another bite, she looked back over at the leader. Yri’s hands worked with the same practised ease as those of a craftsman. She cleaned the metal, which formed the prod and stirrup, and polished the wood of the handle. Then, she tested the string and the trigger. The weapon was an impressive piece. At first glance, it appeared to be little more than an oversized crossbow, but the mechanism was far more sophisticated. The prod was entirely made out of metal, which gave it a lot of power. No human would be able to pull the string taunt. In order to cock the arbalest, a cranequin had to be employed. It made the weapon slow, but deadly. Only a longbow could rival the arbalest at short ranges, and mastering the longbow took years, if not decades, of practice. The arrival of the Severn arbalest significantly levelled the playing field. At least if you could afford this expensive design.

“How did you learn to shoot?”, Sylvia asked.

She took her final bite of the sweet roll. Closing her eyes, she savoured the mouthfeel, the slightly sticky texture, which soon melted into pure sweet delight.

“Heida taught me”, Yri replied. Cleaning the cranequin next, she made sure it attached and spun smoothly.

Sylvia hesitated for a moment. She hoped it would not offend Yri if she asked. She was curious to hear the details. “Bothilder said that the two of you are from the same place.”

Yri nodded. “No need to heed your words. Yes, I was in a whorehouse. Yes, I was very good at my job. Yes, I learned to sing and dance there. Yes, Heida was there as well. As was Kvist. All three of us did what we had to in order to survive.” Looking up, she added, “Until Thorun found us.”

Sylvia shifted where she sat. “What happened?”

“Thorun knew her father had bastards. What she did not know, is that one of them was a daughter, the child of a whore. I am not sure how she found out, or how she managed to locate us. She does not like to speak of the past. What matters, is that she did what she set out to do. She travelled all the way to the river Isbäcken, and up its first arm to Lesa, deep into Wolf ridden lands. There, she visited every brothel until she found the whore her father had impregnated. We killed the men, freed the women, and hid them in the cellar of a warehouse by the docks. By the time we were done, brothel owners were fleeing the city, leaving their slaves behind. Eventually, we stole a ship and left, before reinforcements could come.”

“So you got revenge?”, Sylvia asked. “For what they did to you?”

Yri met Sylvia's eyes. She did not say anything for a long moment, just looking at Sylvia, searching for something in her eyes. Eventually, Yri shook head. “No, but Kvist did.”

Sylvia did not need to vocalize her next question.

“I remember it well. Our owner met justice on his last day. Kvist pinned him against a wall, asked him if he remembered what he did to her mother. ‘Remember what you did when she misbehaved? Remember how you punished her? Drove a nail through her foot? I think you misbehaved, but far more than she did.’ He was pathetic.” Yri spat into the fire. “He was whimpering and pleading. ‘Please. Please. Anything.’ But Kvist had made up her mind. She blindfolded him and made him climb onto a chair. She took a thick boat nail and ran it through his throat, pinning him to the wall, before pulling the chair away.”

Smirking, Yri fingered the string of her arbalest. Her voice became smooth as honey. “The nail ripped through the side of his neck and he fell to the ground before it was over. Turns out that thrashing around while suspended by your throat is not to be recommended. It only hurts more if you struggle.”

Meeting Sylvia’s eyes again, Yri’s face fell. “Sorry. That was a gruesome thing to say.”

Sylvia shook her head. She stared into the fire. She could imagine it, perhaps a little too well. The bolt ripping open that man’s throat. The shocked expression on Rebecca's face when her throat was severed flashed though Sylvia’s mind again. She balled her hands into fists. Truth be told, she wouldn’t mind some revenge of her own.