by Ben Wolf
Translucent blue ice made up his face and his arms down to his fingertips, both of which were exposed thanks to his sleeveless black tunic. His eyes glowed a vivid ocean-blue. A long beard of pure white snow hung from his chin, and a complimentary mustache joined with the beard under his nose.
Long white hair, also glistening like snow, flowed down his back. It originated from somewhere under the jagged crown of dark blue ice he wore on his wide head, but the crown itself caught Garrick’s attention the most.
Compared to his dour, simple clothes, the crown looked out of place, almost as if he was wearing it as an afterthought. He wore no other adornments or jewelry, nor did he wear any armor. Just that plain black tunic, black trousers, and black boots.
Garrick squinted at him. There was actually mud, or something, covering his boots. Upon closer inspection, it had spattered on the lower part of his tunic and on his trousers, too. It was hard to see, being dark brown against black, but it was there, unmistakably.
Were it not for the fact that his skin was made of ice and his hair was made of snow, Garrick would’ve written him off as an imposter right away. Even now, he still had his doubts—this little guy could’ve just been a powerful mage who liked the cold.
Whatever the guy was, Garrick resurrected his arm-wrestling idea. He’d definitely win.
“I said, get outta here.” The dwarf’s voice had jumped several octaves, almost to the point of squeaking with his words. “You deaf or something? I know mortals are stupid, but come on.”
Garrick’s mind performed every acrobatic trick it knew to try to make sense of what was happening, but in the end, the conclusion he reached was the simplest possible answer.
“Fjorst?” he said.
The dwarf looked at him with those glowing, ocean-blue eyes and snapped, “What?”
“You’re Fjorst, the God of Ice?” Garrick asked.
“Who else would I be?”
Garrick bit his tongue. If this really was Fjorst, he didn’t want to start out by insulting him.
“Not what you expected, right?” Fjorst said before Garrick could speak again. “Well, I may only be four feet tall, but I can still freeze your overgrown green head in a block of ice with naught but a snap of my fingers. Might make a nice doorstop, or a good conversation piece at all the cocktail parties I never host.
“Now I said to leave, but you’re all standing there like a bunch of cattle,” he continued, still bordering on squeaking with every word. “Then again, I don’t get out as much as I used to. Are humans basically the same as cows now? Did I miss that change? Is that what’s new and exciting aboveground?”
Kent cleared his throat and motioned toward the doors behind the group. “Forgive me, but you have locked us in this room with you. We could not leave even if we wanted to.”
Fjorst craned his short neck and tilted his entire body for a look. “Oh.”
He waved his hand, and the doors sprung open again.
“Alright, scram,” he said.
Still no one moved.
“What in the eighth hell is wrong with you people?” Fjorst snapped. “I’m the God of Ice. I know when someone is frozen or not. MOVE IT.”
“Your Greatness,” Aeron and Wafer drifted forward a bit. “Please, I—”
“This guy and his scaly bird again.” Fjorst rolled his ocean-blue eyes. “What’s your problem, mate? Don’t you know how many times over I could kill you?”
“S-sorry,” Aeron stammered. “It’s just that I—I—”
“Do I need to get a chair? Is it really taking you this long to figure out how to walk out of here?” Fjorst gave a loud, over-emphasized groan. “Pick one foot up, set it down in front of you. Lean forward slightly, then lift the other foot up and put it down next. Repeat until you’re out of my sight.
“We taught you meatbags how to walk eons ago, and I know you can still do it because not all of you are riding those scaly birds. Just do that until you’ve exited the temple. The floor lights up, along with everything else. You can’t possibly get lost.”
Scaly birds? Garrick mused. Did Fjorst really not know what wyverns were, or was he fooling with them?
“Your Greatness,” Aeron tried again. “I—”
“For the love of me, will you stop calling me that?” Fjorst raised his stubby arms into the air, and Garrick had to force himself not to laugh. “I don’t need you to tell me I’m great. I know I’m great. I’ve always known I’m great. Everything about me is great.”
“Then what are we to call you?” Kent asked.
“Don’t call me anything, jackass,” Fjorst said. “Or, fine, call me anything you like, as long as you’re calling to me from the road and not from inside my sacred place.”
Kent’s jawline tightened, and his eyebrows arched down slightly. Garrick had seen that same expression many times over, often directed at him. Kent didn’t like being insulted, not even by a god.
Garrick didn’t either, but the whole situation was too weird and amusing for him to care.
“Fjorst,” Aeron blurted, “my sister is being held captive by a dark lord who wants to sacrifice her to steal a dragon’s essence and become a god.” He inhaled a quick breath. “And we’re the only ones who can stop him and save her. That is, if you’re willing to help us.”
Fjorst stared at him for a long, frigid moment. Then he snapped his fingers. “Dragons. That’s the word. Not scaly birds. Dragons.”
Aeron gawked at him. “Fjorst, please—”
“You just don’t give up, do you, kid?”
“Never.” Some of Aeron’s confidence had returned, accompanying his frustration. “She’s my sister.”
“I’ve got a sister, too,” Fjorst said. “Dheveri. Goddess of Fire. You’ve probably heard of her.”
Garrick wondered if she was taller and better looking. Maybe the good parts had all gone to her instead.
“So you get it.” Hope lined Aeron’s voice.
“She’s a pit viper,” Fjorst said, his voice flat. “Wait. Scratch that. She belongs in a pit with vipers. That’s better.”
They all just stared at him.
“Look, I really don’t talk to anyone. I’m used to being alone,” he said. “If you can’t handle it, you can leave. Which is what you’re supposed to be doing anyway. In fact, let’s circle back to that idea right now. Lift one foot and set it down in front of the other…”
“Even though you don’t like her for… whatever reason,” Aeron said, “you still don’t really want to hurt her. And you certainly don’t want her to die.”
“Gods and goddesses don’t exactly die, kid,” Fjorst said. “Not usually, anyway. It’s more like we ‘disperse.’ And a pit of vipers wouldn’t hurt her. It’s just fun to think about because she doesn’t like serpents at all, so—”
“My point is,” Aeron cut in, “deep down, you know she’s still your sister, and you wouldn’t let any harm come to her if you could help it, right?”
Fjorst sighed. “Right.”
“All I’m asking for is that same chance for my sister. She doesn’t deserve to die. I’d literally give my life to save her.” Aeron pleaded, “Please, Fjorst.”
Fjorst clapped his hands onto his icy face and groaned loud and long. It lasted a solid half a minute, and then he lowered his hands and stared at Aeron. “I knew I should’ve gotten a chair. This is taking for-ev-er.”
“Fjorst!” Aeron shouted. “If you’re not going to help us, then just kill me here and now. I’m running out of time to save her. I can’t take Lord Valdis on without your help. If I don’t get what I need to do the job, then my life doesn’t mean anything anyway.”
Fjorst held his arms out to his side. “I mean, you’re mortal. By definition, your life never meant anything to begin with, soooo…”
Aeron slung a litany of curses at Fjorst. “Yes, I’m mortal. So quit wasting my damned time and make a decision. Will you help me or not?”
Garrick couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Aeron Iro
nglade, the meekest member of their group, especially without Wafer nearby, had just cussed out a god and was still alive. It was nothing short of amazing.
“I’m gonna be honest,” Fjorst said. “I really, really don’t like the way you’re talking to me. It’s rude. Super rude. But I’m gonna let it slide this one time because your little mortal story is actually kind of pitiful.”
No one said a word. Everyone just watched Fjorst and Aeron staring each other down.
After an eternity of silence, Fjorst conceded, “Fine. What do you need?”
Chapter Twenty-Three
“One, I said,” Fjorst repeated for at least the eighth time. “You each get one weapon. No more. And only you four and your friend, the leader. Only you people going after the dark lord and the dragon, and one bonus weapon. So five total.”
Aeron heard him, but his focus stayed on the arsenal lining the opposite half of Fjorst’s forge. There had to be enough weapons here to equip a small army.
Aeron scanned the walls and readjusted his estimation. Make that a large army.
It made it all the more strange that Fjorst wasn’t letting the other wyvern knights take weapons as well, but when Aeron considered it, he remembered that they weren’t exactly on the Blood Mercs’ side.
Raqat had taken a bold stand, to be sure, but at best, it was temporary. Govalia would keep coming for Aeron as long a Commander Brove held any semblance of power, and the report of one emissary wouldn’t erase Commander Brove’s storied history of serving the empire.
So the fewer ice-forged weapons Aeron had to deal with later on, the better. Raqat having one might end up being bad news as it was.
As Aeron studied the array of weapons, his eyes naturally gravitated toward the spears. He’d trained with spears when he’d first joined the Govalian Army, and he’d furthered his skills during the advanced weapons training he’d received when he’d joined the cavalry.
Much of that training applied equally when riding a wyvern, so when he’d made the jump to the Wyvern Knight Corps and bonded with Wafer, the spear skills stuck with him. Some of the other Featherwings had opted for poleaxes or long swords, but for Aeron, the spear was the beginning, middle, and end of what he needed.
A spear could be thrown and wielded in close-quarters fighting, whether on the ground or in the air. Poleaxes were heavier and more hit-or-miss, and long swords were more cumbersome than they were worth, in Aeron’s opinion. The spear was just right.
“Not that one,” Fjorst said from behind him.
When Aeron turned, he realized Fjorst wasn’t talking to him. He was staring up at Garrick, who’d selected an ornate, yet brutish battle-axe. It looked so fearsome that it might’ve just scared his opponents to death before they ever had a chance to fight.
“You said we could pick one.” Garrick held it up. “This is the one I pick. It’s the best battle-axe by far.”
“And I also said not that one,” Fjorst countered. “That’s Beatrice. She stays with me.”
“You named it ‘Beatrice?’” Garrick eyed him.
“You can hear me. And all this time, I thought you were deaf.” Fjorst hunched forward and put his hands on his knees as if talking to a child, even though Garrick was a full three feet taller than him. “I mean, I already knew you were dumb just by looking at you, so I assumed it went hand-in-hand with deafness since you suck at listening.”
Garrick scowled down at him and shifted the battle-axe in his hands. For a moment, Aeron thought he might swing it at Fjorst, but he didn’t.
“This thing’s way too big for you,” Garrick said. “Why don’t you let a grown-up have it instead?”
“Mother pheasant plucker, I’m 8,900 years old,” Fjorst snapped. “I’ve been forging these works of art since before your oldest ancestor was even born. Now hand it over, or you get nothing.”
Garrick frowned at him again and reluctantly extended the battle-axe toward Fjorst, who snatched it away from him and somehow affixed it to his back without a strap.
“Don’t look so mopey,” Fjorst said. “I mean, unless your lower lip normally sticks out like you’re a whiny brute, then that’s on you. And maybe your parents, too. Follow me. I’ve got just the thing for you.”
As Fjorst walked Garrick over to a different wall, Aeron stole a glance at Wafer, just to check on him. He sat near the door next to Trokos, Raqat’s wyvern, and the two of them waved their heads and snorted at each other, almost conversationally.
With Wafer in the same room, Aeron could still feel his emotions through their bond. He could tell that Wafer and Trokos were doing the wyvern equivalent of sharing stories at a pub.
Aeron turned back to the spears. One in particular had caught Aeron’s eye, and he reached for it. It felt cool to his touch, but not bitterly cold like he’d expected. Then again, he didn’t really know what to expect.
From the moment Mehta’s grandfather had produced the ice-forged dagger, Aeron still had never so much as touched it. He’d figured it would freeze his hand off, even through his gloves. The spear didn’t.
“The naginata,” Fjorst said from behind Aeron again.
This time, when Aeron turned back, Fjorst was standing there looking up at him. Beyond him, Garrick was executing practice swings with a gnarly ice-forged hammer nearly as long as the spear in Aeron’s hands, and he was grinning, too.
Aeron refocused on Fjorst. “The what?”
“Na-gi-na-ta,” Fjorst said slowly, almost mockingly. “Can’t any of you hear me when I talk? It’s not like I’m speaking another language.”
“Is this the nagi… nata?” Aeron held up the peculiar spear.
“What else would I be referring to?”
“I don’t know. You’re a god, so maybe it was some sort of god-speak.”
“Don’t overthink things. We talk just as plainly as any mortal.” Fjorst cleared his throat. “Well, I do, anyway. Some of my siblings fancy themselves to be… well, fancy.”
“Anything I need to know about this thing before I make my selection?” Aeron asked.
“This thing isn’t just a thing. It’s a priceless—at least by your economic standards—work of art, and you’d be lucky to have a chance to wield it in battle.”
Aeron looked it over. Rather than a traditional spearhead, the naginata had a long, curved blade, nearly the length of a short sword’s blade, extending from the top of its shaft. The blade’s curve wasn’t outrageous, but Aeron could see how it might come in handy for hooking weapons or foes and maneuvering them against his opponents’ will.
“Normally, naginata are only sharp on one side of the blade, but I didn’t want mine that way, and I’m a god, so I can do whatever I want,” Fjorst said. “This baby cuts just fine whether you use the outside or the inside edge of the blade.”
The blade looked sharp enough to shave with, though with it being ice-forged, Aeron decided against trying such a thing. Both the shaft and the blade were made of ice-forged steel, so in theory, Aeron could use it pretty much like he’d use a normal spear, both for offense and defense.
“Best thing about ice-forged steel is that when it comes into contact with normal steel weapons, it tends to ruin them. Normal weapons will freeze and crack and even shatter against these brutes. Pretty nifty, eh?”
Aeron nodded. If he could break the weapons of his enemies with this naginata thing, he’d never lose a fight again.
“Go on. Try it out,” Fjorst urged. “We both know you’re going to swing it around like a boy with a stick anyway.”
Aeron gladly obliged. He worked the naginata in his hands, deftly simulating attacks and feigning blocks from imaginary foes, left and right. He spun around for a nasty strike, and the naginata blade struck something hard. It vibrated in his hands for the briefest instant, then it stopped.
Garrick stood there with his new hammer in his hands smiling. “We both need to see what we can do. Wanna play?”
“Sure,” Aeron replied with a gulp. “Just don’t kill me on accide
nt.”
“Same goes for you,” Garrick said. “The rules are different now. These things can actually hurt me the same as any lame old weapon could hurt you.”
“These weapons can wound or even kill gods,” Fjorst interjected. “Well, some of us, anyway. They wouldn’t do you any good against me, so don’t get any (more) idiotic ideas. I’m looking at you, lumber lips.”
Garrick growled at him then turned to face Aeron.
Great. Aeron sighed. Now he’s going to take it out on me.
They began to spar.
Kent had chosen a double-edged sword that seemed to suit him perfectly, but Mehta still hadn’t found what he was looking for. Rows upon rows of knives and daggers hung before him, but nothing he’d seen thus far had appealed to him more than the idea of just keeping the pair of knives he already had.
After all, they’d served him well thus far, since long before he’d even set out to sift Lord Valdis. They’d seen him through battles with all manner of enemies, living and otherwise, and they’d never once let him down. Why bother changing his approach now?
Because you can’t sift a dragon with those knives, his thirst taunted him. Or Lord Valdis. Or even the frostbloods back in the caverns. You’re nothing but a failure if you continue to use those.
Mehta shook the voice out of his head. He’d gotten used to the thirst incessantly urging him to sift every living thing that moved, but he hadn’t gotten used to its cruelty in quiet moments like these. He definitely preferred its desperate pleas for violence instead.
But as much as he hated hearing the insults, the thirst was right about his knives: they wouldn’t get the job done against Lord Valdis or his dragon. Then again, would any knives be a good choice against such foes? Maybe he ought to consider picking up a longer weapon instead…
“Hallo,” a voice behind him said.
Fjorst, the dwarf god under the mountain.
