Winter's Crown: Act 8, Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Gunnar idly spun the haft of his Frostreaver, and an air of patient anticipation filled the air. Though his warriors and hunters were displeased at once again being snubbed by their host, the customs of conduct between host and guest were ironclad. As such, they awaited in their hall, alert for any call to arms or indication that the invaders were drawing near.

Beyond the entrance, the corridor had fallen silent. Either the defenders on the ramp had repulsed the invaders and were now in pursuit, or the Jarl had consolidated his forces to await the enemy at the gate. The answer came when the battle cries of the Frorsten defenders echoed down the corridor. Unearthly roars joined them, and the clash of weapons and bodies rose into the air.

Gunnar listened intently, trying to pick up any sense of the battle’s progress.

“They’re losing,” one of the huntresses said. “Fast.”

“Who is?”

“The Frorstens.”

Confirmation came a minute later when the villagers in the nearby rooms were called to join the battle.

“Even when it has come to this,” a warrior muttered, “their baseless scorn for us rules them. To choose the young and the decrepit over proven warriors…”

“They’ve probably forgotten what a true warrior even is,” another snorted. “I thought Sigurd was exaggerating about the other tribes, but it turns out he was holding back the worst of it.”

The rest grimly voiced their agreement, and Gunnar could only shake his head. It was still difficult to believe these people could have fallen so far. Not only had they succumbed to scheming and politicking, but they had also lost their respect for honourable conduct and the traditions of strength. It appeared that they would rather perish than give even the smallest fragment of recognition to those that they held in contempt.

Beyond the entrance, the sounds of the clash grew closer. An angry orange flare filled the corridor, and a wave of flame pushed back the curtain for a handful of seconds. Shadows of figures locked in battle briefly danced over the walls of ice before the flames died away.

“Fireball…Elder Lich?”

Rather than a conclusion derived from scholarly expertise, Elder Liches were the only Undead that they knew of that cast Fireball. Being vulnerable to bludgeoning damage, they did not get along very well with the massive boulders that Frost Giants hurled at them from hundreds of metres away. As such, they were not really perceived as a dire threat and were removed before they entered spellcasting range. In a narrow corridor or a closed chamber, however, their spells became far more problematic.

“I hope the Jarl doesn’t mind us throwing his furniture around,” a huntress said as she hefted a granite stool.

The sound of giant footsteps pounded in the air, and the curtain was thrown back. In the doorframe stood a wild-eyed Jarl Frorsten.

“What are you doing, you fools?!” He said through heaving breaths, “Make yourselves useful and protect me!”

Without waiting for a response, the Jarl vanished further into the citadel. A number of his warriors rushed after him, and the curtain fell back down into place.

“Damn,” the huntress quipped, “I didn’t get to ask about his furniture.”

Chuckles filled the air. Gunnar raised his hand, and his contingent fell silent again.

“One of his Blackguards was missing,” he said. “Looks like the reports weren’t an exaggeration like those sycophants at Thingvellir claimed.”

“Then what’s the plan?” A warrior asked, “The hunters’ claims make them stronger than nearly any one of us.”

“Depends how many are left,” Gunnar answered, “and how well they can fight here. They might be strong, but they probably have the same problems as any other lowlander. We’ll have to figure out the rest as we go.”

He motioned for his warriors to take their positions. With the risk posed by the Elder Liches, he divided them up and had a row of beds and tables upended to block incoming spells. The hunters stood to the rear, ready to hurl their makeshift weapons through the gaps.

A pair of boots appeared behind the curtain. Rather than being drawn aside, the curtain was pushed forward as a figure came forward. Gunnar spoke quickly into the tense silence.

“Hold.”

Before them stood the boy that Gunnar had stopped earlier. After clearing the curtain, he stood quietly before them. There were cuts and bruises on his legs and arms, but...

The boy lunged forward awkwardly, reaching his arms out towards the nearest warrior. The warrior clubbed him down with the haft of his axe. Everyone stared as the boy fell forward into his face. The back of his tunic was soaked in blood. Deep stab wounds riddled his lower back. The warrior brought his foot down, crushing the corpse’s skull, then burying his weapon in its back for good measure.

“Zombie,” the warrior frowned down with a distasteful expression. “Are those Elder Liches raising the dead?”

“I don’t see why they wouldn’t,” Gunnar said. “They know we’re in here now at the cost of a single spell. Be ready – whatever comes through next will probably be what they think can deal with us.”

It was not long before a set of metallic footsteps clinking over the ice could be heard. A pair of small armoured figures ducked under the curtain, followed by an Undead being draped in black robes.

“Elder Lich!” Gunnar called out as it raised a finger towards a set of warriors.

A stool hurtled through the air. The Elder Lich interrupted its spell as the two armoured figures stepped forward and raised shields that were nearly as tall as themselves. Their forms did not buckle as the one-tonne piece of stone furniture smashed into them and bounced away, but their metal boots drew long gouges into the ice.

Gunnar’s warriors did not miss it. With a roar that filled the chamber, a pair leapt over their barricades. They drove their booted heels into the raised shields and sent the two armoured figures skidding back out into the corridor. The suddenly-exposed Elder Lich was snatched up and hurled into the room, where it was set upon by the others. The two shield-bearers that had been driven out of the room came dashing back in.

“「Repelling Shot!」”

Another piece of furniture flew out from the line of hunters. The attack was blocked like the first, but the target was knocked back out of the room.

“Keep that one out!” Gunnar told the hunters, “Let’s get rid of this other one while we can.”

Normally, they would be challenging their opponents one at a time, but Sigurd claimed that the shield-bearers were strong enough to take three or four veterans at once. Still, the demonstration a few seconds previous showed that they were still subject to the realities of fighting Frost Giants in their native environment.

The first warrior came forward, driving his axe down in an overhead chop. His weapon struck his opponent’s shield with a dull clunk, and the shield-bearer advanced as the warrior retracted his weapon. It didn’t get far, however. A second blow came in from another angle, and it stopped to defend itself.

“This is like hitting a lump of iron,” a warrior said. “It’s a lot tougher than it probably should be.”

“Use sundering attacks,” Gunnar said. “See how well it does without its shield.”

The second shield-bearer appeared briefly before it was blasted away again. Chips and cracks started to appear on the shield and weapon of the one being juggled around by the warriors. Apparently aware of its quandary, it charged forward with a roar, ignoring the blows that rained upon its body. Once it got close enough to the warrior before it, its undulating blade slashed upwards at his thigh.

“「Fortress」!”

The sword was caught by the warrior’s parry. Rather than part with his attacker after receiving the blow, he pressed forward to bind the shield-bearer’s weapon against his. The warrior frowned.

“Something’s wrong, Gunnar,” he said. “The attack was too weak – it doesn’t feel like it can push back, either.”

Gunnar puzzled over the warrior’s words. Could it be that these attackers were actually defenders? Though it was more common for Frost Giant warriors to focus on offence over defence, some did the exact opposite. Sometimes, it was to the point where their offensive ability suffered significantly. The fighting style of these types of warriors tended to revolve around outlasting their opponents, but it wouldn’t work so well here.

“Keep it tied up,” Gunnar ordered the warrior that had bound the weapon of the shield-bearer, then turned to the others. “Break it to pieces. Hunters: you can stop knocking the other one back out now.”

A different group of warriors came forward to intercept the second shield-bearer. It fought in a manner identical to the first, and the warriors settled into a comfortable routine. He listened for sounds of additional reinforcements, but all he could hear were occasional shouts and clashes coming from deeper within the citadel.

“How many did you two see when we were out there?” Gunnar asked the huntresses who had gone outside of the gate with him.

“About four dozen,” came the reply. “Most of them looked like these. A lot was being thrown down at them, though.”

Could they prevail? The Jarl’s insistence on their staying out of the fight may not have purely been overconfidence. If he had conducted his defence using the enemy’s weaknesses against them, it was possible that it had been close. In that case, they might be able to tip the balance. He couldn’t wait to receive some backhanded thanks from the old Jarl.

“What’s next?” One of his warriors asked.

Gunnar looked up from his thoughts. There was no trace of their attackers, and several of the warriors and hunters were breaking up furniture for ammunition. The Shamans were tending to the wounded. He looked over to a nearby huntress.

“Go and take a look,” he said. “It’s possible that these invaders thought the battle won at the gate. They might’ve split up to clear out the citadel. Otherwise, we’d be buried in those things.”

The hunter padded forward on silent steps. She pulled the curtain open slightly and, after a deep breath, she looked out into the hall. After a dozen seconds, she came back to them.

“Seems you’re right,” the huntress said. “Fighting’s still going on further in, but everything around here is quiet. They’re doing something weird with the zombies, though.”

“Weird?”

“Yeah,” she nodded, “they’re walking out of the citadel. These Undead aren’t like any regular Undead we’ve seen. They’d have just endlessly tried to kill us off instead of whatever they’re doing right now. It’s too organized.”

“We can take advantage of that,” Gunnar said. “Waiting in this room for whatever comes is probably a bad idea. We should head to the gate.”

“The gate? Not the Jarl’s hall?”

“The gate,” Gunnar told them. “Most of them are pushing into the citadel. If we’re quick, we’ll be able to sweep away any enemies posted in the rearguard, then fight where we can use the mountain to our advantage.”

He waited to see if anyone had anything to say while they completed their preparations. After checking one last time to see if anything else had come, they left the chamber. Half of the warriors brought furniture with them – beds, tables and other large articles – creating a barrier of stone against enemies that might come from the inside. One of the hunters peeked into the next chamber on the way out.

“Empty,” he said.

“Check them all anyways,” Gunnar said. “Let’s go.”

They made their way towards the gate, past a dozen emptied rooms. The air was filled with the scent of blood and viscera, making for an eerie contrast with the lack of bodies. It was a battle where one side simply disintegrated when they perished, and the other side’s corpses shambled away. As they approached the gate, the hunters at the front slowed to a stop.

“Something’s coming in from outside,” one of them said. “The invaders. Sounds like a group.”

“Form up,” Gunnar said, “keep pushing forward. We’ll hit them running.”

The telltale sound of the invaders’ metallic footfalls over the ice grew louder as they came within a hundred metres of the gate. A neat column of armoured figures turned the corner of the ramp.

A dozen. That’s our advantage – no, it’s the reverse: we can’t fit as many across this corridor.

“Charge!” Gunnar shouted, “Break though – we can’t get caught fighting in here!”

At his command, the ground trembled as the warriors in the vanguard slowly picked up speed. They could only fit four across the way, but, hopefully, they could bull their way through. Two dozen metres from the gate, the front line suddenly fell forward. One pair, then the other crashed to the ground. They tumbled and skidded all the way to the enemy line that had formed to bar their way.

The warriors behind them kept charging forward, smashing into their opponents. A handful of the shield-bearers were kicked back, while others hacked at the giants as they passed before being bowled over by the next rank. The hastily formed battle line devolved into a chaotic melee that was made even more awkward by the sheer difference in size between the two sides.

Gunnar frowned as another of his warriors fell. Based on their fight in the chamber, the shield-bearers should have been incapable of taking them down so quickly. He peered into the chaos, trying to make sense out of what was happening. A dozen seconds later, another warrior collapsed to the ice.

“One of them is different!” He called out when he finally spotted the problem, “Lighter armour – no shield, lots of weapons.”

A huntress stepped forward, hurling her makeshift weapon at one of the new enemies. One of the shield-bearers standing near her target stepped in the way. It took the attack on its shield, skidding away with the impact.

The newly identified enemy retaliated by hurling its blade. The two-metre-long greatsword whistled as it whirled through the air, burying itself in the huntress’ skull. She fell back with a crash, and the other hunters directed their attention to the threat. Meanwhile, more warriors fell. There was at least one other in there.

Gunnar came forward with his Frostreaver, parrying attacks from the shield-bearers as he searched for the threat that was lurking amidst them. A pained shout to his left drew his attention to one of them, coming out of a strike that had severed a warrior’s leg above the ankle.

“「Bonecleaver」!”

The Frostreaver came down from behind. The enemy leapt to the side, but Gunnar’s attack took its left arm off at the elbow. The figure below briefly glanced at the injury before turning its flaring crimson eyes up at him. Gunnar brought his blade low when it dashed forward with a battle-axe in its remaining hand.

“「Invulnerable Fortress」!”

With his opponent’s momentum arrested, a warrior to Gunnar’s side came in with an attack of her own. A shield-bearer stopped her, and she grimaced as a blade stabbed up into her thigh from behind. That attacker was blasted away by a projectile from a hunter in the rear.

Someone’s hand reached down and snatched the one-armed enemy around the waist, lifting it high into the air. It somehow twisted in his grip to slash his throat open. In one final, defiant act, the warrior hurled his killer out of the gate and into the night.

“One down!” Gunnar shouted, “Find that other one and…”

His voice stilled as he looked around. The crowded corridor was far less crowded now; only a half dozen of his warriors remained. In the rear, the remaining hunters were being tied up by a few of the shield-bearers. Another warrior crashed to the ground, and Gunnar spotted the enemy that had hurled its blade, now wielding one in each hand. It deftly worked together with the shield-bearers to hack down another one of his men.

I guess I won’t have to put up with these northern snakes anymore.

Rumbling laughter filled Gunnar’s chest. Frostreaver held high, he charged back into the fray to join his ancestors.