Valkyrie's Shadow

Winter's Crown: Act 4, Chapter 11

Winter's Crown: Act 4, Chapter 11

Chapter 11

The blinding glare of the midday sun filled the powder-blanketed landscape of the alpine pass. Below the craggy face of a towering cliff, under swirls of loose snow driven by the frozen winds, a cold and dark presence stirred.

The presence thickened, coalesced, manifested…and a skeletal wing broke through the surface and into the sunlight in a spray of icy crystals. Through the hole, another wing followed. The wings thrashed about and, when the hole was finally large enough, a bony caricature of the living clumsily flapped its way out. Torso wrapped in a tattered black robe, it settled on the snows nearby, and a pair of bright crimson points looked about its surroundings.

The light was bothersome, but it did no physical harm. It was inside a wide bowl, where the tongues of massive glaciers loomed from between the peaks high overhead. As its nascent personality established itself, the being looked down at its bony talons poking out from the tattered black hem of a robe. It lifted a foot to work experimentally in the air, grasping as it gained comprehension and self-awareness.

What am I?

An Elder Lich.

The answer drifted to the forefront of her mind. Though recently risen, she already knew what she needed to do. She needed to grow more powerful; learn more magic; develop her abilities and make her environment more hospitable to proper and respectable persons such as herself…but first things first: she needed a base to work from, and she should probably leave to find a suitable location. Being newly brought into existence, her selection of spells was scarce, so she would need to collect some minions to better protect herself.

The Elder Lich looked around again. The pass was filled with a throng of lesser Undead: Skeletons, Zombies, Ghouls and Wights. She went around, using her innate ability to dominate lesser undead, collecting a small following. A few minutes later, she paused and turned to appraise her new entourage. Two dozen Skeletons and the same number of Zombies. There were two Ghouls and a Skeleton Mage as well. It wasn’t enough – they were weak and would pose little threat against something that could actually give her any real trouble. Everything in the bowl was just as weak; she needed another way.

She spotted several corpses nearby. That would work. As an Elder Lich, she could create a handful of Undead per day with her innate abilities, and they would be far superior to the ones that had manifested in the icy pass. A part of her wondered how she knew all of this. She vaguely understood that it shouldn’t be so; that the study of the arcane and the harnessing of powerful abilities was usually the result of long years of study. She knew language – both spoken and written – yet she could not recall learning it.

Such things did not come together randomly, there should be a reason…a reason. A grin appeared over her desiccated features: a row of pointed teeth appeared from behind tattered, ruined lips. A mystery to study; one with a sense of grand destiny. Perhaps some great will had brought her into existence; imparted knowledge and power into her being. She would find a cave in the valleys below. Ages would pass and she would grow strong enough to strike out at those nearby, spreading the dark energies that fueled her being. Along the way, she might attract the attention of that great will once again, discover the roots of her genesis, and propagate more like herself. New colleagues…or perhaps new servants.

She erratically hopped around the collection of corpses, examining them with a discerning eye. Something told her their condition didn’t matter, but she wanted the best subject possible anyways. The first time should be special, after all. Why was that anyways? She tilted her head curiously. Well, whatever.

The Elder Lich waved away the ravens pecking away at the remains. Finding a mostly intact body, she raised her wings with dramatic flair.

“?Animate Un–”

The ground shuddered. Half of her minions vanished from her awareness.

Looking behind her, what could only be described as a giant scuff mark marred the ice. Bits and pieces of Skeletons and Zombies littered the slope. Further down, she spotted a boulder, still bouncing its way downhill.

Her mind raced as she spread her wings. It took a split second for the sharp mind of an Elder Lich to deduce what was going on. The corpses lay under a thin film of powder, as if recent, yet there was no sign of their trek there, or how they had all died. They had been placed on purpose: a trap. She looked up in the direction of her assailants, and a second boulder smashed into her just as she took flight.

Far above on the mountain face, a pair of figures watched the Elder Lich disperse into ash-like fragments – its Undead life snuffed out.

“It never ceases to amaze me how they all fall for that,” Sten remarked.

“It’s not as if they know any better,” the Huntress nearby replied. “They pop up and go to the nearest group of bodies we toss down there. They say that the Undead are unnatural, but it may as well be an instinct to them. You owe me, by the way.”

“What! That was a Harpy-type – cut me some slack here. The thing wouldn’t stop hopping and fluttering around.”

“Nuh uh. An Elder Lich is an Elder Lich. We score ‘em all the same.”

“If we get a Spectre next,” Sten muttered, “I don’t care how much you cry about your shots passing through it.”

“Oh don’t you worry about that – one shot is all I’ll need.”

The Huntress – a woman by the name of Ulfhild – gave him a cocksure smile as she casually hefted the boulder on her palm. It wasn’t exactly a fair contest, as Hunters were superior at ranged attacks even without using skills or Martial Arts, but her swaggering bravado was an alluring thing nonetheless. Sten’s own smile grew as he watched her survey the pass below. She was counted a veteran Huntress, but she was still young – perhaps only 50 or 60 years of age, not too much older than himself.

A new Undead popped out of the snow, but it was merely a Ghoul. Sten frowned down at the landscape below.

“Say, why don’t we just wait for something stronger to pop up?” He asked.

“These weak Elder Liches are about the limit,” Ulfhild answered. “Once they start thinking, these Undead just wander off to do whatever they do – they don’t stick around to make anything stronger pop up.”

Sten edged closer, and Ulfhild looked over her shoulder at the sound of his approach. Her eyes widened momentarily.

“You’re supposed to be keeping watch,” a deep voice sounded from behind Sten, “not flirting.”

He turned awkwardly to face the source of the new voice.

“Thegn,” Ulfhild started to straighten her furs, then stopped to give him a flat look. “You got another one. I don’t know why she even puts up with you. You’re the last person who should be calling us out.”

Sten peered at the approaching Sigurd more closely. The Thegn had a fresh mark near his ear, and Sten could only shake his head in admiration and envy. Some day, he would achieve great feats that drew the adoration of women, just like him.

“How were things up north?” Sten asked him.

“Changing,” Sigurd replied. “The Dwarves have come alive again, and the Dragons have been subjugated by someone recently.”

“Someone?” Ulfhild furrowed her brow, “How does someone subjugate a colony of Frost Dragons without our noticing?”

Sten silently agreed. Such an abrupt takeover should have been accompanied by a great battle that anyone would have noticed.

“You tell me,” Sigurd shrugged, “I’m not a Hunter…well, none of the Hunters in any clan noticed, either. First sign that anything had happened was the Dwarves coming out of their holes to travel back to their old capital – they were using some sort of Undead horse to haul their cargo. After that, the Frost Dragons joined in, flying back and forth. Since nothing happened aboveground, people thought that some ancient necropolis had conquered them from underground – maybe some tomb or city that was disturbed somehow. Then, an army of powerful Undead soldiers arrived from lowlands in the east.”

Sten’s expression twisted at the thought of an Undead ‘warrior’. While they were tireless and could possess extraordinary strength and agility for something of their size, there was little to be said of them in terms of skill. Still, it sounded like a welcome change overall: they had little to do recently besides smashing hapless Elder Liches that spawned in the southern pass and raiding the weak Demihuman tribes that dwelled in the valleys. If the Frost Dragons had a new master, then maybe that master had many other interesting minions to fight.

“How much does the Jarl know?” Ulfhild asked.

“Enough,” Sigurd replied. “The real question is if he’ll do anything about it.”

“He can’t just sit there,” Ulfhild frowned. “We’ve someone new to fight – his council will surely push for something. There’ve been no new sagas in the feast halls for decades.”

“They’ll try, I’m sure,” Sigurd’s look told them all they needed to know about how he felt about the Jarl’s council. “Problem’s that everything that’s going on isn’t in Frostreaver territory.”

“The others won’t demand we stay out of this, will they?” Sten asked.

“They might,” Sigurd answered, “it’s their territory. Pickings have been so slim in the last century that their greed might blind them.”

“Greed?” Interest rose in Ulfhild’s voice, “Who are these newcomers, then?”

“We’re not dealing with the local tribes here, that’s for sure.”

"Did you try them?” Sten asked, “How were they?"

“I didn’t,” Sigurd answered.

Sten furrowed his brow in confusion. That didn’t sound like Sigurd at all.

“You didn’t?”

Ulfhild’s surprise mirrored Sten’s own. Sigurd was a great champion of the Frostreaver Clan, whose exploits had gained him peerless renown amongst all of the Frost Giant clans of Azerlisia Mountains. He had earned the title of Dragonslayer, personally felling over a dozen Frost Dragons in the last century alone.

“They’re all along the old trade spine between the Dwarf capital and their easternmost city,” Sigurd told them. “Attacking at any point along the road would send a dozen or so running your way. I might be able to take on two directly – well, they look sort of oblivious, so maybe three – but if we’re to have a successful raid, we’ll be needing all of the clans in on this.”

Sten’s grip tightened on his axe. If these newcomers were that powerful, then a great war was sure to come. There would be chances aplenty to prove one’s worth as a warrior. Ulfhild looked over at him and laughed.

“What are you getting all excited about?” She asked, “We’re too far south to join in, and we can’t leave the pass unguarded.”

“A few loose Elder Liches aren’t anything to cry over,” Sten answered. “It’s not as if they’ll come around to bother us.”

“Hah?” Ulfhild scowled over at him, “You never listen to the sagas, kid? We’re not here for the Undead. We’re here for the past – and the future.”

Sten turned his face away before rolling his eyes. Ulfhild was from a different tribe in the clan, so he didn’t know her very well, but her response marked her as one of those. The sagas were the sagas, worn by time and patched up by bluster and fancy. As much as any enjoyed a good tale, few believed them as any accurate account, never mind that the renderings of a Skald could be considered prophecy. He looked at Sigurd, whose face was a neutral mask. He didn’t believe any of it, did he?

“The Frostreaver Clan guards the southern approaches,” Sigurd told them. “Even if some of us get to head north, we’ll still need to hold this pass.”

“There’s nothing but us and the Undead in this pass,” Sten grumbled. “No one else has come through here for centuries.”

“Maybe you’ve been looking down for so long that you’ve forgotten to look up?”

Sten glanced at the sky, then back to Sigurd.

“What do you mean?”

“The other clans have been eyeing all of the Dwarf caravans headed out of their Kingdom,” Sigurd said. “They’re following the road down east into the lowlands. The Undead came from that direction, as well. The Dragons that leave from there, however, do something different. None of them fly out east, but a couple have been going south.”

Sten looked up again. He hadn’t noticed any Dragons flying overhead for the weeks he had been here.

“Which ones were they?” Ulfhild asked.

“The sneaky female,” Sigurd said, “and a fat one I’ve never seen before recently. It’s the same ones every week, since near when all this started.”

The sneaky female…it took several moments for Sten to realize who he was referring to, and then he glanced upwards again. There was a report from weeks ago that someone had been killed getting too close to the southernmost Dwarf city, but he hadn’t considered who might have done it. They were probably lucky after being so oblivious: when the ‘sneaky female’ was around, Frost Giants tended to die in the most ignominious of ways.

They thought further on Sigurd’s words, then Ulfhild looked back at him.

“So you’re saying that the new master of the Frost Dragons is actually to the south, while the other clans think that our newcomers are from the east?”

“That’s right,” Sigurd nodded. “If the Dwarf road is attacked, chances are high that any additional retaliation will be going straight under this pass. If they intend to bring war to all of the clans, they very well may be coming up this pass instead.”

“Sounds like we might get a taste of prophecy after all,” Ulfhild mused.

“If it’s the prophecies,” Sigurd said, “I’d rather skip all that and get to the end.”

“Really?” Ulfhild raised an eyebrow at him, “That’s the second thing coming out of you today that’s out of sorts.”

“Well, keep in mind what happened the last time something like a prophecy came through here. Our clan has never been able to recover from that debacle, so I’d rather not add to it with the other clans as they are right now.”

Sten exchanged glances with Ulfhild. What Sigurd spoke of was at least one thing that everyone in their clan knew to be true. Cold anger rushed through him at the thought of the aftermath.

“That…that blame is wrongly placed!” His voice rose angrily. “We were the ones who stood to fight, yet how is it that those that did not decide our shame?”

“Hmph,” Sigurd snorted. “Earn a place in the citadel and you’ll learn exactly why. Or better yet, become strong but stay out here – the truth is not worth knowing.”

Sigurd turned away from them after his bitter retort. After a few steps, he looked down into the bowl.

“Better get to work,” he said. “You’ve brought yourselves some friends with all that noise.”