by Ben Wolf
Mehta faced him but didn’t reply.
“Ah, that’s right. You’re the quiet one. Not quite mute, but not far from it.”
“I can speak,” Mehta said. “I just choose not to.”
“Cute. But seriously, you impressed me,” Fjorst said. “It’s not easy beating that sequence of traps I built. In fact, I’d thought it was impossible ‘til you showed up. I said I was impressed, but you’re also kind of a dick for getting through.”
Was Mehta supposed to apologize? He’d never talked to a god before—aside from praying to Laeri and dedicating his entire life to Xyon at a young age—so he didn’t know how to respond. Half the time he didn’t know how to respond to normal people, so this was worse on nearly every level.
“Did I freeze your tongue accidentally?” Fjorst nudged Mehta’s forearm. “Yes, that’s an ice god joke. One of my better ones, if you ask me. But I’ve got others if you want to hear ‘em. Then again, you’re probably not the laughing type. You look like your life’s been a nightmare up until this point and might continue to be afterward, too.”
Mehta’s eyebrows raised. “How do you… I…”
Fjorst raised his hand, twisted his wrist, and pointed down at himself with his forefinger.
“Ice god. Remember? I’m a god. I’m good at this stuff.” Fjorst sighed. “You’re all taking way too long. I’m supposed to be working on new weapons, not entertaining a bunch of insects for hours on end.”
They’d only been in the armory for about fifteen minutes total by that point, but Mehta didn’t think it wise to bring it up.
“You have new weapons?”
“Sure, and plenty of projects in-process. I may be a god, but forging these babies is still a lot of work.” He nodded toward the forge, which still glowed with emerald flames. “That’s arcane fire. Came directly to me from Dheveri, my sister. It’s a special brew that both burns and cools on command.
“Without it, I couldn’t forge anything like what you see here. Fusing steel and ice into one workable material is hard enough, but shaping it into insanely sharp and powerful weapons is another task altogether.”
So Dheveri had to be real, too. Fjorst had mentioned her when he was talking to Aeron, but Mehta didn’t quite know what to think of that entire situation, so he hadn’t given it much more thought. And meeting Fjorst—an actual god, albeit a strange one—had opened up a whole new world for Mehta.
“Can I ask you a question?” Mehta fingered the triangle pendant around his neck. “Well, a few, maybe?”
“I’d say you earned it, getting through that gauntlet the way you did.”
“Is Xyon real?”
Fjorst blinked at him repeatedly. “Uh… yes? Why would you think otherwise?”
An explosion of questions rocked Mehta’s mind, but he fought them off. There was no way Fjorst would answer every question Mehta had about what he’d learned in his years as a Xyonate. For now, knowing Xyon was real was a good start.
“And the Underworld? Is that real?”
Again, Fjorst stared at Mehta like he was a brainless oaf. “Of course it is. Where else would Xyon live? I should’ve figured you had a fascination with death. All that black clothing. The brooding. The hair. Well, not so much the hair.”
Mehta ignored everything but Fjorst’s answer. If Xyon and the Underworld were real, did that mean Laeri was, too?
“What about Laeri?”
At the sound of that name, Fjorst’s jovial countenance hardened. His voice flat, he replied, “She’s real.”
Mehta tried to interpret Fjorst’s expression, but he’d never been good at that sort of thing to begin with… and Fjorst was a god. When it came to Fjorst, Mehta couldn’t put a lot of stock in facial expressions alone.
But he’d learned what he needed to know. He tucked the triangle pendant into his garments again. “No more questions for now. Thank you.”
“Whatever, kid.” Fjorst looked him up and down. “So, no weapons for you? Or are you a close-range guy? Knives and such?”
“Knives.” Mehta pulled his cloak to the side, revealing one of his sheathed knives on his belt. “I’m not finding anything here for me.”
“Well, excuuuuse me,” Fjorst drawled. “I’m sorry my craftsmanship isn’t up to your usual standard of quality. I mean, it’s not like I’ve been doing it for nearly nine millennia now. I’m sure your basic iron knives will do the job just fine. No one’s making you take anything.”
Mehta didn’t know whether he was supposed to argue with Fjorst or agree with him, so he just stayed quiet.
“You’re a creepy one, just staring at me like that. If I weren’t a god, I might even be scared of you.” Fjorst held up his palm. “Look. I think I may have something that’ll work for you. Stay put.”
Mehta obliged, and Fjorst walked toward his burning forge. He disappeared around the side for a moment and then returned with several objects in his meaty little hands. He handed them to Mehta one-by-one. The first two objects were a pair of talon-shaped knives.
“These are brand new,” Fjorst said. “Technically, not even finished. I left one side serrated, and the other is sharp. They’ll still cut plenty well, and they’re great for when you’re feeling stabby, but they don’t have that polished look that my weapons are known for.”
Mehta found them slightly longer than his iron knives, but they weighed about the same, and they gave off the telltale blue glow of ice-forged steel. As Fjorst had said, one edge on each of their blades was serrated—the inner part of the knives’ curves—but he doubted it would matter much since they were ice-forged.
He didn’t like the grips on their hilts, but he reasoned that he could do what he’d done to his iron knives and wrap them in fabric. Otherwise, they seemed pretty good.
He extended the one in his right hand back to Fjorst. “You said only one.”
Fjorst waved him away. “They’re small, and you’re fighting a dragon. Take ‘em both.”
Mehta nodded and tucked them into his belt. When next they killed a deer or some other animal with a decent hide, he’d make sheaths for them. “Thank you.”
“Now check these out.” Fjorst extended his hands, palms down. Pointed shards of ice-forged steel protruded from between his fingers. “Hold out your hands again.”
Mehta complied, and Fjorst dropped four objects in his hands, two in each. They clinked together upon impact. They were shuriken—throwing stars. Each one had four points, circular holes in their centers, and they were perfectly sharp. Mehta couldn’t help but grin.
“Like those, do you?” Fjorst nudged him again. “I know… pretty killer. But no one uses these things because they’re so easy to lose. Once you throw it, you’ll never see it again, unless you go for a walk one night, step on it, and fall over into a lake. But I solved all of that with a little god-level magic.”
Mehta just continued to stare at him. Fjorst was right about shuriken being somewhat disposable, the same as throwing knives were, but he had no idea what Fjorst was trying to convey beyond that.
“I’m saying these ticklers will do their thing,” Fjorst gave a dramatic pause and raised his arms, “and then they’ll come right back to you… every time.”
Mehta’s eyebrows rose again. “Every time?”
“I literally just said that, yes.”
Mehta drew his arm back to throw one, but Fjorst stopped him.
“If you try to catch one now, it’ll cut your hand in half. I need to give you a boost so these don’t accidentally kill you. In fact…”
Fjorst lifted both of his hands, and a gust of icy wind billowed throughout the space. It shoved against everyone inside, including the wyvern knights, and brought them all to the center, around Fjorst.
“I’m really glad you all came to visit, but I’m tired of entertaining children, so it’s about to be time for you to leave,” he said. “But before I do that, I’m going to give you all a little present. Close your eyes.”
Instead of closing their eyes, ev
eryone just looked around.
“Bunch of idiots,” Fjorst muttered. He repeated, “Close. Your. Eyes.”
Everyone complied, Mehta included. The next breath, a roar sounded throughout the armory, and Mehta’s eyes popped open.
Fjorst stood before them, transformed into a massive ice beast with huge talons, jagged teeth, and a long, blue tongue that lapped at the air. Mehta could tell it was still him by his ocean-blue eyes, which glowed in his misshapen, monstrous head.
He was facing the bulk of the wyvern knights, who’d all opened their eyes by now as well. They recoiled with terror on their faces, screaming and yelling in fright as Fjorst issued another roar that shook the temple itself.
Just as Mehta reached for his new knives to fight, Fjorst’s monstrous form burst with a poof, dissolved into granules of snow, and scattered around the armory, leaving him in his actual size, standing before them with his arms raised and fingers curled like claws.
Then he burst out laughing.
“Oh, gods. Oh, universe,” he said between guffaws. “You guys… the look on your faces when I…” More raucous laughter. “Thanks for that. The memory of that will keep me entertained for centuries. I bet you nearly wet yourselves.”
Part of Mehta wanted to laugh at it, too. It was all so absurd. But the other part remembered how Fjorst had called him a dick for beating the gauntlet, yet Fjorst was putting on these antics. Perhaps he was the real dick.
“Sorry. Alright. Let’s reset. Hmmmmmmm.” Fjorst exhaled a frosty breath. “Alright. Gather ‘round. I’m serious this time. Swear to myself, I am.”
Everyone reluctantly gathered around him again, and this time he didn’t make them close their eyes. They probably wouldn’t have anyway, unless he’d frozen them shut.
He held out his hands, and they mimicked him. His hands glowed with a vivid blue light, darker than that of the ice-forged weapons, and then it started to glow in the hands of each of those around him. It faded within seconds.
“All done.” Fjorst grinned at them, and his voice flattened. “Now get out.”
Mehta should’ve expected it.
“What did you do?” Kent asked.
“Gave you a nice, chilly kiss, but all over your entire body.” Fjorst closed his eyes, smacked his forehead, and held up his other hand. “Strike that. Didn’t come across how I meant it. None of you are even close to being my type. Not even pouty-lips, over there.”
Garrick scowled at him again.
“What I did was made you immune to cold by making the cold a part of you. It’s magic,” Fjorst explained. “And since you’re gonna go fight a dragon, and dragons breathe fire—or at least they did a few millennia ago when I last heard about them—the effect should give you some resilience against heat, too.
“You, especially, will benefit from this.” Fjorst pointed at Kent. “Your magic is stronger now, and you can do your fancy tricks with these weapons for a lot longer than you could before. Benefits of being blessed with ice mojo.
“But it won’t change anything with other magic, though, so don’t throw me a parade or anything over it. I always preferred nudist festivals anyway, especially when it’s cold outside. You really get to see the reality of everyone’s situation.”
They all continued to stare at him.
“Oh, and I need to emphasize that this is all only temporary, so don’t take a swan dive into an active volcano or anything asinine like that. The more heat you’re exposed to, the quicker it’ll wear off, so don’t just stand there and let the dragon breathe on you like the morons we all know you are.”
His voice stilted and hard, Kent said, “Thank you.”
“The other thing is, the enchantment, if you want to call it that, keeps you from being harmed by ice-forged weapons. So if you’re dueling for the fate of the continent and accidentally smack your buddy with your new toy, it won’t kill him. Won’t even hurt him. But you’re still careless and rude, so shape up.
“And that includes your shuriken.” Fjorst pointed toward Mehta. “Throw ‘em, and they’ll come right back. And as long as your enchantment lasts, you can catch ‘em, too.”
“If we’re careful, how long will it last?” Aeron asked.
“Oh, probably the rest of the winter. So a month or two, depending on how long I can keep Kecana from messing with the sun. She always tries to end winter early. Every year, it’s the same argument again and again…”
Mehta had never heard of Kecana, but she must’ve been another goddess. Perhaps the goddess of summer and warmth? Was there a god or goddess for that?
“Alright. One last thing.” Fjorst walked over to one of the walls and pulled down a large tube made of ice-forged steel. It was probably as thick as Mehta’s thigh, but it didn’t look like any weapon Mehta had ever seen before.
Fjorst set it on the floor in the center where he was standing. Altogether, it was almost as tall as he was.
“This little devil is a nasty nellie indeed. It’s like a crossbow, only it doesn’t look like one at all. You point this end,” he tapped the end at the top, “toward your target, and then you use magic to activate it. It’s called a cannon.
“A bolt of ice shoots out and impales whatever it hits. It’ll freeze your target almost instantly. Should be pretty sick if you hit the dragon with it. But there’s only one shot, so don’t blow it like the clowns you are. Miss, and all you’ve got left to fight with are your new weapons,” Fjorst added. “And you’re welcome, by the way.”
A chorus of thanks met his words, but Fjorst just rolled his eyes.
“Alright. Time to go. I didn’t add all those traps fifty years ago because I was hoping to have iced tea with a bunch of strangers.”
“How do we get out? The way we came is barricaded by a wall of ice,” Kent said.
“I’ll handle it. I can put you right outside, scaly birds and all.”
“Can you transport us all the way to Xenthan?” Aeron asked.
“Easy, kid.” Fjorst held up his hands. “There are rules, you know. I’ll drop you on the side of the mountain near where you came in, and you can go from there.”
Mehta understood Aeron’s sense of urgency, and he had no doubt that Fjorst probably could have done more. But overall, they’d done pretty well in convincing him to give them aid—more than Mehta had initially expected, for sure. He imagined the Fjorst’s enchantment would come in especially handy once they reached Xenthan again.
“If you could’ve transported us out of here from the beginning, why didn’t you?” Garrick asked.
Fjorst just smiled at him. “Byeee.”
Then he clapped his hands.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Kent landed in a mound of snow next to the rest of the Blood Mercs, save for Aeron and Wafer, who hovered above them along with Raqat and the other knights.
He tried to scramble to get out of the snow before the cold could seep through his clothes, but as he did, he realized Fjorst’s enchantment must’ve worked. Temperature-wise, touching the snow felt about the same as touching sand or dirt. It wasn’t cold at all.
The ice-forged cannon lay near Kent as well. Being the only mage, he was the only one capable of using it. He just hoped he wouldn’t have to carry it all the way.
But when he moved to pick it up, it wasn’t nearly as heavy as he’d expected. It would still prove awkward to carry because of its size, though. Maybe they could mount it to Wafer’s saddle somehow.
The ice-forged sword he’d received hung in his belt just above his old steel sword, and the ice-forged dagger hung on the other side. He’d offered it back to Fjorst as a gesture of goodwill, but Fjorst had told him just to keep it. He’d gone long enough without it, and so he didn’t care anymore.
Altogether, they’d gotten out with far more than Kent could’ve hoped for. If they couldn’t defeat Lord Valdis now, then there truly was no hope for them or for Kallie. Kent prayed that wasn’t the case.
Once he made it up to his feet, Kent faced Raqat and the
other wyvern knights with Garrick, Mehta, Aeron, and Wafer at his side. They’d all been blessed with the same gift of immunity against the cold and ice-forged weapons, so if the Govalians meant to disregard their truce, Kent was prepared to summon other magic to fight them.
But neither Raqat nor the other wyvern knights showed any indication of doing so. They just floated several yards away, their forms dark against the bright morning sun.
“The way I see it,” Raqat began, “The four of you split off and disappeared shortly after Commander Brove’s tantrum. For all I know, you’re buried in that mountain with your foolish quest to find so-called ice-forged weapons, one of which I happened to stumble upon while bravely leading our surviving knights to safety.”
Raqat held up a magnificent ice-forged sword. It easily rivaled the one Kent had chosen in beauty and size.
“This will make a fine gift to the emperor, especially when I tell him of Commander Brove’s indignation and horrific leadership.”
“If he even got out of there,” Garrick said.
“We must assume that he found a way, or that he will,” Raqat said. “That man is nothing if not relentless.”
Kent glanced at Aeron, who gave a solemn nod. If anyone knew it, he did.
“Nonetheless, as I see it, my duty is fulfilled,” Raqat tucked the sword into a long pack along Trokos’s back. He focused on Aeron. “I sincerely wish you all the best in rescuing your sister.”
“You’re welcome to join us if you aren’t afraid of dark lords and possibly dying horrible deaths,” Aeron offered.
Raqat grinned. “Some other time, perhaps. May the gods—other than Fjorst—be with you.”
With that, the wyvern knights turned and flew southeast, leaving the Blood Mercs alone once again.
They all looked at each other for a moment, and then Kent said, “Shall we?”
About three weeks later…
By the time the black spires of Valdis Keep rose into view against the distant red skies of Xenthan, Aeron had nearly driven Garrick mad with his incessant prodding to move faster.
They’d hurried as fast as they could, but even though the cold no longer hindered them, the weather had still slowed them down considerably. Snow was still snow, and a lot of it tended to make mountain passes impassable. Fjorst had made them cold-proof, not fall-to-your-death-proof.