Biracial Edgelord Can't Make Immortal : Power of Ten, Book Seven

Cracks had riven through the ice beyond the area of the icequakes, and the ice shattered and began to move under the uncaring force of wind and waves. They pushed against one another, stacking up and thickening even as desperate giants tried to reach holes and wedged areas that were rapidly closing up, while their clansmen hacked at the ice trying to create holes for them to surface through.

Hrafnar reached up and felt strong hands seize his own, hauling him out quickly of the water as other giants of the clan desperately fought to be the first to leave, uncaring of the fate of their kin. Those on the surface simply grabbed who they could and hauled them forth like great fish, hurling them aside to heave the water out of their lungs as they tried to rescue more of their kin.

Hrafnar vomited out the foul seawater forcibly, crawling away from the hole in the ice and the many cracks, lest he be buried under the next giant hauled forth.

Still, he was a frost giant, far tougher than a mere human, and in a minute he pushed himself to his feet, the water freezing in his lungs and getting worked up and exhaled with every breath as it did so, leaving an unpleasant salty taste behind.

The center of the channel was shattered for two hundred paces on each side of the Obelisks, sufficient to capture almost all of the advancing frost giant force. If they had run the instant the stones had appeared, they likely could have all gotten away or passed beyond them, but their own courage and overconfidence had effectively doomed them.

Thick ice bobbed on churning waves, the currents moving and once again pushing the fractured, shattered plain of ice east. He could feel the ice creak beneath his feet, splits starting to run through it from the wave motion of the icequakes, and he knew it was no longer safe to be out here.

His was not the only voice to rise in warning, and stumbling as his breath worked around the frost in his lungs and through, he began to flee.

The ice creaked, and cracked, and then massive splits, explosive in their miles-long release of stress, erupted through the length of the channel. Surviving frost giants ran for the shores, lest they be swept out to sea or dumped unceremoniously beneath the sheets of ice, treacherously likely to simply flip beneath the weight of a frost giant and entomb them beneath.

With ear-splitting cracks and booms, the ice broke apart, and slowly began to flow.

Beneath the surface of the ice, hundreds of dead frost giants flowed away with it. Already fins were cutting the surface here and there as the predators underwater, alerted by the smell of giant blood in the water, closed in on a great feast.

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Hrafnar’s vision of triumphantly striding or running ashore on the mainland to stake his claim as a great giant warrior embarking on his quest for glory became more of a coughing stumble as he crossed the few remaining miles with the other giant survivors. Of the twenty warbands who’d set out to meet up with their cousins of Ice and Snow, less than half had survived, and half of those were on the other side of the splitting ice, retreating from the cascade of shattering ice that was starting to rise into jagged floes and barriers under pressure of wind and wave.

It was ultimately a great disaster. Only four hundred-some frost giants came together as they reached the shores, many wounded, and certainly demoralized after such a very inauspicious start to what was to have been a legendary raid, something that would be sung of for a thousand years.

A thousand years the tale might indeed last, but only as a disaster in the making.

Seven warchiefs remained, heroes of the giants, valiant, strong, and wise, elders who had led raids into the mainland before and returned to tell of it and its lands and defenders. They came together to decide what to do.

King Grognidal was on the other side of the ice. Hrafnar had seen his banner still raised there, proving he was alive back in the rear of the forces as his brave clansmen forged ahead. A show of strength to his cousins, Hrafnar was aware, as they would have to pass through the numbers of Joklhjem warriors, which would help curtail any ambitions they might have. Rare Ice and Snow giants could grow stronger and taller than their Frost cousins, those of the purest blood perhaps even rising to rival the great storm giants who commanded the skies and depths of the seas.

King Grognidal had shown his strength and power on many occasions, and had no fear of his larger cousins. Heading such difficulties off ahead of time was, however, only prudent.

There were none of their cousins visible on the shores to greet them, even a far-striding scout, which was somewhat perplexing. Had something delayed them? The magic of the priestesses had said they had left the mountains and come onto the tundra, and there was little to block them in the cold and snow. They should have arrived here without fanfare and at great speed, and surely could not be far off now…

But the winds and snows howled across the bare plains of the top of the world, and there was nothing here.

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Horns carved from the ribs of dragons blew like thunder, carrying across the miles, as chiefs and king had a conversation in the distance. Hrafnar listened as he breathed deeply, continuing to purge his lungs of the sea ice there.

It came that they should treat this as a normal raid, and if their cousins showed up, let them do as they wished. They could call it off, join in, change the direction of their own raids… clearly the great plan was changed, and this was not the time to attempt something similar.

They could advance on their own cognizance. This would still be a very strong raid, just not one of the grand scale they had imagined.

He had also heard the Jotuns of Fire would be moving out to add their burning strength to this winter effort. So word would have to be sent of the disaster and the change in plans…

They had hundreds of miles to travel to get to inhabited lands, as the winter would have driven the tribes and herds from the tundra rapidly and forcefully. The few human tribesmen who stayed here year-round in their little huts of ice would now be buried in them, nigh-impossible to find and having nothing worth scavenging save the meat on their bones. Even then, a Wolf Winter would likely drive them south for some release from a cold bordering on the supernatural…

Remembering the tales of his elders, Hrafnar joined the smaller warbands divided up among the chiefs, each of them choosing to spread out some to the west as they headed south, aiming to reach the Landsplit river and the greater forests around and beyond it before deciding on their targets.

The best of those would be elven villages, who worked in gold and silver and wood, making beautiful and precious things with them, perhaps even magical.

Elvish flesh was also delicate and uniquely flavorful, especially the older and magically powerful ones, a rare dish often reserved for chieftains and champions, save on a raid.

On a raid, you got to eat what you killed! Having a sack of elven meat to barter off to his fellows would be a fine thing to come back with…

His mood improving as the miles went by, Hrafnar headed south for his destiny.

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“Pings on the radar from the horizon. They’re tall stacks of moving metal, easy to see,” the skywing way up in the sky reported. The giants preferred to wear iron and steel shirts of mail, and wield large battleaxes or swords. So much metal naturally stood out on radar among the ice and snow.

Invisible, because giant eyes were quite large and could see much farther and more clearly than human ones, the skywing high in the air was one of four such planes tracking the advance of the frost giants who had survived crossing the channel.

The planes made a careful point to stay out of the upper atmosphere, rarefied territories where only Elementals or fey might be found. It was believed venturing into even near-space would attract the attention of the Immortals, and not in a good way. That still made spy-planes completely possible, and hiding transmission towers and relays among the taller trees and on the higher hills wasn’t hard to do. If we couldn’t make them a mile high, as we were most certainly capable of, well, the unseen satellites slowly lifted into near-space and inertia-locked relative to the planet below did the job we needed quietly across the miles.

Federation tech could deal with space, and no earthly chill was going to equal such a place. The winds could be something, but Protection from Winds around an aircraft was not TOO expensive, given what they were meant to do, and all such crews had an Artificer specifically to engage such protections and keep the ship running, magical duties as important as engineering ones.

Eager howls came to us down the winds, as the magical winter wolves, great intelligent white-furred lupines the size of horses, with eyes burning with icy blue cold fire, gave eager tongue upon seeing the green of the northern Eisfast forests in the distance.

The wolves were absolutely loathed by the elves, as their sensitive noses could track elves back to their villages. That usually ended in a bloodbath if they were found by a giant raiding party… especially ones of this size, which would slaughter all they could for a great frozen feast.

Frost giant raiders came almost every year, striking here and there all across the expanse of the northern forests. Tribes of men and elves knew they had to be vigilant, and were not slow to warn one another of the coming of such things.

But they had never been mobilized together like they were now.

The tribes who had come under the protection of the great Pyramids were naturally obligated to fight for the lands they had found succor under. The Lady Edge had gathered them up, the great Warlord Briggs had come in to train them and lead them until the raw edges were filed off, and the hopes and ambitions of the men and elves of the Northern Edge were rising high with all they’d learned and been taught and shown in the space of a few short weeks.

There were southerners, even dwarves who had come at Lady Edge’s call, leading by example, allowing no racial slurs or fighting among the tribes, fully ready to brutally punish the recalcitrant and leave their corpses in the snows if it meant everyone working together.

They were waiting now, just inside the border with the trees, buried in snow and pits and tunnels the wind and blowing snow had slowly covered over.

For all their strength, power, and height, the giants did not like the forests. They could not crouch under the boughs, which meant they were always being scraped by wooden limbs, and often could not even see their own feet if the trees grew close. The trees interfered with their hacking and slashing fighting style, and were old enough and big enough that the giants couldn’t just hack them down and push them over onto their enemies without work worthy of being a lumberjack. The rıghtful source is novel-fire.net

This warband coming in was staying out of the trees as long as possible, paralleling fingers of the great pine forest which stretched out as they made their way towards the greenery that was the only other color visible in the blowing whiteness which had plastered everything else.

Beneath the snow, cold hands bearing cold steel and wrapped in Mass Endure Cold spells in great number waited for them, especially the wolves who were scouting the way.

It would not be long now.