Shadow Clone Sorcery

When the smoke cleared and shadows receded, all the flesh behemoths were gone. Of the ten chieftains, four were dead, two had lost limbs or were maimed, and Morph had replaced one of them. He had absorbed pieces from all of the corpses and copied them, hoping to gather fragments of their memories. It was all a jumble and would take him a while to piece together, but it was all valuable information.

“What was that?” the chieftain asked, his eyes wide and terror apparent. He scanned the destruction surrounding them. Rakan’s flames had spread beyond the chieftain’s tent, setting neighboring structures ablaze and killing the bound mounts and beasts of burden.

“The runes refused to obey,” Saga stated, her tone betraying her shock. “I couldn’t feel the mountain anymore.” She grabbed Frigg’s left arm. “Could you?”

“Careful,” Frigg hissed, gripping the stump of her burned-off limb. Gold flowed from her fingertips, picking away at burned flesh as new tissue regenerated underneath. “It was the dragonfire. The shadows carried traces of it, too.” She looked to the chieftain. “That wasn’t wildly released magic. It was expertly controlled.” Her attention drifted to Morph Prime. “Don’t you agree, Gorm?”

“I lost my connection to Ymir,” Morph Prime replied, picking at the pieces of information drifting near the surface. Gorm, the warchief he had replaced, seemed close to the paladin or warpriest archetypes.

“It was the dragonfire sorceress!” One of the other surviving warchiefs exclaimed. “This was all a ploy to trick us and derail the war.”

Morph Prime shook his head, standing tall. Burns covered the left side of his body. Unlike the other warchiefs, Gorm had worn trousers, chest armor, and a cape. Crimson dragonfre had damaged them all. When absorbing biomass, Morph Prime had dumped all the garments in the journal’s storage space and made copies of them using the last of his biomass. He made a show of peeling off a vambrace that had melted onto his flesh and threw it aside. Burns covered the entirety of his right side.

“It was the Elder Wyrmkin,” Morph Prime stated, letting Saga tend to him. She chilled sections of damaged flesh, slowing the milky blue blood that flowed from his wounds. He couldn’t tell whether it was Jotun physiology or Animancy that had connected to a piece of united innate magic, but the frost soothed him. It was akin to a soothing embrace that Gorm associated with the entity he worshipped, Ymir.

“How can you be sure?” the warchief asked, seething with rage. He was one of the few who hadn’t suffered any injuries. The Jotun adopted a mocking tone as he continued. “Did Ymir speak to you? Did he tell you it was the Elder Wyrmkin?”

“No. There is only one dragonfire sorcerer, and she deals with cold.” Morph Prime maintained his calm as he spoke, refusing to be baited. “I sensed two distinct dragonfires.” He held up one finger. “First was the Great Crimson Dragon’s. I’m sure you all felt its blistering heat, the hatred, and rage.” Morph Prime raised a second finger. “The second dragonfire belonged to a storm dragon.”

“What are you trying to say?” Astrid asked, frowning. She still appeared confused, but was playing along brilliantly. Morph Prime couldn’t wait to get her alone and discover her objective.

“This isn’t a divine revelation but a theory.” Morph Prime turned to the chieftain. “May I?”

The young Jotun nodded, wiping ash from his glassy shoulders.

“Someone, perhaps the Wyrmkin cults, has plans for the human city and kingdom. They’re trying to derail the war to buy themselves time and accomplish whatever they’re trying to do. This was a coordinated assault to take out the leadership and throw the tribes into disarray.” Morph Prime stamped his left foot. “The scaled cretins are under our feet, crawling through the caves, and seeking something. I don’t know what it is, but it has to be powerful.” He turned to Saga. “What do we know about the dragon descendants?”

“They seek the revival of their ancestors and increased influence of draconic patrons in this realm,” Saga replied, thoughtfully. “I think Gorm is onto something, chieftain. This could very well be a Wyrmkin cult’s plot.”

“And the dragonfire sorceress’s presence in the mountains is a coincidence, is it?” asked the doubting warchief. “She’s been sniffing around these parts for months.”

“First of all, we don’t know if anything Ilgen said was true,” Astrid said. “Something possessed him or was wearing his corpse like Bjorn dons bear furs. The dragonfire sorceress has been in the mountain for months, and she’s seen us, and we’ve seen her. If she meant us harm, she would’ve attacked us long ago. I suspect she means to stop this war.” She stood next to Morph Prime and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Meanwhile, Gorm here has a keener connection to the land than most of us. He’s the only warchief alive with experience with other magicks and close encounters with the Wyrmkin cults. I’m not saying he is right, but it would be foolish to dismiss what he has to say.”

“You’re just saying that because you don’t want this war,” Frigg said through gritted teeth. “Your priority is not preserving our ownership of what’s left of Jotunheim but to ensure none of your bloodline dies. Bjorn was right. You’re young and inexperienced. A few victories don’t make you qualified for the position of warchief.”

“Would you say the same about me?” the chieftain asked, his voice calm. The Jotun’s initial composure had returned. “Does my age and half a decade of service to the tribe make me undeserving and unqualified?”

“No, chieftain!” Frigg exclaimed, falling to her knees. “Forgive me. Offense wasn’t intended. It’s different. You rose with skill and through—”

“I had the benefits of blessings and blood. I took what I deserved by challenging those who had worked several years longer for the job, and returned them to the Everfrost.” The chieftain pointed at Ingrid. “Ingrid stepped in when her mother perished, but didn’t claim her position as the inheritor. She proved herself time and time again, pulling her fellow Jotun up even when they didn’t deserve it. Ingrid earned her position with merit and her sound counsel.”

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The chieftain took a step and almost fell, knees seeming wobbly. Morph Prime assumed the projectile of cosmic energy he had shaped and thrown took far too much from the chieftain, interrupting his connection to the land. They had uncovered a valuable weakness that was exploitable.

“Most of you remained silent, worried about stating an unpopular opinion,” he continued. “Ingrid has spoken up against the war but continues to serve the tribe. Only Ingrid and Bjorn detected something was wrong with Ilgen and spoke up.” His eyes focused on the other two female warchiefs. They seemed specialized in wielding magic, while Ingrid appeared more of a physical combatant. The tattoos Bjorn had illuminated while charging burned with an energy that seemed distinct from the Jotun’s magic. “All of you. Gorm failed to detect that something was wrong with him.”

Morph Prime couldn't help but like the chieftain. In a warring tribal society, it was likely that the war chiefs considered such behavior soft and decision-making soft, and a sign of weak leadership. He imagined that figures like Bjorn or Gorm, who ruled with brute strength or piety, found more success. The unnamed chieftain had apparently fought his way into the position, but appeared to hold it with calm diplomacy and understanding. The warchief’s obedience appeared to have the weight of respect and fear behind it.

“Our numbers have been halved. Now is not the time for infighting. Saga, send your ravens to the deceased’s warbands. Inform them of their leader’s demise and cite a Void eruption as the cause. Their leaders died valiantly protecting the chieftain.”

“As you command.” The Jotun woman bowed low before swiftly departing.

“Ornn.” The chieftain’s attention moved to the warchief who had insisted that the dragonfire sorceress was responsible for the attack. “Take a squad of your best and investigate the tunnels. Enter the humans’ mines if you must, but stay out of sight and don't start a conflict. We aren't yet ready for war and will need to delay our plans. Look for signs of Elder Wyrmkin activity. I’d like a live specimen to interrogate. Preferably a female. Even better if it's a mage or shaman.”

“Wouldn't my efforts be better focused on pursuing the dragonfire sorceress?” Ornn asked, jaw clenched. “I'll bring her before you—”

“Your emotions are high—”

“By Ymir’s frozen nuts, they are!” Ornn roared, pointing at one of the still-smoldering corpses. “My son is dead. Someone needs to pay!”

“Precisely why you can't be trusted to handle the matter with the necessary tact. We need confirmation of the responsible parties first.”

“Which is why we must interrogate her!”

“I'll ignore your defiance since you're morning, Ornn,” the chieftain said, his tone remaining icy. “But what happens if the sorceress isn't responsible? Ingrid is correct. We can't afford to make enemies of all of this kingdom’s allies and neighbors. This sorceress and the people behind her might have value. You're going to look into the Wyrmkin. Frigg will lend you her best arcane trackers to track them down.”

Ornn grunted, glaring at Ingrid and the chieftain with his fists clenched. “My riders and I will leave as soon as the goats are saddled,” he told Frigg, stomping away. “Your witches best not keep us waiting.”

“We need eyes on the sorceress,” the chieftain said once Ornn was out of sight.

“My scouts and their eagles will see the job done,” Ingrid said, bowing. “I'll go personally—”

“No. The scouts and eagles are enough. You and Gorm are to ride down the warbands. We need calm heads and faith to keep the forces calm. Watch the new interim warchiefs. Replace any who appear insufficient for the role.”

“We can't camp where planned,” Astrid said. “Especially if the attack needs to be delayed. It's too exposed, and the kingdom will doubt our intention.”

“I'll trust you to find an appropriate alternative.” The chieftain gestured for her to leave. “Astrid,” he called just as she was about to leave the ruined tent’s threehold. Heavy snow has started to fall. It failed to cover the destruction left by Rakan’s flames. The embers melted the white powder before it could accumulate around the. “Just because we grew up together, doesn't mean you have any leeway. If anything, I hold you to a higher standard than the rest. Don't let me down.”

“I won't chieftain. You have my word.”

“And stop looking out for your clan’s survival and benefit alone. It's okay to not want war. But you need to look out for all Jotun. Not just your bloodkin.”

Astrid nodded before departing.

“Ymir as my witness, I won't let you down, chieftain,” Morph Prime said, bowing low. “The divine Everfrost guide us.”

The words felt ludicrous coming out, but Gorm’s memories showed a far more eccentric zealot. Morph Prime believed he wasn't doing the role justice. He hoped the shock of recent events justified the change in behaviour.

Astrid was waiting for him far outside the tent. Hooded Jotun with similar builds rushed around her, bringing over equipment, a mount, and supplies for the saddle bag. All of her aides were female and had builds similar to hers: skinny, with minimal muscle definition. All of them were short for Jotun, yet taller than the average human.

Robed Jotun rushed to Morph Prime’s side as he walked. They bowed, whispering platitudes and prayers to Ymir. They begged for guidance and direction. He marched onward, not giving them whatever they desired. “Ready, my boar,” he announced. “Meat. Mead. Cheese. Goat milk. I want everything ready before the Heretic Snow Cat mounts her beast.”

The warchief and imposter stood side by side in complete silence. They didn’t look at or acknowledge each other, maintaining whatever status quo she had with Gorm. There was much to be discussed, and he was sure she had more questions for him than he did for her. It was neither the time nor the place. Gorm’s followers were a hair slower than Astrid’s subordinates.

When Morph Prime saw Gorm’s mount, he was surprised the acolytes didn’t take longer. Much like the warchief he had replaced, the boar was decorated with intricate scrimshawed bone ornaments. They clicked and clacked as the beast moved. It pressed its giant head into Gorm’s shoulder, rubbing against it. He petted the boar before climbing into the saddle.

The pair of warchiefs rode out of the chieftain’s camp.

“What was that?” What are you—”

“Not now,” Morph Prime told Astrid. He glanced over his shoulder. Ravens tailed them, barely visible through the snowfall. “You’ll have your answers, but first we need distance and cover.”

Astrid stared at him intently for several seconds before nodding. “I’m in half a mind to kill you. I’m not sure if I can, but a part of me wants to try all the same.”

“That’s not in your best interests. Neither of us wants this war. We’re better off as allies than enemies. Besides, you allowed all of that to happen, Astrid.” Morph Prime smiled. “You could’ve put a stop to it all after Bjorn fell, but you didn’t.”

He didn’t receive an answer. Instead, Astrid dug her heels into her giant goat’s sides, picking up speed. Morph Prime glanced at the pursuing ravens again before doing the same.