Chapter Forty-Six (TIBK)

Eirik, Leif, Olaf, Bjorn, and Yorick moved quietly through the snow-dusted pines.

Silence was paramount.

"Steeper up ahead, Commander," Yorick puffed as they reached the base of a sheer rock face. "Old goatherd's trail used to switchback up, but landslides buried it years back. This cliff... it's the fastest way to the ridge overlooking the fort's western approach. About sixty feet straight up."

Eirik craned his neck.

The cliff face was intimidating – dark granite, slick with frost and ice patches. Handholds were scarce. A slip here could be fatal.

His gaze lingered on the ice clinging to the rock. Ice. His element.

He stepped forward, placing a gauntleted hand against the cold rock. He closed his eyes, pushing his senses outwards. Frost mana flowed from his core, down his arm, and into the rock. He felt the microscopic water molecules trapped within crevices, the thin film of ice glazing the surface.

Foundation first. He visualized the thin patches thickening, spreading, flowing together. He willed the ice to harden and form rough steps jutting out from the cliff face.

[MANA EXPENDED: 2]

[MANA: 48/50]

[ABILITY: FROST SHAPER ACTIVATED]

A low,groan echoed from the rock. The existing patches of frost and ice surged, thickened, and solidified into uneven blue-grey slabs. Four distinct steps formed, each about two feet wide, spaced roughly six feet apart.

"By the Frost..." Leif breathed.

"Quiet," Eirik murmured, already focusing again. The middle section was smoother, devoid of natural holds. This required Conjuration, drawing moisture from the frigid air itself.

[MANA EXPENDED: 3]

[MANA: 45/50]

[ABILITY: ICE CONJURATION ACTIVATED]

Frost mist bloomed mid-air. With sharp CRUNCH sounds, three thick blocks of solid blue ice materialized, anchored into the granite. They formed a staggered line, another eighteen feet upwards.

The final stretch was steepest, overhanging. He found thin veins of moisture weeping from a crack and coaxed them out, freezing them into rough handholds and a final ledge.

[MANA EXPENDED: 2]

[MANA: 43/50]

[ABILITY: FROST SHAPER ACTIVATED]

Yorick stared, jaw slack. "Frost's breath, Commander... You just... built stairs out of ice?"

"Temporary stairs," Eirik corrected, testing the lowest step. It held firm. "Follow me. One at a time. Test each step before putting your full weight. Bjorn, bring up the rear."

He ascended. Leif followed, grim-faced but sure-footed. Olaf grunted, muttering about "unnatural sorcery" but climbed with agility. Bjorn brought up the rear.

Then it was Yorick's turn.

The scout was wiry and agile, but his face was pale as he eyed the ice staircase. Fear warred with necessity in his eyes. He placed a trembling boot on the lowest step. It held.

"Hurry up, scribbler!" Olaf hissed from above.

Yorick swallowed hard and started climbing. He made it past the first three steps, onto the first conjured ice block. He focused on the next step, stretching his fingers toward the cold surface.

Then his boot slipped.

He lurched sideways with a gasp, one foot swinging into empty air. He scrabbled, fingers clawing at the ice block. Panic choked him.

"YORICK!" Leif's sharp call cut through his terror.

Eirik reacted. He felt the ice Yorick clung to, felt the scout's weight straining the foothold.

[MANA EXPENDED: 1]

[MANA: 42/50]

[ABILITY: FROST SHAPER ACTIVATED]

He poured frost mana down, reinforcing the ice block beneath Yorick's fingers. He roughened the surface where Yorick's hands gripped, increasing friction.

Yorick gasped, finding grip on the ice. He hauled himself back onto the step, pressing flat against the rock face, breathing in gulps. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the freezing air.

"Don't... look... down..." he whimpered.

"Don't stop," Eirik commanded. "Next step. Now, Yorick."

Trembling, Yorick forced himself to move. Step by step, he ascended the remaining stairs. Bjorn's hand grabbed his arm, hauling him onto the rocky ledge at the top.

Yorick collapsed onto his hands and knees, gasping. "Never... again... Commander... Never..."

Olaf clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Ha! You made it, scribe!"

Eirik ignored the reactions. "This way. Yorick, lead on to the overlook. Quietly."

The scout led them along the narrow ridge for another quarter mile. Finally, he gestured towards a cluster of snow-dusted boulders overlooking a deep valley.

"There," Yorick breathed, crouching behind the largest boulder.

Eirik moved forward.

The valley below opened up and Fort Abercrombie lay within it.

A ruin? That might be generous.

From their vantage point high on the ridge, the scale of the destruction was clear. What remained was less a fortress and more a skeleton of one.

Thick stone walls, once formidable, were now broken in multiple places. One entire section near the eastern corner had collapsed into a tumble of shattered stone blocks, spilling into the valley. Gaps yawned elsewhere, large enough for a warhorse to charge through.

The massive double gatehouse Yorick had described no longer existed. One gate was a splintered wreck, hanging off twisted hinges. The other was gone, leaving a dark maw. Towers were either shattered stumps or missing. Only two on the western side stood partially intact, their tops broken off, revealing gaping holes.

The inner keep, the heart of the old fort, was a charred ruin, its roof gone, only skeletal beams reaching for the grey sky.

Defensible? Barely. Repairable? Maybe. With time and resources we don't have right now. The reality of the "damaged" state hit harder than the frigid wind.

But Yorick had been right about one thing: It wasn't empty.

Movement flickered within the ruins, confirming his fears.

A hundred people? Minimum?

"Commander," Yorick whispered, voice tight with dread. "See the smoke? They've got fires going inside the old barracks shell. And look near the main breach – horses."

Eirik squinted. Through the swirling snow flurries, he could make out shapes moving near the largest gap in the eastern wall. Darker shapes milled about: horses. Lots of them. But details were impossible. Were they war mounts? Pack animals? How many warriors? How alert?

His hand went to his storage ring.

[ITEM: Frostforged Spyglass (F-Grade)]

He willed it into existence. Frost mist shimmered in his palm, resolving into the thick, blue-grey ice cylinder with its cloudy lenses. It looked primitive.

He brought it to his eye, ignoring the biting cold against his skin.

"What in the Frozen Hells is that?" Olaf leaned closer, scarred face scrunched in disbelief. "Some kinda… ice trumpet?"

"It's a seeing-tube, Olaf," Eirik answered.

Yorick gaped. "But… how? With ice…?"

"Quiet," Eirik commanded.

He focused, adjusting the crude tube. The world beyond the lens swam. Then it sharpened.

He scanned the main breach in the eastern wall. Dozens of horses, shaggy mountain breeds, were picketed on trampled snow just inside the ruined perimeter. Men moved among them, clad in boiled leather armor stitched with bone and iron plates.

Skarl horsemen.

He counted. Thirty warriors tending horses. Another twenty visible near a large central fire pit within the shell of what might have been the main barracks. He shifted the tube.

Beyond the warriors, deeper in the ruined courtyard, were non-combatants. Women in heavy furs worked around smaller fires, tending iron pots or scraping hides. A cluster of older men sat on furs near one fire, sharpening weapons or carving bone.

Not just a war band. It's a clan segment. A nomadic unit – warriors, families, elders. At least two hundred souls. Probably more hidden in the rubble.

This complicated things. Attacking a war band was one thing; attacking what amounted to a moving village holed up in a ruin was another. The warriors would fight to protect their families.

But those families meant baggage, supplies… and vulnerability.

He panned the spyglass.

The southern and western stretches were less damaged but still had gaps. The northern wall looked ruined… with a massive hole where the main gate had been ripped away. The splintered remains hung.

That's a killing ground waiting to happen… for either side.

Only two partial towers remained on the western side, both missing their tops. The inner keep sat ruined.

Eirik focused on their activity next. Warriors clustered near the main fire pit, eating dried meat, drinking from skins, sharpening axes and curved sabres. No armor worn beyond basic chest plates. Few weapons close to hand.

However, every single one of them is carrying a light bow.

The bows weren't fancy - just simple hunting bows made of horn and wood. But they were ubiquitous - slung across backs, resting against legs, or held in hands even while the men ate and talked. They sleep with those bows, he thought. Probably bathe with them too.

He counted again, slower.

Thirty tending horses. Forty near the main fire. Another dozen visible near smaller fires scattered among rubble piles that had once been outbuildings. That made eighty warriors visible. With the size of the encampment, likely another fifty or sixty resting or on perimeter patrols deeper in the ruins. Perhaps one-thirty to one-fourty fighting men.

The numbers were daunting.

A thick, oily smoke coiled upwards from the large central fire pit. Figures moved around it in a rhythmic pattern that felt less like dance and more like convulsions.

Olaf's eyes gleamed. "Look at 'em, Commander. Scattered. Lazy. Thinkin' themselves safe in their ruin. We could take 'em. Hit hard and fast."

"Take them? Olaf, look at the numbers!" Yorick hissed, his face pale. "We've barely sixty fighting fit, and half of those are walking wounded! Against a fortified position… even a ruined one… held by over two hundred Skarls? It'd be slaughter!"

"Fortified?" Olaf scoffed. "Holes big enough to march a giant through! Walls you could spit through! How's that fortified?"

"Take them?" Yorick's whisper was sharp. "Olaf, by the Frost, look! One hundred thirty warriors? Minimum? And that's just the men we see! Look at the horses!"

Olaf scowled, his gaze sweeping over the picketed mounts. "So? Horses are good eating after we win. Or riding."

"Riding away is what they'll be doing!" Yorick's voice rose before he caught himself, glancing towards the valley. "Don't you understand? You never fight the Skarls in the open if you can avoid it. Never. Especially not from a position of weakness!"

"Weakness? We took down a troll Shaman!" Olaf countered, thumping a fist against his thigh. "These are just men."

"Men who live and die on horseback!" Yorick pressed. "That's why Lord Varn lost Abercrombie, why it bled him dry! It's why the North trembles! Forget their axes, Olaf! It's the bows!"

He gestured. "Everyone down there, everyone – the warriors, the women hunched over pots, the greybeards sharpening blades, even the children playing behind the fallen wall – they can all ride. They can all shoot. They're born in the saddle."

Everyone a rider… and an archer? Eirik kept his face impassive, but the implication hit him.

Yorick saw the flicker in Eirik's eyes and seized on it. "Commander, listen! It's their way of war. Their tactic."

"Invincible?" Olaf scoffed. "Nothing's invincible."

"Against forces like ours? It is. Think, Olaf!" Yorick pleaded. "You hit them with a small force? They don't huddle behind the broken walls waiting to be slaughtered. They pour out. Every rider, bow in hand. A hundred, two hundred horse archers swarming towards you before your first rank is halfway across the valley."

The image crystallized in Eirik's mind: A mass that would engulf his sixty Talons long before they reached cover. His Frost Shaper abilities were potent, but shaping terrain for sixty men against two hundred mobile archers?

Not gonna work.

Yorick continued. "They won't come in close for melee. Not at first. Why should they? They'll just... swarm. They'll circle you at a distance, far outside the reach of your swords or even our crossbows."

He gestured. "They can loose arrows from twenty yards further out than our best archers, Commander. Light, fast bows, designed to shoot from horseback."

Superior range and mobility. Eirik saw the death knell for a direct assault.

"Okay," Olaf muttered, his bravado faltering. "So we recruit more people. More than they can encircle. Commander just got paid. We dig in, and make them come to us on our terms."

"They won't!" Yorick hissed, shaking his head. "If you show up with a force big enough they think they can't overwhelm? They run. Simple as that. They mount up, grab their families, their tents, their horses, and they ride. Deeper into the mountains, maybe just over the next ridge."

His voice grew bitter. "You won't catch them. They know this land, and their horses are bred for it – tough, fast, tireless. They leave you standing in the ruins or chasing shadows."

Hit and run. Denial of a decisive battle. It was the perfect strategy against a slow-moving, conventional force.

"Then we take the fort!" Olaf insisted.

Yorick gave a laugh. "Oh, you take the fort. Congratulations. You hold the broken walls. And then? They're still out there. Watching. Waiting. They know where you are. You think you get a day's peace? A single hour?"

He gestured down into the valley. "The next morning, or maybe the day after when you're hauling stone or trying to patch a gate, they come back. Not to storm the walls. Just a handful of riders, maybe. Sweeping past at a gallop, a hundred yards out, barely in sight. A volley of arrows arcs over the wall."

He mimicked the whistling sound. "Thwip-thwip-thwip! Into the yard where your men are working. Men drop. Maybe one, maybe three. Wounded. Dead. Panic spreads. You scramble archers, but they're already gone."

His voice grew urgent. "And they do it again. And again. And again. Day after day. Night raids to keep you from sleeping. Never a big fight, just… slow bleeding. They wear you down, Commander. Arrow by arrow."

Yorick pointed toward the camp. "They'll shoot your horses grazing outside. They'll shoot anyone who fetches water from the stream without a shield wall."

Eirik felt the weight of the strategy. A siege in reverse. Instead of trapping the enemy, he'd be the one trapped inside a ruin, besieged by an unseen force that could strike at will and retreat before retaliation.

How do you build walls when every mason is a target? How do you plant crops when every field is a killing ground? Morale would crumble faster than the fort's remaining walls.

"It's attrition," Eirik murmured. "Death by a thousand cuts."

"Exactly!" Yorick nodded. "And if you ever get so frustrated, so desperate, that you do send a force out to chase them? To try and finish it?"

He leaned closer, his eyes wide. "That's what they want. That's the trap! They let you chase. They ride just fast enough to stay ahead, just slow enough to keep you interested. Luring your main fighting strength away from the fort, deeper into broken terrain you don't know."

He snapped his fingers.

"And then… They hit you from all sides. Horsemen you never saw coming, rising from gullies, pouring over ridges. They surround your sally force. More arrows, raining down from every direction."

His voice dropped to a whisper. "They close in, not for a melee, but to keep you penned, confused, while they keep shooting. And when you break? When you try to flee back to the fort? That's when they charge. Sabres flashing. Cutting you down as you run. No prisoners. No mercy."

He pointed a finger towards the skull-adorned posts below. "That's how Fort Abercrombie suffered its worst defeat, Commander. Years ago, before Varn abandoned it. They sallied out after a raiding party. Overconfident. Lost nearly two hundred men in an hour."

His voice grew bitter. "Dragged back in pieces to decorate the Skarl camps. That loss… that's what started the bleeding Varn couldn't stop. That's why the North is in such a bad way now!"

Olaf had fallen silent, his scarred face pale. The bravado was gone, replaced by horror. He might relish a bloody melee, but the idea of being shot down from afar, unable to strike back, was anathema.

"Frost's frozen balls..." he breathed.

"Why do you think Lord Flint is terrified of them?" Yorick pressed, seeing he had their attention. "It's not just the warriors, Lieutenant. It's the scorching."

He gestured back towards Flint's Hold, unseen beyond the mountains. "The Skarls don't just raid; they destroy. They burn villages to ash before the garrison can muster. They trample crops into mud. They slaughter livestock they can't take. They poison wells."

His voice grew hollow. "They leave nothing behind but death and starvation. They target the vulnerable – the old, the children. They have no mercy. Commerce routes vanish because no trader dares the roads. Holds starve because the fields lie fallow and burned."

He swept his arm toward the distant holds. "Men become desperate, turn bandit… or die. The Skarls create deserts, Commander. Deserts filled with bones."

"That's the fear gripping Flint, Varn, Lord Cedric, and even Earl Borin. It's not just losing a battle. It's losing everything. The Skarls turn the land itself against you. They force you into choices – abandon your forward defenses, bleed your treasury trying to hold them, or watch your people starve and burn."

His voice cracked. "There are no good choices against them on open ground."

Silence descended over the scouting party.

The wind whistled through the rocks, carrying faint sounds from the ruined fort below – the whinny of a horse, a shout, the crackle of fire.

Eirik turned away from the vista.

"Back to camp. Then ride for Frostholme. Double time. We have work to do."