"Steeper up ahead, Commander," Yorick puffed as they reached the base of a sheer rock face. "This cliff... it's the fastest way to the ridge overlooking the fort's western approach. But I still don't get it... it's impossible for anyone to get up!"

  Eirik looked upward. The view was stunning.

  The cliff face was made of dark granite, yet slick with frost and ice patches. Handholds were scarce. Even with his upgraded climbing abilities and the chisels he had prepared, it'd still be dangerous. Any slip 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 frost thickened and solidified into blue-grey slabs. Distinct steps formed, each about two feet wide, spaced roughly six feet apart.

  "By the Frost..." Leif breathed.

  "Quiet," Eirik focused again. The middle section was smoother, devoid of natural holds or ice. Which required Conjuration .

  [MANA EXPENDED: 3]

  [MANA: 45/50]

  [ABILITY: ICE CONJURATION ACTIVATED]

  With sharp CRUNCH sounds, thick blocks of solid blue ice materialized, anchored into the granite. They formed a another line upwards.

  The final stretch was steepest. 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."

  He ascended. Leif followed, terrified but sure-footed. Olaf climbed with agility. Bjorn brought up the rear.

  Then it was Yorick's turn.

  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 stumbled sideways, one foot swinging into empty air. His frenzied fingers clawed at the ice block on top of him, fighting for his dear life.

  "YORICK!"

  Eirik reacted quicikly.

  [MANA EXPENDED: 1]

  [MANA: 42/50]

  [ABILITY: FROST SHAPER ACTIVATED]

  He poured frost mana down, reinforcing the ice block beneath Yorick's fingers. He reshaped the surface into a hold where Yorick's hands gripped firmly.

  Yorick gasped, finally found balance 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. "Never... again... Commander... Never..."

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

  Eirik ignored the reactions. "Get up, Yorick. Lead on to the overlook. Quietly."

  The scout reluctantly obeyed. He led them along the narrow ridge for another quarter mile. Finally, he gestured towards a boulder overlooking a deep valley.

  "There," Yorick breathed.

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

  A ruin? That might be generous.

  The massive double gatehouse guarding the north which Yorick had described, no longer existed. One gate was a splintered wreck while the other was gone, leaving a dark maw. The northern walls were entirely gone. The southern and western streches were less damaged but still had gaps.The inner keep, the heart of the old fort, was a charred ruin.

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

  "Commander," Yorick whispered. "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.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  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 adjusted the crude tube. The world beyond the lens swam. Then it sharpened.

  Skarl horsemen.

  He counted thirty warriors tending horses. Another twenty near a fire pit within what might have been the main barracks. He shifted the tube and saw women in heavy furs tending iron pots or scraping hides. And old men too.

  So this is 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.

  Dozens of 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 about 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. A figure 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 invincible 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."

  Eirik played with that thought in his mind: A mass that would engulf his sixty Talons long before they reached cover. His Frost Shaper abilities were strong now that he just ascended his realm, 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."

  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. Then 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."

  "It's brilliant." Eirik found himself impressed despite everything. "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. "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. The idea of being shot down from afar, unable to strike back, was anathema for him.

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

  "And if you decided to do nothing? Like deliberately avoid a conflict with them?" Yorick pressed. "Then they hit you with the scorching."

  His voice grew hollow. "The Skarls burn villages to ash before the garrison can muster. They trample crops into mud. They slaughter livestock they can't take. They leave nothing behind but death and starvation."

  He swept his arm toward the distant holds.

  "That's the fear gripping Flint, Varn, Lord Cedric, and Earl Borin! They force you into terrible choices – Hold the ground, then they burn your villages and raid your caravans until both your granaries and coffers became empty. Sally out, then they outrun you and shoot from afar until your men dimished into a skeleton crew. No matter what you choose, the result will be the same: death."

  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."