Eirik knew melee was suicide.

  That tongue moved faster than anything he'd seen. One touch, and he’d be dust.

  He needed to buy time. Leif was coming. He had to be coming.

  The monster took a lumbering step forward, shaking the ground.

  Its multi-faceted maw opened, emiting a low hum that vibrated in Eirik’s teeth. One massive limb, ending in a claw like black scythes, swept towards him in a deceptively fast arc.

  Eirik didn’t try to block. He rolled under the swing, feeling the displaced air tear at his clothes. He came up sprinting, not away, but towards the closest overturned salt barrel near the monster’s flank.

  He reached the barrel, flipped it onto its side with a grunt, and kicked it hard. It skidded across the stones directly into the path of the monster’s next stomping footfall.

  CRUNCH-SPLINTER!

  The heavy oak barrel exploded into shards under the immense weight. Salt crystals sprayed everywhere. A minor annoyance, but it forced the creature to momentarily shift its balance. Eirik used the fraction of a second to dive behind the stumps of the shattered outer wall – not cover, but concealment. He needed distance.

  A shadow-tendril thicker than his thigh slammed into the stone where he’d been standing. Rock splintered. The hum intensified, vibrating the very air. It’s probing. Eirik pressed flat against the cold stone.

  He needed to observe and find its weakness. Every power had a cost.

  He risked a glance. The monster was scanning the courtyard, those crimson eyes sweeping methodically. Its movements, while powerful, weren’t fluid. There was a slight hesitation, a fractional tremor in the massive limbs, especially when shifting direction.

  And the core… where Grakk’Thor had stabbed himself… the wounds pulsed with that same dark light. Was that the anchor? The source of the stolen life force?

  A choked scream from above drew the monster’s gaze. A young Northman, overwhelmed by terror, had stumbled back from the Skarl hostage he was guarding. He bolted along the battlement towards the nearest staircase leading down.

  Fool!

  The monster’s crimson eyes fixed on the movement. The shadow-tongue lashed out like a bullwhip. It crossed the thirty-yard distance instantly, wrapping around the man's torso mid-stride.

  He didn’t even have time to scream.

  One moment he was running; the next, he was a grey, lifeless husk, crumbling to dust even as the tongue retracted. The sheer speed was terrifying.

  But Eirik saw it.

  As the tongue retracted, feeding the stolen spark back into the pulsating torso-wounds, the entire monstrosity shuddered. A wave of visible strain rippled through its flesh. The dark light flared erratically, and for a second, the humming ceased.

  It needs constant replenishment. Draining life fuels it, but the act itself destabilizes it momentarily.

  A vulnerability window.

  He needed bait. Moving targets. He needed to make the monster work, force it to expend its stolen energy faster than it could replenish it. And he needed Leif to see.

  From his hiding place, Eirik cupped his hands around his mouth and roared with all the command he could muster.

  It wasn't directed at the monster. It was aimed upwards.

  "OLAF! THE WALL! RUN THE GAUNTLET! MAKE THEM MOVE! NOW!"

  Olaf, staring at Helga’s body, snapped his head up. He grabbed the nearest Skarl hostage – a grey-bearded elder – and shoved him hard down the walkway.

  "YOU HEARD THE COMMANDER! RUN, YE BASTARDS! RUN OR DIE STANDING!" he bellowed, kicking another hostage – a young woman – in the direction of the central tower. He turned and sprinted away from them, drawing a short sword from a fallen guard, making himself a separate, noisy target. "C'MON, YE OVERGROWN LARD-BUCKET! TRY AND SUCK ME DRY!"

  The effect was immediate chaos.

  The Northmen captors, spurred by Olaf’s raw fury and the immediate threat, began shoving their charges along the battlements. Some Skarl hostages tried to resist, others stumbled, terrified, into motion. The narrow walkway became a scene of panicked movement in multiple directions.

  The monster’s head swiveled, letting out a shriek.

  Multiple shadow-tendrils snapped out. One impaled a fleeing Skarl woman against a merlon, draining her instantly. Another whipped towards Olaf. The big lieutenant ducked behind a crenellation with a curse, the shadow-tongue scraping sparks off the stone.

  But the effort of targeting multiple moving points at once was clearly taxing. The creature hesitated, its limbs trembling slightly. It couldn’t focus.

  Eirik used the momentary distraction. He burst from behind the wall stump, sprinting not away, but towards the area littered with dead Skarl warriors near the ice spike trap. He needed ammunition. He scooped up a fallen Skarl war axe.

  He poured a jolt of mana into his arm, aiming not at the monster, but at the frozen ground near its massive clawed foot.

  [MANA EXPENDED: 3]

  [MANA: 17/50]

  [ABILITY: FROST SHAPER ACTIVATED]

  The packed snow and ice beneath the claw liquefied into frictionless slush. The monster’s foot slipped sideways with a surprised grunt. It stumbled, one massive limb windmilling for balance, its attention wrenched from the battlements back to its own footing.

  Thump. Thump-thump-thump.

  The sound cut through the monster’s frustrated shriek and the panicked cries. Hoofbeats. Many, many hooves. Coming fast up the pass approach.

  Leif.

  A wave of fierce hope surged through Eirik. He saw the monster’s crimson eyes snap towards the main gate. It sensed the new threat. Saw its hesitation deepen into a flicker of… calculation? Or was it strain?

  He had to make the weakness clear. Now. Before the monster turned its full fury on the approaching force.

  Eirik didn’t retreat. He stood his ground twenty yards from the towering abomination, the war axe held loosely at his side. He raised his voice, pitching it to carry over the din, not to the monster, but towards the approaching thunder outside the gate.

  "LEIF! LISTEN! ITS POWER IS UNSTABLE! WHEN IT DRAINS… THAT'S WHEN IT'S VULNERABLE!"

  His words were punctuated by the monster’s furious response.

  Enraged by the defiance, by the shouting of its weakness, it whipped a shadow-tendril straight at Eirik with blinding speed. He threw himself sideways into a desperate roll, the tendril passing so close he felt the chill of absolute negation.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  The tendril slammed into the frozen ground where he’d stood, shattering cobblestones and leaving a smoking, necrotic patch.

  CRASH!

  A tide of desperate, bloodied men flooded into the courtyard – Talons in their scarred leather, Frostholme guards in makeshift armor, peasants wielding axes and spears. At their head, atop a lathered horse, was Leif Fenrir, the heirloom blade shining in his hand. Bjorn and Harkin flanked him, faces grim.

  They stopped dead.

  The scene that greeted them was beyond comprehension.

  The carnage of the ice spike trap was horrific enough – impaled warriors and ponies frozen in death. The spilled salt and overturned barrels added a layer of surreal decay. The Northmen captives and Skarl hostages on the battlements were a frozen tableau of terror. Olaf stood near the central tower, breathing heavily, a dead Skarl at his feet.

  But all of it was dwarfed, dominated, by the thing in the center.

  Twelve feet of pulsating, corrupted flesh. Six limbs of nightmare chitin. Eyes like burning coals from Hel’s deepest pit. The lingering stench of ozone and decay. And Helga’s withered body on the stones near the tower base.

  The entire force behind them seemed to ripple backwards as one, a wave of pure, primal terror.

  “What… in the frozen nine hells…?” Leif breathed.

  The distraction was costly.

  The monster, seeing the fresh influx of life force – hundreds of potential meals – roared. It wasn’t a sound; it was a physical wave of pressure that staggered the front ranks. The shadow-tongue lashed out, not at Eirik this time, but towards the massed men crowding the gateway.

  Panic erupted.

  Men shoved backwards, tripping over each other. The tongue retracted, having caught only a Frostholme peasant who had stumbled forward. He withered and crumbled before their eyes.

  The sight of a comrade drained to dust shattered any lingering cohesion. Fear turned to rout. Men at the back tried to flee back out the gate, trampling those behind them. The formation dissolved into a terrified mob.

  Leif spurred his horse forward, trying to impose order, but the horse reared, eyes rolling white in terror. “HOLD! HOLD YOUR GROUND, DAMN YOU!” His voice was lost in the cacophony.

  Eirik saw the disaster unfolding. If the mob broke, the monster would pick them off one by one outside the walls. He needed to be the target. Again.

  He snatched up a heavy cobblestone dislodged by the tendril strike.

  He hurled the stone. It flew straight, a grey streak against the twilight. It struck the bruised, weeping flesh just below the largest wound where the shadow-tendril had plunged earlier.

  THUD-SPLAT!

  It wasn’t a killing blow. Barely a sting. But it struck the nexus of its stolen power.

  The monster flinched violently, a gout of dark, viscous ichor spurting from the wound. The hum turned into a shriek of agony. Its burning eyes snapped away from the fleeing mob and locked onto Eirik with homicidal intensity.

  “THAT’S RIGHT, YOU ROTTEN SACK OF OFFAL!” Eirik bellowed, backing away towards the ice spike trap, deliberately putting himself in the open. “ME! REMEMBER? THE ONE WHO POISONED YOUR SALT! THE ONE WHO TOOK YOUR FORT! THE ONE WHO KILLED YOUR CHAMPION! COME AND TRY YOUR SUCKING TRICK ON ME!”

  The taunt worked.

  The monster, enraged beyond reason, lumbered towards him, its massive limbs pounding the cobbles, ignoring the chaotic mass of men regrouping near the gate. Its shadow-tongue coiled like a viper ready to strike.

  Eirik had its attention. Now he had to survive it. And he had precious little mana left.

  He backed towards the edge of the ice spike trap, where the jagged spears of his conjured ice still glistened, some still impaling Skarl corpses. The ground was treacherous, uneven, littered with debris. Perfect.

  “LEIF!” Eirik roared, his eyes never leaving the advancing monstrosity. “ITS WEAKNESS IS REAL! WHEN THE TONGUE TOUCHES – WHEN IT DRAINS – IT STAGGERS! FOR ONE… MAYBE TWO SECONDS! THAT’S YOUR WINDOW! AIM FOR THE CORE! THE WOUNDS ON ITS TORSO! MASSED PROJECTILES! NOW, DAMN YOU! COORDINATE YOUR FIRE!”

  Leif, finally regaining control of his panicked horse, heard. He saw Eirik luring the monster towards the ice field. He saw the strategic madness. His face hardened. This was the moment Eirik had thrust upon him.

  Time to earn the blade.

  He wheeled his horse, the Fenrir steel held high.

  “CROSSBOWMEN! FORM RANKS! FRONT AND CENTER! AIM FOR THE BIG UGLY’S CHEST! THOSE DARK PULSING SPOTS! YOU SEE THEM? AIM TRUE! WAIT FOR MY COMMAND! SPEARMEN – SHIELD WALL! PROTECT THE SHOOTERS! EVERYONE ELSE, CLEAR THE FLANKS! MOVE! NOW!”

  Discipline, beaten into the Talons through hardship, reasserted itself. Veterans shoved recruits into position. The Frostholme men, seeing a plan, however insane, followed suit. Bjorn and Harkin bellowed orders, forming a bristling shield wall in front of the hastily assembling crossbowmen – perhaps forty weapons were leveled, bolts trembling in their grooves.

  The monster was ten yards from Eirik. Five. Its shadow-tongue drew back, coiling for the killing strike. Eirik stood poised on the very edge of the ice field. He had nowhere left to run.

  "FIRE!" Leif’s command split the air.

  THWACK-THWUNK-THWIPP!

  A ragged volley of crossbow bolts streaked across the courtyard. Not all flew true. Some struck the thick hide of the monster’s limbs, bouncing off or embedding shallowly. One hit a chitinous plate on its head with a ping. But several found their mark.

  Three heavy bolts punched into the pulsating, bruised flesh of the monster’s torso near the weeping wounds. Dark ichor sprayed.

  The monster whipped toward the source of the attack, its burning eyes fixing on the massed crossbowmen. The shadow-tongue lashed out hungrily toward the formation.

  "NO!" A voice cried from the ranks.

  A Frostholme peasant—beard streaked with grey, clutching a rusted spear—broke from the shield wall. Not in terror, but in desperate purpose. He sprinted directly into the path of the reaching shadow-tongue.

  "FOR MY SONS!"

  The tongue wrapped around him instantly. His eyes met Eirik's for one brief moment—calm, resolved. Then he withered, crumbling to dust as the stolen life force coursed back into the monster's pulsating core.

  The window!

  As the shadow-tongue retracted, the entire monstrosity shuddered violently. The same pattern Eirik had observed before—a wave of visible strain rippled through its flesh. The dark light flared erratically, and for nearly two full seconds, the humming ceased.

  Eirik didn’t hesitate.

  [MANA EXPENDED: 7]

  [MANA: 10/50]

  He focused his will on the jagged remnants of his earlier ice spikes embedded in the ground and the cobbles shattered by the monster’s attacks. He didn’t freeze; he shattered. He amplified the existing fractures, turned solid ice and stone into a field of super-chilled, hyper-brittle shrapnel primed to explode under pressure.

  The monster, already staggered by the crossbow hits, took another lumbering step forward, its massive clawed foot landing squarely in the center of the destabilized zone.

  The effect was catastrophic.

  KRA-KOOM!

  The ground didn’t just give way; it detonated. A geyser of razor-sharp ice shards, fractured stone, and frozen earth erupted beneath the monster’s foot. The force was immense, amplified by Eirik’s mana acting as a catalyst. The limb buckled violently sideways with a sickening SNAP of chitin and bone. Dark ichor fountained. The monster screamed, a sound that shook the fortress to its foundations, as it crashed sideways onto the unstable ground.

  Its massive torso slammed down hard, crushing a still-twitching Skarl pony beneath it. The impact triggered more localized explosions of frost and stone along its flank. The shadow-tongue whipped wildly, gouging deep furrows in the courtyard stones but finding no target.

  Eirik was already moving, having thrown himself flat the moment he triggered the blast. Shrapnel whizzed overhead. He scrambled backwards on hands and knees, lungs burning.

  But the monster was down. Crippled. Reeling. And the weakness window wasn’t just open; it was gaping.

  Leif Fenrir didn’t need a second command. He saw the colossus fall. He saw Eirik sprawled, vulnerable. He saw the pulsating core exposed.

  “SPEARS AND AXES! CHARGE THE TORSO! AIM FOR THE WOUNDS! FOR THE NORTH! FOR ABERCROMBIE! FOR HELGA!” His voice was a clarion call of vengeance.

  A roar answered him. Not just from the Talons. From the Frostholme men. From Bjorn. From Harkin. Even the Northmen captives on the wall took up the cry. They charged. Not as a disciplined unit, but as a tidal wave of pent-up fury and horror.

  Olaf led the charge from the battlements, leaping down the stairs, howling like a mad wolf, a heavy Skarl axe raised. Bjorn pounded across the courtyard, his war hammer a blur. Spearmen drove their points into the heaving, ichor-slicked flesh near the wounds. Axes hacked at the pulsating core.

  The monster thrashed wildly. A shadow-tendril lashed out, catching a Frostholme spearman, draining him instantly. The familiar shudder rippled through the creature's massive form as the stolen life force fed into the pulsating wounds.

  Eirik saw his chance.

  [MANA EXPENDED: 10]

  [MANA: 0/50]

  [ABILITY: ICE CONJURATION ACTIVATED]

  He slammed his hands onto the ground. Jagged chains of pure, glacial ice erupted, not from the earth, but from the air itself. They snaked around the monster’s lower limbs, its thrashing tendrils, freezing them solid in an instant of absolute zero. The beast’s roar turned into a choked gargle of surprise and fury as its movements were locked for a crucial second.

  "NOW, LEIF!" Eirik bellowed.

  Leif didn’t need telling twice.

  He planted his feet, drew back the Fenrir blade, and thrust with every shred of strength, fury, and Fenrir lineage he possessed. The point punched through the tough hide below the monster’s gaping maw, slid between pulsating sinew, and found the core.

  The monstrous roar cut off abruptly, replaced by a wet, gurgling hiss.

  The burning crimson eyes flared impossibly bright, then dimmed like dying embers. The shadow-tendrils withered, crumbling to ash. The immense form shuddered violently, the distended flesh collapsing inwards with sickening wet sounds. Bone crunched and snapped as it shrank, the insectoid limbs folding in on themselves like broken sticks. Dark ichor and liquefied gore poured from the collapsing mass.

  Where the twelve-foot monstrosity had stood, only a broken figure remained, curled in a pool of steaming offal and melting ice.

  Grakk’Thor. His chest and gut were ripped open from his self-inflicted wounds, now gaping grotesquely.

  Eirik Stormcrow staggered forward. He looked down at the broken, blasphemous remnant of the shaman. No hesitation. He raised the axe high.

  Grakk’Thor’s head rolled free, coming to rest face-up, those dead, milky eyes staring sightlessly at the grey dawn sky over Fort Abercrombie.