146. Friends From Frosty Places (Patreon)

“How?” Astrid asked, failing to veil her surprise. The ruined Elder Wyrmkin tent city lay below. Dozens of prisoners of war walked in straight lines, chained wrist to ankle. “I thought you were lying about… all of this.”

“I was,” Morph replied, failing to veil his amusement. The nearby Jotun gave him a wide berth. He was still disguised as Gorm, one of the more respected warlords, while everyone appeared to hate or fear Astrid. “But it wasn’t too far-fetched. " We encountered a group of them in the mountains just over a year ago. My colleagues thought there might be a small camp of them around looking for remains of dragons, but weren’t expecting this.”

“And your colleagues facilitated all of this?” Astrid lowered her hood after they stepped through the hole in the side of the mountain. Jotun mages had worked together to carve a path up and through the mountain, covering an incredible distance in almost no time at all. “In Ymir’s name, who are you people?”

“A humble organization that just wants peace.”

“I’m not buying that. We can’t work together if you’re not honest with me.”

“You mean this isn’t enough?” Morph asked, waving at the battle's aftermath. “Your people didn’t just capture close to a hundred of these bastards but also subdued giant moles.”

“I need to know if all of this is dumb luck or you’re some master manipulator leading my people and me to our deaths,” Astrid answered, her eyes narrowed.

“Wow. Suspicious aren’t we?” Morph laughed. “Fine. We’re selfish and greedy artisans and businessmen who value the Grey for its resources. We don’t intend to stick around here for long, but intend to keep trading with the city and using our trade contacts for cheap metals and arcane materials.”

“You’re leaving after all of this is over?”

“Don’t tell me the great warchief Astrid Whiteclaw has fallen in love with a humble, good-for-nothing deceiver.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Astrid said, rolling her eyes. “And that’s not my name. But profit and greed make a lot more sense for your kind.”

“I don’t know how things work in your little isolated Jotun tribes, but wealth and influence are vital for protecting our own.”

“I suppose it's vital we figure out what the outside is like. I fear there won’t be for my tribe and me once this is all over.”

“What?” Morph frowned, raising an eyebrow. “The grand chief or whatever you call him seemed on your side, and things are going as you hoped. The war should be averted too.”

“That might be true, but the war unified the tribes and stopped the infighting. Everyone will be busy rebuilding, and the chieftain is going to refocus his efforts on diplomacy. Its the perfect opportunity for our enemies to sweep in and eliminate us. They have enough influence to get away with it too.”

“So what are you going to do?”

Astrid shrugged. “My first thought was to suggest to the chieftain that I become an ambassador to Jotun, take my tribe and live amongst your people.”

“That’s not a bad idea. Integration might help humans to accept the Jotun quicker and even lead to an alliance.”

“I thought so too, but I also know it won’t be allowed or accepted.” Astrid sighed. “Our culture doesn’t permit it. The only option is to disappear into the night and hope we aren’t pursued.”

“What about your magic? Will you not lose access to it once away from the mountains?”

“I—” Astrid hesitated, glancing at a pair of warriors lingering nearby. They weren’t in eavesdropping range but appeared curious about the probably unusual closeness between the two warchiefs. “I can only hope for the best. Hopefully, after being a part of this world for centuries, Ymir’s primal energies have become one with all other lands.”

“What if the chieftains and the war chiefs go ahead with the war anyway?” Morph asked. “They might take some time to recover from my handiwork and all of this. But once they have, what's stopping them from unleashing their wrath on the Kingdom of Schwarzberg?”

Astrid didn't answer straight away. They stood in silence, watching the Jotun work. Gorm’s people focused on escorting the survivors of the Elder Wyrmkin. It seemed that most of the service staff and artisans who weren't crushed by the partial collapse had survived. Very few of the soldiers had gone down without a fight. None of the Elder Wyrmkin warmages and junior shamans had survived the battle. The Jotun had no choice but to eliminate them to ensure everyone’s safety. One of the Shamins had made it through the fight, but Morph ensured she was executed. He didn't want to take any risks.

Because of their isolation, it seemed only the chieftain and a few of the surviving warchiefs, including Astrid, spoke common. According to Shae, it was forbidden for the Elder Wyrmkin to learn any ‘outsider’ language, so they couldn’t give away any secrets while being tortured. Only the Shamins gained the right to communicate with the outside world. A lack of communication between the leadership of both sides was in El-Prime's and the clones’ best interests. 

A group of Jotun dressed in robes, wearing antler crowns, and carrying living woody staves studied what remained of the Shamins’ and their subordinate’s work. They served the warchief Saga. Apparently, she was closer to a druid than a shaman. Morph wasn’t too sure of the difference as they apparently dealt with nature as much as the spirits of their ancestors. 

Astrid’s warriors seemed to function primarily as scouts, infiltrators, and also scavengers. They dug through the corpses of the dead and tents, looking for valuables to be divided between the tribes. The social dynamics intrigued Morph, and he wondered how it could be best used to learn more about the Jotun and perhaps benefit from a long-term alliance.

“It won’t matter,” Astrid finally said. “My people and I will be gone by then. They’re already preparing for our departure.”

“Where will you go?”

“They’re counting on me to figure that out.”

“I’d be willing to help.” Morph grinned.

“That look tells me that you want something in exchange,” Astrid commented, taking a step back and looking him up and down. 

“Simple.” Morph pointed at the cavern’s rear where the wall collapse had buried the dracosteel ore. “There is something buried under the rubble that I want. It won’t just benefit my people but yours too if you work with us.”

“And what is this thing? Can it hurt my people?”

“It’s rare ore,” Morph answered honestly.

“I’m not risking my people for some metal.” Astrid scoffed. “Why risk lives for just more profit?”

“This isn’t just any metal or for profit.” Morph moved closer to her, lowering his voice as he spoke. He hoped that to the other Jotun, it looked like he was threatening the younger warchief. “I’m talking about a living metal that only exists in legends. It’s for protecting what's dear to us. Nothing more or less.”

“And you’d just share this with us?”

“A small fraction of it helps. Finding somewhere safe for you and your tribe where the other tribes can’t do you any harm. It's not benevolence. I like you, so I’m cutting you a good deal.”

“And here I just thought you wanted to crawl into my bedroll.” Astrid smiled.

“Can’t it be both?” Morph laughed. 

It took the entire day and most of the night to clear out the tent city. Gorm—disguised Morph—delegated most of his duties to his second in command, declaring that he needed to report to the chieftain. His subordinates offered to spare a small squad to escort him. They appeared surprised when Gorm said no, declaring that he’d ride back with Astrid. However, none protested.

Once they departed, he morphed his appearance into a no-name Jotun nobody would miss. Then, he, Astrid, and all the people she had brought along got to work. Most of them filled the rogue and skirmisher archetype, but they had a couple of mages among them. It seemed the Jotun gravitated toward magic involving earth and ice. Rare specimens, mostly Saga’s people, enjoyed access to animancy and plant magic. 

Fortunately, a handful of Astrid’s people were good with geomancy. They primarily used it to create cover or camouflage when sneaking. Their skills were somewhat useful for moving the rubble. 

“What are we specifically looking for?” Astrid asked as her tattoos glowed, enhancing her strength. She picked up a boulder larger than her like it was nothing. 

“My superior’s research suggests that dracosteel is born when naturally occurring arcane crystals meet draconic remains and magical ore,” Morph explained. “It’s a theory that requires multiple rare, anomalous occurrences to line up and is probably impossible to prove. But, if there is a living source of dracosteel under there, imagine what we could do with it?”

“And you’d gear my people with it?”

“Maybe not all of them, but imagine if you and your top brass had weapons or armor made from it? That’s what we want to do. Protect the people important to us with Dracosteel tools. It’s too potent a tool to sell. The last thing we want is for our enemies to end up with something they can use against us.”

It was a slow process, especially since none of them knew what they were looking for or whether there was anything worth finding. Even if he failed, it was the perfect opportunity to get close to Astrid. She was starting to trust him, and he wanted to capitalize on the possibility of an alliance.

As they worked, Morph was still concerned about the war continuing. It wouldn’t matter as much if they left the Grey with a useable source of dracometal. Access to Dracosteel would make them powerful enough to take on dangerous foes and make enough money to afford inflated arcane crystal and metal prices. 

El-Prime will need to speak to the city council. They need to get ahead of this and ally with the Jotun against the Elder Wyrmkin. Nothing unifies people more than a common enemy.

“Thank you,” Astrid said, breaking a long silence. “I know a good deal of everything that’s happened is a result of your selfishness and agenda, but it's all working out for my people and me. I appreciate this.”

“Does this mean we get to warm each other’s bed rolls?”

“Perhaps.” The pale warchief grinned. Disgust replaced the mischievous expression a moment later. “Not as Gorm, though. What do you look like without all—” She hesitated, looking Morph up and down. “—all of this?”

“I don’t know. There is a face I use often, but I can’t really claim ownership over it.”

“Am I supposed to understand what that means? Just show me the face you like to wear most often.”

Morph ensured no one was watching before changing his face. He didn’t adopt El-Prime’s appearance. It never felt like his own. Instead, Morph presented the one he used the most, as a high-ranking member of the Aquila guild. It was a face he had created using pieces of several appearances he had copied. 

A relieved sigh escaped Astrid. “Good. You don’t look all delicate and feminine or pudgy like the men I’ve seen. Rugged. I can deal with rugged.”

“Warchief!” An older Jotun called. She wore the same outfits as the rest of Astrid’s followers but appeared significantly older than the average warrior of her tribe. Scars covered her muscular, tattooed arms. She was among the few present Jotun with Earth-shaping and manipulation powers. “You’ll want to feel this.”

“What is it, Ilda?” Astrid asked, marching down the line of working Jotun. Morph was the only male among them and received suspicious looks for being a member of Gorm’s warband. “Have you found something?”

“There is something below. It’s disrupting the flow of Ymir’s touch.”

Morph didn’t have much hope as he followed. Several of Astrid’s people had found strange occurrences that interfered with ‘Ymir’s touch’. Most had turned out to be magical Elder Wyrmkin tools or large chunks of dracosteel. He couldn’t tell if the tribe members lacked arcane talent, specializing in getting the most out of their tattoos, stealth, and skirmishes, or if the draconic energy genuinely interfered with whatever energy they used.

However, when he approached Ilda, he was sure she had encountered something valuable, if not precisely what they were looking for. The draconic presence was so dense it felt like a slap to the face. 

“What do you think?” Astrid asked.

“There is only one way to find out,” Morph answered. His heart raced, and the presence was suffocating. “But I have a good feeling about this.” His muscles swelled as he put all the stored biomass to good use, getting a shocked look from “Let’s get to it.”