Chapter Forty-Nine: Frosty Faceoff

  A veil of cyan energy formed a vertical planar disc in front of the runaway mage. The rippling barrier’s embrace softened the mountain’s oncoming roar, a cacophonous rumble of white around him.

  At the periphery of his sight, he observed the jet-black horse and the grey, matted dire wolf through the white, misty mass just before it swallowed them.

  “Nightwind! Emmett!”

  The barrier in front of him flickered with his bellow—a result of a momentary lapse in concentration. Selriph grunted in exertion as he planted his feet, thrusting both hands forward.

  The barrier shone; its luminance rivalled the frosty whiteness around them. Snow began to pile beyond the fringes of Selriph’s protective arcane display, gathering as if deposited against a solid wall of rock. As the cryomanctic energy pulsed, the powdery onslaught compacted, hardening into a solid, ice-like form before the boy’s spell, resembling a half-formed dome around the caster.

  The unyielding natural force persisted, possibly intensified by the substantial snowfall that had graced the mountains a couple of nights ago. The onslaught was reminiscent of an overflowing dam that had burst.

  And it was beginning to overwhelm the boy, a prodigious but ultimately mortal mage, trying to fight against its sheer enormity.

  He could feel it overhead. The torrent of frost had begun to overflow across the conjured wall in front of him. The inundating mass pelted his back, clumps of snow stroked his cloak, pooling together with the hugging embrace of the avalanche from his sides and behind him.

  Damn, I am going to be buried at this rate.

  His vision struggled against the blinding pepper of snow, trying to assess the structural sturdiness of the makeshift arc—the wall of compact snow he had willed to protect him.

  Then he glanced back, white death all around him.

  No choice, I have to try it!

  The cryomantic faded in Selriph’s right hand as he extended it behind him. Then, as soon as it dimmed, it flared to life once more, forming another vertical planar barrier, this time behind the boy.

  His body now stood with two hands extended, each forming half of a partly formed, protective dome of cyan energy. Through the numbing sting in his fingers, another burst of otherworldly light flared through his body, willing the vertically tilted hemispheres to close in on each other.

  Once more, where powdery snow had accumulated, it solidified at the boy’s arcane command. The back-facing part of the dome solidified, now forming a complete igloo-like cupola around the boy.

  His body raged with pain from the immense muscular exertion brought about by the arcane feat—one that felt like he was physically holding back the tonnes of snow through his own muscular effort.

  His body stung. The frosty energy poured through his figure, mixing with the already frigid cold, every muscle frozen in place—but still channelling the protective barrier.

  Slowly but surely, the avalanche began its gradual de-crescendo, the sound faded as the dome deadened the sounds of the raging tempest of sleet, while it exhausted its ammunition that fuelled its barrage.

  The loud groaning sound turned into a slow, deep roar, then a shuffling, grinding noise, and eventually, soft, slushy whooshes as the remaining snow ground to a halt.

  Then silence, save for the resonant hum of the mystical energy around Selriph.

  Only when that external quietude lasted for a further fifteen seconds, measured silently by the cracking, shivering, chattering of the boy’s lips, did he release his arcane exertion.

  He fell into the snow, or more accurately, collapsed. His backside hit the ground once his knees gave way, as though he was casually sitting down, since the space he was in was already partially filled with frost.

  His muscles felt gelatinous, unwilling to muster another bout of magical force—at least for the next minute.

  So for a few moments, he caught his breath in the darkness of his icy cocoon.

  But he knew that was in limited supply.

  If he stayed beyond a reasonable amount of time, this life-saving feat of cryomancy, likely a third-tier display by conventional classification, would become his icy tomb.

  I can’t stay like this forever; this air pocket will surely poison me if I dawdle…

  He reached into the snow, past his left hip. His hand closed around the familiar leather grip of his estoc. He pulled it out; the blade pointed upwards, and the boy chipped away at the hardened snow above, using it as a makeshift pick.

  Chuck chuck chuck

  Snowflakes fell on the boy, with some landing on the wound he had received from the elf. As the sword pushed through to the other side, the first rays of sunlight emerged, accompanied by the refreshing mountain air.

  The dome’s summit caved in with a pleasant plop. Selriph raised his hand and shut his eyes tightly, trying to keep the freezing material from getting into his eyes and nose.

  His figure, now nearly belly-deep in the snow, began to heave and pull itself up. His lethargic flounder indicated his struggle against the heavy, sloughing snow that offered no purchase, the frigid air and sleet seeping through his clothes.

  He was numb with cold; the slow, slowly emerging surrounding mountainscape and the breeze against his figure were the sole confirmation that his muscles followed his commands. His legs emerged first, then the rest of him as he crawled from the dome’s peak, the opening resembling a broken eggshell, and rolled onto the firm, dense terrain.

  As if prompted by his exit, he heard the stirring of the snow further downslope. The grey-black figure of the dire wolf popped out of a plume of snow, its body shaking off the frost as if it had merely been doused in crystalline dust.

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  “Emmett… good thing you are … okay.” Selriph’s voice cracked as shivers ate his words. He stumbled toward his companion, and a bright orange flame bloomed in his palm. The cantrip crackled and hissed as if protesting the biting chill. As he stumbled towards his canine companion, the warmth from his spell brought the first relief to his freezing, numb body.

  Selriph moved the flames towards his lips, and he gathered his thoughts for his next words. “Where is…? If Nightwind is still buried in this, we have to find her…”

  The boy closed his eyes as he reached out with his arcane senses, probing for any sign of the horse—if it had survived the avalanche.

  He sensed the horse’s life force, a little below his own point of emergence, further down the slope from where Emmett had appeared. The sign of her survival was indicated by an audible shuffle within the snow.

  But that wasn’t the only thing that Selriph sensed.

  To his left, higher on the slope, was the familiar feeling of unnatural energy, a sense of wrongness that he had come to associate with the preternatural energies governing the mysterious mechanisms of undeath.

  The wolf growled, its fangs barred, meeting the opening eyes of the youth. Selriph snapped left to witness the spectral-frosty forms of the ice wraiths emerge from the aftermath of the avalanche their awakening had caused, unfazed, as if they were simply coming out of a pond.

  Of course… nothing ever comes easy.

  The boy sighed as he sheathed his estoc, knowing the weapon was useless against such otherworldly entities. Both hands flared with pyromantic energy, conjuring twin orbs of flame that crackled to life. The fire warmed his muscles and steeled his resolve for the coming skirmish—the postlude to the tsunami of frost.

  “Emmett, distract the other one. I’ll try to make short work of—”

  Before his words could fill out the rest of the sentence, Emmett launched in a predatory pounce towards the leading wraith. The spectral cloaks trailed in their descent in the snow, formed more of white matter than spiritual energy.

  Selriph sped up into a sprint, the flames in his left palm forming into a whip-like construct, a veil of scarlet-arcane energy like a flexible mould that shaped the flames into this implement—one that could deal harm to the wraiths and restrain them.

  As he approached the trailing apparition that had labelled him as his adversary, Selriph noticed in the corner of his eye that Emmett had managed to land a direct hit—the wolf’s fangs masticating straight into the centre of the ghostly apparition.

  It wasn’t the fact that the bite met its mark. The wolf, after all, had proven more than capable of landing a hit against even the most evasive of foes.

  No, it was the fact that bites somehow caused visible damage, pain even, if the spectres could even feel such a thing.

  Selriph stifled any budding appraisal of the unexpected sight and turned back to his opponent, confident that Emmett seemed to demonstrate some ability to inflict damage on his adversary.

  With a grunt, Selriph thrust his right hand as he sent out a bolt of fire at the wraith. However, it contorted its form like a dancer would, with uncanny grace, flitting through the air. The magical flames found their mark in the snow beyond the wraith, rather than its intended target.

  The wraith closed the distance, its maw-like appendages open and ready to bite, a set of circular crystalline teeth bared. The boy felt a sudden, sharp jolt of bone-deep cold as the appendage grazed his left shoulder, leaving a path of wispy frost in its wake.

  A frigid cold pierced him, not just as a physical sensation in his body, but in a way that felt almost preternatural, as though the touch itself leached away his very essence. His skin felt brittle, like flaking leather, as he moved his left shoulder, a motion that unleashed the fire whips toward the wraith in a resounding crack.

  The wraith, which was still in the midst of lunging past the boy after touching him, couldn’t dodge the fiery tendril that had latched onto its icy form. Flames danced along its shape, causing frost to sublimate. That rapid vaporisation accompanied the unexplainable, hazy, and powdery decay emerging from the collision of magical fires and the spectral icy form.

  Despite its efforts, the wraith couldn’t break free from its bonds, as the intense orange flames tautened around it, ready to shred it into ribbons.

  Sensing its impending demise, the creature’s jaw opened wide, and a frosty, spectral cone of cold air bellowed forth. Selriph felt the deadly chill take over him as the wraith’s stinging void pulled in his body. He felt his arcane and life energy siphoned from him by the move as the wraith’s frosty winds drew his body in, as if sucked into the ravenous maws of a gluttonous noble, threatening to break his concentration over the whip.

  As the distance shrank, Selriph dug his boots into the snow, channelling fiery energy into his palm. When he found stability, he took a deep breath, steeling himself for the audacious move he was about to execute.

  Unexpectedly, he lunged, flames shooting from his feet and propelling him towards the horrifying monster.

  Just before his hand went into the welcoming maw, a bright orange plume erupted, pouring into the creature’s open mouth, setting it ablaze from the inside out, causing it to flicker violently, much like a dandelion in a forceful autumn breeze.

  The concentrated gout of flame washed over the creature’s form, poured into its ravenous maw before overflowing, its form engulfed in the intense, forge-worthy flames.

  A high-pitched scream escaped the creature before its form completely dissipated—melted away, leaving behind the faint wisp of cyan-grey energy mixed with the arcane soot from the spell, along with the lingering flames as Selriph’s feet found purchase in the snow, his form stumbling from the exertion.

  Selriph battled the rising nausea, a consequence of the creature’s draining influence combined with the significant magical strain from the frosty ordeal. With a turn of his head, he steeled himself, focusing what magic he had left into his hands, intending to help his wolf by summoning another display of flames to finish off the second wraith just as he’d done the first.

  What he instead saw brought him instant surprise and relief: Emmett had already triumphed over his foe, and the only trace of the enemy he’d defeated was the frosty, grey ash at its feet. The wolf was in a seated position, like a casual observer enjoying the spectacle caused by Selriph’s incandescent execution of the other wraith, its captivated state betrayed by the wagging of its tail.

  What the…? How is this possible? If steel can’t harm the wraiths, how did this mutt best it?!

  As Selriph looked on, he became increasingly puzzled and started to slowly and tentatively move towards the wolf.

  As he approached it, he felt something he hadn’t felt before. A subtle energy radiated from the dire wolf. In the white backdrop of the snowscape, he could see it—an understated, almost invisible green hue.

  This wasn’t the first instance of his sensing that energy. On the contrary, it brought him a sense of abject peace and nostalgia, for it was the very same signature he had felt in his profound experience in the Shera woods.

  The same energy that the Elder, Gulica, had wrapped in the wolf before their departure.

  Before the boy could further analyse what had just happened—even though the conclusion was almost clear and he was about to articulate it for himself—the wolf rose again and ran to the right of his vision.

  Selriph, bewildered, traced the canidae, his weariness clouding his usually sharp situational awareness. Only when Emmet began its furious, almost desperate digging did Selriph’s own body spring into haste.

  Towards the fallen steed, still buried in the snow.

  As the youth neared the source of the slurry shuffle—Emmett’s digging, hasty and precise—he saw the black form of the horse emerge from the seat of white.

  Frozen, unmoving.

  It can’t be. Is she already dead?

  What he heard next gave him pause rather than relief—the steed stirred. Its pained whines betrayed its signs of life.

  Yet, bruise marks marred the jet black coat—only visible via the bulges and the pigmentation of blue that stood out on its majestic, albeit ominous colour.

  Those were manageable; Selriph’s minor healing abilities could heal them.

  However, such injuries were insufficient to explain the horse’s increasingly anguished groans, which sounded like it was begging for relief and an end to its distress.

  Its source became apparent as Selriph’s eyes fully appraised the horse’s half-excavated form—its legs finally revealed

  “Oh no…” Selriph muttered, his eyes landing on the source of the horse’s pain.

  The horse was alive, yes, but it would not be able to move anytime soon.

  In fact, this place might be its frosty resting place.

  Its leg was twisted unnaturally, with a fractured, or rather buckled, thigh. The rest of the limb pointed sky-high, the skin bent into a gruesome knot around the fracture—splinters of bone piercing through skin.