At the edge of the Elven Forest, where the dryad-bound giant trees of their home have to give way to the smaller, ordinary trees that grow near the slopes of the Mountains of Ice, a small army is marching out of an emerald-green opening within one of the trees. Four abreast, they march, quickly forming up and starting their way towards the nearby mountains.

They have to march, none of the elven mounts are suitable for extended operation in the Mountains of Ice but that doesn’t mean much. They are elven rangers, some of the best troops of the realm, and travelling through the dangerous mountains is easy for them. And travel, they must for there is something wicked growing within those mountains, something that may portend doom for the entire realm if it’s not dealt with.

The foothills offer little challenge, no beasts are foolish enough to challenge an army without a dire need and their supplies are plentiful, providing for them to ascertain a good speed. Only when they reach the actual Mountains of Ice, with their harsh terrain and frozen peaks do they have to slow down. But still, onwards they march.

High above, hidden between the clouds and concealed by the wind, a flight of Valkyries keeps pace with the elves. They have not told their supposed allies about their presence, for they are above them, the elves only there to guide the way and lure out the prey they are hunting. The oracle has spoken, given them guidance on their path, and that path they have to follow, no matter where it leads. And if a few knife-eared forest dwellers have to take the lead on this path, so be it. They are on a mission from God and they will succeed.

Looking back down the slope, one of the elven scouts wipes a bit of perspiration from his forehead. The high mountains are different from their forests, far more difficult to traverse and the beasts that roam the mountains truly make them a place of death. Frowning, the scout focuses on the snow further up the mountain, trying to ascertain if there was danger. Luckily, predators need prey to thrive and in these sparse mountains, prey is at a premium.

Exchanging a few gestures with her fellow scouts, she continued moving upwards, making sure none of these predators of the mountain manage to sneak up on their comrades.

Holding his verdant spell-focus, the captain finishes his communication with the superiors back home. Plans have been made and are now carried out, some of them by his men, some by others, back in the forest. The ominous oracle shocked a lot of people and made everyone take notice. Before, they were wary of a fiend haunting their forest, a monster gnawing at the roots of their beloved trees. But now, in light of the oracle, nobody dares to be negligent, every elf, every faithful, has been called upon and they all march to war, against this heretic Ice Queen.

None shall threaten the peace of the forest.

The elves continue their travel upwards, their climb difficult and exhausting. There are no paths, nothing but cliffs, gravel, rocks and a bit of lichen, at least until they reach the snow-covered passes and slopes. Up there, only the strength of each individual, their equipment and the magic bestowed upon them by the forest allows them to hang on.

The scouts up ahead managed to subdue the predators of the region, turning some of them into coats and sustenance for the warriors but they are speaking of something different that lurks in these mountains. Not the Ice Queen they were warned about but something else. Sprites, creatures of pure magic and malice, dwell in these mountains and the scouts have already been bloodied by them. Driven by vigilance, the captain pulls his troops closer together, especially once they reach the snowfields, where cold, white death covers every surface.

If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

Marching through the snow, one elven scout stops, a frown on his face. There is something in these alien lands, something that stalks him and his comrades. He is about to call for reinforcement, simply due to the way his gut is clenching, when movement in the corner of his eye makes him turn around.

Only to get bowled over from behind, his face getting stuffed into the snow before he has a chance to scream, a chance that never comes as frozen, crystalline teeth rip into his back and quickly snuff out his life.

It has been a day since the elves reached the snowfields, their speed slowing down even further. Night falls quickly in these mountains, the deep shadows of the valley blocking the last rays of the sun. Unused to the snow, even the famed, elven eyes are suffering, the blinding white snow burning in their eyes. Camp has been established and the various soldiers are getting comfortable, some quietly celebrating that they don’t have to guard at night, others making sure they will be ready to march, come dawn.

Suddenly, the faint whistling of the wind catches the attention of a guard, making him turn and squint, the twilight casting odd shadows. Still, shadows don’t make noise, so the guard calls out a warning, keeping his eyes trained in that direction.

Only a light glint, a bit of reflected light striking a glimmering surface, serves as a warning, just before a rain of frozen projectiles starts to land on the guard and the camp around him. Canvas tents, armour, shields and flesh all suffer from the rain of ice-shards and finally, the guard is able to recognise their attackers.

Gliding on the wind, an unkindness of strange, grey ravens is surging past their camp, frozen, blue eyes staring at the elves as they beat their wings, each beat sending out more of these frozen shards.

Screams of the wounded echo through the camp, alongside shouts of their officers, trying to restore order and strike back at these feathery fiends. Bows are knocked, arrows are shot and magic surges as each of the soldiers tries their best to destroy their aerial attackers before they can vanish across the mountains, making pursuit impossible.

In the chaos, the damp noise of a body falling in the snow is overheard and in the twilight, the scent of blood spreads across the mountainside. At first, it’s faint and those smelling it only think of the hail of icy shards that has just rained down on their camp, until the scent is too heavy for minor injuries.

Warnings are shouted, as the silvery-grey predators that have infiltrated their camp are discovered and in an attempt to push them back, more commands are ordered. Elves move together, into formation to prevent their canine foes from singling out individuals and tearing them apart one by one. As if these strange wolves know their tactics, they quickly begin to retreat, just as the ravens from the earlier attack return, sending down another wave of shards.

The captain steps up, tossing out a handful of seeds and with a shout, he invokes the power of the forest. Emerald power surges from his focus, as the seeds instantly sprout, thick vines piercing through the snow and taking root in the frozen soil as they wrap around some of the wolves. They won’t last long, but they will last long enough.

Half of the army steps forward, to deal with the wolves while the other half starts launching attacks at the flying ravens, causing them to fall from the sky. The earlier chaos fades and order is restored, as the soldiers advance on the bound wolves, ready to end their existence.

Only for chaos to return, when a rumbling sound echoes through the valley and a wave of snow comes crashing down the slope. Screams of fear echo through the night, only to be drowned out by orders from their captain, in an attempt to form ranks and take cover. Fresh vines sprout with magical support and each spellcaster is doing their best to avert the sudden disaster.

But there is too much snow, too much weight crashing into the elven camp and soon, everything is washed away by the unforgiving force of nature from above.

Far above the tragedy in the valley, the flight of valkyries judges the situation. The surge of power that caused the avalanche was unmistakable, allowing them to hone in on the lone figure standing on a nearby slope, looking down on the destruction caused.

A lone figure, commanding massive amounts of Ice Magic.

Determined, they all move into formation and invoke the Judgement of Heaven. Burning sunlight streams out, the chorus of their voices turning the night to day, banishing the darkness and sunlight flares. The figure tries to invoke defensive magic, only for the magic to rapidly burn away. In an attempt to strike at the Chosen of the Sun, dark magic flares, trying to dissuade the Judgement of Heaven by threatening mutual destruction. But the Chosen are on a mission.

And the mission will not fail, even if they have to lay down their lives.