CHAPTER 10: THE FROZEN TIDE

The air was thick with frost, each breath forming a cloud as villagers hustled to their positions along the massive walls of stone and bone. Frostholm stood like a fortress carved from the harsh winter itself, its defenses a testament to desperation and ingenuity. John paced the inner courtyard, his hands curling and uncurling as if he could grasp a solution from thin air. The low murmur of the villagers’ prayers and last-minute preparations was broken only by the distant echo of war horns.

“They’ll be here by dawn,” Freya’s voice broke through the chill, steady despite the weight of her words. She stood at the base of the largest gate, her axe resting against her shoulder. Her eyes, sharp and determined, found his. “We need every advantage you can give us.”

John sighed, running a hand through his unruly hair. “About that. There’s something I need to explain.” He glanced toward Bjorn, the village elder, whose face was weathered by years of hardship. Bjorn had joined them moments ago, his silent presence a grounding force.

Freya tilted her head, the slightest hint of irritation crossing her face. “Now’s not the time for secrets, John.”

“It’s not a secret,” he said quickly, though the guilt in his tone suggested otherwise. “It’s just something I’ve recently pieced together.”

Bjorn folded his arms, his brow furrowing. “Out with it, then.”

John exhaled sharply. “Most people in this world—your world—only get one skill point and one attribute point every time they level up. Right?”

Freya nodded. “Yes. It’s why advancement is slow and why every choice matters.”

“Well, that’s not how it works for me,” John admitted. “I get three skill points and two attribute points per level.”

The weight of his words hung in the air. Freya’s eyes widened, and even the usually stoic chief’s expression cracked with surprise.

“Two?” Freya repeated, her tone disbelieving. “That’s… unheard of.”

“It’s not just that,” John continued, his voice quieter now. “My class… it’s not like yours. I’m not limited by what’s considered normal here. I think… I think that’s why I’ve been able to grow so quickly.”

Bjorn’s gaze bore into him. “And why are you telling us this now?”

“Because you need to understand what’s at stake,” John said, his tone earnest. “I’m not just some anomaly. I only realized how my skill points worked differently while training with the apprentices. I believe it has something to do with my original summoning from another world. If the enemy figures out what I can do, I’ll become their primary target. And if I fall, this village loses one of its biggest advantages.”

Freya’s fingers tightened around the haft of her axe. “Then we make sure you don’t fall.”

Bjorn nodded slowly. “Your power may be unusual, but it’s a gift. One that comes with responsibility. Use it wisely, John.”

The weight of their trust settled heavily on his shoulders. “I’ll do everything I can. But we’re going to need more than just my power to get through this.”

Freya’s expression softened, her usual sharpness giving way to something more vulnerable. She took a step closer, lowering her voice. “John, if this doesn’t work… If we lose Frostholm…” She hesitated, the words catching in her throat. “This village is all I have. These people are my family.”

John met her gaze, his resolve hardening. “Then we won’t lose. Not today.”

A horn blast shattered the moment, distant but unmistakable. The enemy was close.

Freya turned toward the walls, her grip firm on her weapon. “No more talking. Time to fight.”

As the villagers scrambled into position and the massive gates creaked closed, John felt a surge of determination. Whatever happened next, he would make sure Frostholm stood strong—even if it meant pushing his powers to their very limits.

The morning sun was a pale smear across the icy horizon as Frostholm’s defenders lined the massive walls of stone and bone. The air hummed with tension, every villager aware that their lives depended on the strength of these defenses. On the other side of the walls, an enemy force numbering over five hundred assembled, their banners snapping in the icy wind. Against them, Frostholm could muster no more than one hundred able-bodied defenders, supported by John’s skeleton warriors and his towering bone golems.

From his vantage point atop the walls, John surveyed the battlefield, his necromantic senses tingling as he directed his skeletons. They stood in disciplined rows along the walls, each armed with crude but effective spears. The bone golems loomed behind them, their massive frames casting long shadows in the dawn light. Freya paced along the ramparts, her hunters positioned nearby with bows and throwing axes at the ready.

The first horn blast from the enemy camp shattered the stillness. A wave of infantry began their charge, their boots crunching against the snow. Spears and shields gleamed in the sunlight as they advanced in a tight formation. At the same time, their archers positioned themselves behind crude barricades, ready to provide covering fire.

“Skeletons, ready your spears!” John shouted, his voice carrying over the din. With a mental command, his undead troops raised their weapons in unison.

Freya’s voice followed his. “Hunters, nock your arrows. Hold until my signal.”

The enemy came within range, and John acted. “Throw!”

A rain of spears arced down from the walls, striking the front ranks of the attackers. Men fell, their cries mingling with the clash of steel as the defenders held firm. The skeletons, unaffected by fear or fatigue, rearmed themselves with spears from stockpiles set along the walls.

The enemy’s archers retaliated, loosing volleys of arrows at the defenders. John focused, summoning a barrier of skeletal shields to absorb the worst of the attack. Splinters of bone flew as arrows struck, but the undead remained steadfast.

“Golems, now!” John commanded.

The massive bone golems hefted boulders and hurled them with terrifying force into the enemy ranks. The ground trembled as the projectiles smashed into the tightly packed soldiers, breaking their formations and sowing chaos. Some of the attackers tried to climb the walls, but were met with a hail of arrows and axes from Freya’s hunters.

Freya herself leapt into action, leading a group of hunters in a daring counterstrike through a side gate. They moved with precision, striking at the flanks of the disorganized enemy. Her axe flashed in the morning light as she cut down those who strayed too close, her team’s hit-and-run tactics forcing the attackers to retreat from the walls.

From his position, John could see the larger strategy emerging. The first wave was a test, meant to probe their defenses and force them to reveal their tactics. He noted a group of enemy officers watching from the rear, likely planning their next move.

“They’re not done,” John muttered, his eyes narrowing. “This was just the beginning.”

Freya returned to the walls, her breath visible in the cold air. “The first wave is broken, but they’ll be back. What’s next?”

John’s mind raced as he considered their options. “We hold the walls and prepare for the next assault. They have three more siege engines that we know of, and if they bring those, we’ll need to counter them before they reach us.”

Freya nodded, her expression grim but resolute. “Then let’s make sure we’re ready. We’ve defeated them before. We can do it again.”

As the defenders regrouped and the skeletons returned to their positions, John allowed himself a moment to steady his nerves. The enemy had shown their hand, but the true challenge was still to come. Frostholm’s survival depended on their ability to outlast and outwit the forces arrayed against them.

The sharp sound of hurried footsteps echoed along the stone walls of Frostholm. A scout, breathless and pale, skidded to a halt before John and Freya.

“Reinforcements,” the scout gasped, pointing toward the river. “Coming up the river. A fleet of boats, at least a dozen!”

John’s eyes narrowed, and his heart quickened. “Freya, keep the walls secure. I’ll handle this.”

Freya nodded, her grip on her axe tightening. “Do what you must. We’ll hold.”

Without another word, John sprinted toward the docks, his dark cloak billowing behind him. His ever-present wings, black and imposing, spread wide as he leapt into the sky. The frigid wind bit at his face as he soared over the frozen terrain, the river glinting like a silver thread below.

When he reached the docks, the first of the enemy boats was already visible, cutting through the icy waters with grim determination. Each craft was packed with soldiers, their weapons gleaming in the pale light.

John landed with a thud, his boots crunching against the frost-covered wood. The bone golems, stationed under the river before the battle, were already in position. As the water churned with their movements, their massive skeletal frames remained unseen, ready to strike.

“Stay beneath the surface,” John commanded, his voice steady despite the tension in the air. “Punch holes in the bottoms of their boats. Sink them before they reach the village.”

The golems, already stationed under the icy water before the battle, moved into action. John watched as the faint churn of the river betrayed their movements, then turned his attention back to the approaching fleet. He raised a hand, commanding the skeletons armed with throwing spears to reposition along the docks. With their spears ready, they prepared to unleash a deadly volley at his signal.

The first boat drew closer, and John gave the signal. The skeletons hurled their spears in unison, the projectiles raining down on the exposed soldiers. Cries of alarm and pain rose from the boats as men fell to the deadly barrage. Below the surface, the bone golems struck, their massive fists punching through wood with eerie precision. One boat began to list, water pouring in as the soldiers scrambled to save themselves.

John’s focus was razor-sharp, his mind linked to his undead forces. He directed the golems to the next target, their relentless assault causing chaos among the enemy. Two more boats were sinking before the fleet began to scatter, the remaining vessels struggling to maneuver away from the invisible threat beneath the waves.

From the walls, Freya’s team relayed information via runners. “The general is holding back,” one reported, his voice urgent. “He’s watching from the cliffs beyond the river.”

John’s jaw tightened. “Coward,” he muttered, though his mind raced. The general’s position could mean a coordinated strike was imminent.

The final boat sank with a groan, its soldiers spilling into the freezing water. The survivors swam for their lives, some managing to crawl onto the icy banks, only to face the waiting skeletons and their relentless spears.

John exhaled, his breath visible in the cold air. The river was clear for now, but the tension remained. He knew this was only a part of the larger battle.

Freya’s voice crackled over the magical link John had established earlier. “The general isn’t retreating,” she said. “He’s waiting for something. We need to figure out what.”

John looked toward the cliffs, his eyes narrowing. “Then we’ll find out. But first, we ensure the river stays clear.”

With that, he turned back to the docks, ready to prepare for whatever came next.

The frost-covered battlefield stretched into the shadows, a desolate expanse marred by the aftermath of chaos. John landed heavily on the ground, his wings folding behind him as he surveyed the scene. The docks were secure, but the retreating forces had left an unnatural chill in the air. His breath clouded in front of him as he moved cautiously, the distant echoes of battle muted by the oppressive quiet.

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Ahead, an aura of necrotic energy pulsed faintly, drawing John’s attention. He tightened his grip on his spear, its bone surface etched with runes that glowed faintly in the dim light. Every instinct told him to prepare for the worst.

A voice, cold and mocking, broke the silence. “So, this is the vaunted necromancer of Frostholm.”

John’s eyes snapped to the source of the voice. Malrik Dravok, the First Necromancer of Varrosk, stood atop a jagged outcropping of ice. His dark robes billowed around him as if alive, and his gaunt face was twisted with disdain. “You’ve made quite a mess of my forces,” Malrik continued, his tone dripping with arrogance. “But I’ll grant you one thing: you have potential. Pity you’ve squandered it on these peasants.”

“They’re more than you’ll ever understand,” John retorted, leveling his spear. “But you’re not here to talk, are you?”

Malrik chuckled darkly, stepping down from the outcropping. “No, indeed. I’m here to teach you what it means to wield true power.”

With a flick of his wrist, Malrik conjured a wave of shadowy tendrils that lashed toward John. He dodged, rolling to the side and slamming his spear into the ground. “Bone Wall!” he commanded, and jagged spikes of necrotic energy erupted in a defensive line, blocking the next assault.

Malrik sneered. “Amusing, but futile.” He raised a hand, summoning a crackling orb of black fire that he hurled toward John.

John countered, casting “Rune Breaker.” A focused blast of necrotic energy exploded from his palm, striking the orb mid-air and shattering it. The resulting shockwave sent both necromancers skidding backward, their boots leaving furrows in the frozen ground.

“You rely on brute strength,” Malrik said, his voice laced with scorn. “You lack refinement.”

John’s eyes narrowed. “Let’s test that theory.”

He activated “Spectral Cloak,” shrouding himself in shifting shadows as he darted forward. Malrik’s spells flew wide, unable to find their target. Closing the gap, John unleashed a flurry of strikes with his spear, forcing Malrik to backpedal. The rival necromancer’s defenses were formidable, but cracks began to show under John’s relentless assault.

Malrik snarled, summoning a circle of skeletal arms that clawed at John. In response, John cast “Soulfire Cascade,” a wave of necrotic energy radiating outward and obliterating the constructs. The recoil left him momentarily exposed, and Malrik seized the opportunity, launching a blade of pure darkness that grazed John’s side.

Pain flared, but John gritted his teeth, countering with “Veil of Shadows.” The battlefield was enveloped in a dense mist, obscuring Malrik’s vision. “You think this will save you?” Malrik taunted, his voice echoing eerily.

John’s voice came from multiple directions within the mist. “It’s not about saving myself. It’s about ending this.”

Emerging from the shadows, John struck with precision, hurling a tendril of necrotic energy from “Death Lash.” The impact shattered Malrik’s hastily raised barrier, and the necromancer staggered, blood seeping from a wound on his shoulder.

Malrik’s composure faltered for the first time, his eyes blazing with fury. “You’ll regret this,” he hissed, gathering his power for a final attack.

John didn’t wait. Summoning every ounce of his strength, he unleashed “Shadowflame Barrage.” Bolts of necrotic fire erupted from his outstretched hand, striking Malrik in a relentless volley. The rival necromancer screamed as the energy tore through him, collapsing to his knees.

Breathing heavily, John approached, his spear aimed at Malrik’s chest. “You’re done.”

Malrik managed a weak laugh, blood staining his teeth. “You think this is over? This battle is nothing compared to what’s coming.”

Before John could question him further, Malrik whispered an incantation and vanished in a burst of dark energy, leaving behind only the faint echo of his laughter.

John lowered his spear, his body trembling from exertion and pain. Whatever Malrik had meant, it left a knot of unease in his chest. Turning toward the distant sounds of battle, he steadied himself. There was still much to do.

The air was tense as the five apprentices of necromancy gathered behind the northern wall of Frostholm. The muffled sounds of battle reached their ears, but here, under the shadow of the stone and bone defenses, they prepared to unleash what they had been working on in secret. Their faces were a mix of nervous anticipation and grim determination. Each bore the marks of sleepless nights spent experimenting and refining their craft under John’s guidance.

“This is it,” said Ingrid, the most confident among them. Her hands trembled only slightly as she adjusted the bone runes lining her gauntlet. “All those hours of preparation come down to this moment.”

Beside her, Ulrik nodded, his pale face set with resolve. “We’ve tested them enough. If we’re going to stop those siege engines, it’s now or never.”

The apprentices looked to their leader, Thalion, who stood at the center of their formation. His robes were stitched with necrotic glyphs, and a faint aura of power radiated from him. “You all know your roles,” he said, his voice steady despite the weight of responsibility. “Stay focused. We’ve got one shot at this.”

The others nodded, their confidence bolstered by his composure. They each carried a necromantic construct—small, portable devices crafted from bone and infused with spells. John had approved their designs but left their execution to the apprentices. Now, it was time to see if their work could turn the tide of battle.

Thalion raised his hand, signaling the group to move out. With careful precision, they made their way through a hidden passage that led to a vantage point overlooking the enemy’s siege engines. From their position, they could see the three massive constructs looming over the battlefield, their crews preparing for another assault on Frostholm’s walls.

“There they are,” muttered Lyra, the youngest of the group. She clutched her construct tightly, a sphere of interlocked bone and glowing runes. “They’re bigger than I expected.”

“Size doesn’t matter,” Ingrid replied with a smirk. “What matters is that they’re not going to be standing much longer.”

Thalion gave a short, sharp nod. “Positions.”

The apprentices spread out, each finding a spot with a clear line of sight to the siege engines. Thalion stood at the center, his hands glowing with necrotic energy as he activated his construct. It unfurled like a blooming flower, its skeletal arms extending outward and anchoring into the ground.

“Focus your energy through the constructs,” Thalion instructed. “Remember the patterns. No distractions.”

One by one, the apprentices activated their devices. Ulrik’s construct emitted a low hum, sending pulses of necrotic energy that destabilized the ground beneath the nearest siege engine. Ingrid’s device released a swarm of spectral insects, which swarmed over the second engine, chewing through wood and rope with unnerving efficiency. Lyra’s sphere launched a wave of corrosive mist, eating away at the metal reinforcements of the third.

The enemy crews scrambled to respond, shouting in confusion as their precious engines began to crumble. One soldier attempted to douse the corrosive mist with water, only to find it spreading faster. Another hacked at the spectral insects with his sword, but the swarm was relentless.

“It’s working,” Ingrid hissed, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction.

“Keep it up!” Thalion commanded, his voice cutting through the din. He poured more energy into his construct, which sent a wave of necrotic spikes shooting up from the ground, piercing the wheels and supports of the nearest engine. The massive construct groaned as it tilted, then collapsed in a cloud of dust and debris.

The enemy’s panic was palpable. With two engines severely damaged and the third reduced to rubble, their assault on Frostholm’s walls was effectively crippled. But the apprentices knew better than to celebrate prematurely.

“Fall back!” Thalion ordered. “We’ve done our part. Let’s not push our luck.”

The group quickly gathered their constructs and retreated through the hidden passage. As they re-entered the safety of the walls, a wave of relief washed over them. Their surprise attack had worked, and for the first time, they felt the true power of their potential.

“We did it,” Lyra whispered, a small smile breaking through her exhaustion.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” Ulrik cautioned. “This isn’t over yet.”

Thalion placed a hand on Lyra’s shoulder, nodding approvingly. “He’s right. But you all did well. Frostholm owes you a debt tonight.”

The apprentices shared a brief moment of camaraderie before turning their attention back to the ongoing battle. Their work was done, but the fight for Frostholm was far from over.

The battlefield near Frostholm’s village center was chaos. The apprentices’ attack had reduced the enemy siege engines to rubble, their burning remains casting flickering light over the snow-covered ground. The momentary reprieve had emboldened Frostholm’s defenders, but it was clear the battle was far from over. The enemy regrouped quickly, forming ranks around their towering general, who barked commands in a guttural tongue.

Freya stood at the front of the Frostholm warriors, her axe resting heavily in her hands. She could feel the tension in the air, the hesitation in the villagers behind her. They were exhausted, battered from wave after wave of attacks. Yet, as her sharp gaze swept over the enemy ranks, her resolve hardened.

“Listen to me!” she shouted, her voice cutting through the din. “The siege engines are gone! Their forces are scattered! This is our chance to drive them back and end this!”

Her words sparked a flicker of hope in the villagers, but Freya knew words alone weren’t enough. She raised her axe high, its blade catching the light. “For Frostholm! For our families! We fight!”

A ragged cheer rose from the defenders. Freya turned, her heart pounding, and charged. The villagers surged forward behind her, their makeshift weapons raised. The ground shook as the two forces collided in a brutal melee.

Freya was a whirlwind of steel and fury. Her axe cleaved through enemy shields and armor with precision, each strike driven by years of training and a deep-seated determination to protect her home. She fought alongside the villagers, her presence galvanizing them, their fear replaced by fierce resolve.

The enemy general spotted Freya almost immediately. A hulking figure in dark armor, he towered over the battlefield, wielding a massive mace that crushed anyone who stood in his way. He pointed at Freya, bellowing a challenge, and began to march toward her, his soldiers parting to let him through.

Freya met his gaze, her grip tightening on her axe. “Come on, then,” she muttered, her breath visible in the icy air.

The general swung first, his mace carving a deadly arc through the air. Freya sidestepped, the ground shaking as the weapon struck the earth. She countered with a quick slash, her axe glancing off his armor but leaving a deep gouge. The general roared, swinging again with terrifying speed, but Freya danced around his blows, looking for an opening.

The villagers and enemy soldiers fought around them, but the duel drew every eye. Freya’s agility and precision were matched by the general’s brute strength, the clash of their weapons echoing across the battlefield.

Freya ducked under another swing and planted a solid kick to the general’s knee, staggering him. Seizing the moment, she brought her axe down with all her might, the blade sinking deep into the joint of his armor. The general bellowed in pain, dropping to one knee, but still he fought on, swinging wildly.

“Push forward!” Freya shouted, her voice hoarse. The villagers pressed their advantage, driving back the enemy lines. Freya pulled her axe free and delivered a final, decisive blow to the general’s chest. He collapsed, his armor crumpling as the light faded from his eyes.

The enemy’s morale shattered with their leader’s death. What remained of their forces broke and fled, their retreat a chaotic rout into the icy wilderness. The villagers gave chase, ensuring they would not return.

As the battlefield quieted, the cost of victory became clear. Bodies lay scattered across the snow, the crimson stains a stark contrast to the pale white. Freya leaned heavily on her axe, her body aching from countless wounds. Around her, the surviving villagers began to gather their fallen, their expressions a mix of relief and sorrow.

Freya’s gaze turned to the walls of Frostholm. She raised her axe high, signaling their hard-won victory. A cheer rose from those watching, but it was tinged with exhaustion and grief.

Her steps were slow and deliberate as she made her way back toward the village. She paused at the gates, looking back at the battlefield one last time. “We’ve won,” she said softly, her voice filled with both triumph and the weight of loss. “But at what cost?”

As the first light of dawn began to break over the horizon, Freya turned and entered Frostholm, knowing the battle was only the beginning of their trials.

The dawn broke over Frostholm, its pale light casting long shadows across the battlefield. The snow was marred with deep crimson streaks, and broken weapons and bodies lay scattered in grim testament to the fierce battle that had raged through the night. The village walls stood tall, battered but unbroken, a symbol of the resilience of its people.

Freya leaned against the gates, her axe resting beside her. Blood streaked her face and armor, but her gaze was steady as she watched the villagers move across the field. They worked in grim silence, gathering the fallen and tending to the wounded. The weight of their victory pressed down on all of them, turning triumph into something bitter and heavy.

John approached her, his wings folded tightly against his back. His expression was weary, and his own armor bore signs of his clash with the rival necromancer. In his hand, he held a small, blackened amulet—the only thing left behind when Malrik Dravok had vanished.

“It’s done,” John said quietly, his voice carrying the exhaustion of a man who had seen too much. “But it doesn’t feel like a victory.”

Freya turned to him, her lips forming a thin line. “It never does. Not when this is the cost.” She gestured to the field, her tone heavy with sorrow.

They stood in silence for a moment, the enormity of their choices and their consequences settling between them. Then John held up the amulet. Its surface was etched with strange runes, and it radiated a faint, unsettling energy.

“This was Malrik’s,” John said. “I don’t know what it is yet, but… it feels wrong. Like it’s connected to something bigger.”

Freya frowned, studying the amulet. “Can you destroy it?”

John shook his head. “Not without understanding what it is. It’s dangerous to leave it intact, but breaking it might be worse.”

Freya’s expression hardened. “Then keep it safe. We can’t afford another surprise like this.”

John nodded, slipping the amulet into a pouch at his side. “I’ll figure it out. Whatever Malrik was planning, I won’t let it threaten Frostholm.”

Freya placed a hand on his shoulder, her touch steadying. “You’ve done more for this village than anyone could have asked, John. But don’t forget to take care of yourself too. We need you.”

He met her gaze, a faint smile breaking through his exhaustion. “And I need all of you. We wouldn’t have made it through this without the people of Frostholm.”

The sound of a horn broke their moment, signaling the start of the villagers’ work to rebuild. Freya straightened, her resolve returning. “Let’s get to it, then. There’s still work to be done.”

As the two turned to join the villagers, John cast one last glance at the battlefield. The amulet’s weight seemed heavier than it should have been, and unease gnawed at the edges of his mind. Whatever secrets it held, they would have to wait. For now, Frostholm needed him.

As the sun rose higher, the villagers began to move with renewed purpose. The losses were heavy, but they stood together, stronger and more determined. Amidst the ruins of battle, Frostholm prepared to rebuild, unaware of the shadows still lingering on the horizon.