Ice Island

His trained ears could hear the silent steps of his ancronn-cat through the dark forest. The furry beast from the northern Forest of Ancronn was the fastest mount in Khezarï. It surpassed the Midgardian horses in both strength and stamina. It was more loyal and ate less than the reptilian ṣ̄asnies, the most common rides in Khezarï. Elric Galkael liked to believe his ancronn-cat to be the fastest in all Godheim, but he would never be sure.

Elric heard the surprised yell of his prey and stopped behind an oak tree. He heard a muffled thud and knew the human was on the ground, under the heavy paw of his cat.

“I wouldn’t breathe too loud,” said Elric, leaving his hiding place with a victorious smile on his face. “My lady Sif here doesn’t like it when her food is too alive.”

“You wouldn’t let her eat me,” the man said in a trembling voice. “Gilran wants me alive. Not obeying the client's wishes is not the Guild’s way.”

The man had a point. Besides, Sif was trained not to eat sentient beings. Sif turned the man over and Elric used his expensive enchanted rope to tie him up onto his mount. The rope was made so his targets weren’t able to escape; it was a worthy investment for a Bounty Hunter to hire a wizard to create one. Sif growled in response, but Elric shrugged, showing they had run out of options.

When the sun disappeared, Elric knew he was back at Ocala. He looked up to see the giant, scaly belly of the monster with the city of Ocala on top of it. The monster itself, like some other creatures of Khezarï, was reptilian. It had a long neck and an even longer tail; it was the only one of its kind, at least, on this west side of the Lonely Mountain. It had no name.

Magic was required to get into the city, which meant most of its inhabitants were elves, but there were some men and very few dwarves.

Elric put on his helmet. Showing his face in an elf-run city was far too dangerous. Elric’s kind wasn’t welcome anywhere, except in Farwater, perhaps, but the hate came strongest from the elves. He picked up his Ocalan talisman – a present given to anyone permitted to board Ocala – and said the words that would send him there. Runes lit on the talisman and an intense, blinding golden light surrounded him and Sif. When it faded away, he was at the landing port in the middle of the city.

The oldest buildings in Ocala were made of a golden-colored ore, not gold, something far more precious. But most common homes were of stone and wood brought from the land below. The houses surrounded a golden-and-emerald castle, the first of Ocala, where the Rogue King, Elric’s client, lived and ruled. Elric had visited almost all cities in Khezarï; had seen what the best elven and dwarf craftsmanship could offer, but none were more impressive than Ocala.

Tall elves, with paper-white skin and bronze hair – unique to the elves of Ocala – walked around, taking care of their business, not paying a second look to Elric or Sif. They did not care for a Bounty Hunter and his mount. Elric took a glimpse at a lady-elf who was selling some flowers. He had seen her before. The elves of Ocala were the most handsome on the continent, and she was the most beautiful among them.

The castle guards were familiar with him. They let him pass, especially seeing his bounty on the ancronn-cat`s back. They were not allowed to express themselves on duty, but Elric saw a few of them smiling in recognition of his success. Elric stopped before the palace’s door, tying up Sif’s rein on a statue’s hand. It was not exactly protocol, but he would not be there for long.

Gilran of Riaglor, the Rogue King of Ocala, sat on his golden, ornated throne on the top of a high three-step altar in the middle of the immense room. The ceiling was high enough for Sif to stand in and it was painted by Weeär Lasran when the city was founded millennia ago; in it was displayed the War of the Races and the Rogue King’s defiance against the gods and the Rule of the Five.

The King himself was one of the most handsome elves. His skin was pale and smooth; his eyes were blue like starfishes, but they reflected the green of the leaves when he was hunting in a forest wherever the monster of Ocala decided to stop next. His bronze hair was long enough to touch the ground, but now it was fixed in a high ponytail. There was something feminine about him like in every elf.

“If you keep running away, little brother, our sister will find you and kill you,” the King said, and his voice echoed through the room like thunder.

“At least, I’d be free of you,” the bounty answered angrily, while a couple of guards took him away.

“Fool youngling,” the King’s voice was ominous, making Elric’s core tremble. “You will never be free of me.”

A man almost two times taller than Elric entered the room. His skin was matte black as if it was absorbing all the sun’s light into itself and it was reflecting nothing. His eyes, however, were white; a thin silver line rounding the irises; the pupil was white. As soon as Elric saw his pointy ears, he fought the urge to take his hand his unnatural rounded one. A dark-elf, one of a handful who lived in Khezarï. No one knew where they come from or why. All people new was that they came from beyond the Sea.

The dark-elf was the King’s advisor. He brought the sack of gold in his frosted, black hand, and delivered it to Elric, who accepted his payment and left the castle right away.

A dirja – a gray, raven-like bird with four tiny wings – was waiting for him on a tree branch of the Rogue King’s garden. Tied to its leg, there was a message from Tres, one of the leaders of the Bounty Hunter’s Guild. Elric was to return to the Guild immediately after completing his current mission, for he had another one waiting. Tres didn’t write any details, for the dirja could’ve been intercepted by someone like they often were.

Thank Keron, he wasn’t too far from the tavern. On Sif’s back, after a good meal, it would take him about a day to reach the Guild. But dusk was at hand, and the woods below were perilous on moonless nights, so he decided to stay until dawn at Ocala. Madam Heresa always loved when he visited her harlot house – and there were no lovelier hosts anywhere in the city.

Elric Galkael swaggered into the tavern with one-quarter of the coins with the Rogue King’s face imprinted on them. He left the rest of the coins in a pouch tied to Sif’s saddle. No one there would dare touch his coins. If anyone tried, their hand would be bitten off by Sif. And, even if they be able to avoid the ancronn-cat, they would make an enemy out of the Guild, and no one would risk that.

His helmet was on, but his Guild brothers’ eyes were on him like he was the monster that destroyed Mizme. Even though Elric was safer inside the Guild’s tavern, most of the hunters still shared the prejudice against what he was. Everybody there knew what Elric Galkael was; they need not see his half-pointed ear, nor the other one.

Looking through the T-shaped opening of this helmet, he looked above the balcony where the bull skull with a broken horn and a rusty crown was hanging, proud of its devoted worshipers. The Bounty Hunters Guild’s emblem, a way to scorn the kings and lords of Khezarï, for they served none. The same symbol was engraved on his armor’s right shoulder and on the right shoulder of all Guild members.

Tres was sitting on the other side of the balcony, drinking his usual strawberry cider – he had never drunk a drop of alcohol. His bright white skin was as smooth as a peach, and his eyes were of a glimmering hazel. His brown hair was long on the top of his head, but the sides were carefully shaved; a thin shade of a thoroughly nursed beard covered his face. Out of the Guild’s leadership, Tres was the most pleasant, always smiling to its hunters, especially to elves and halflings, like Elric.

His elvish pointy ears turned to Elric, hearing him before he could see him. Tres turned to him, losing his characteristic smirk as soon as he saw the helmet.

“Here’s the Guild’s part,” Elric said in a helmet-muffled voice, handing in the pouch with one-quarter of his bounty. “What else do you got for me?” There was no answer. “You won't answer? Seriously? Do you know how much money I spent on bjorn and dwarves to forge this helmet?” Elric removed his helmet and put it on the balcony. As soon as he felt the fresh air piercing his sweaty, side-shaved head and blond hair, he was relieved, but he would never admit it.

“You don’t have to hide in here,” Tres said, at last, pouring wine on a wood cup.

“Tell that to them,” Elric pointed to the other hunters with his thumb over his shoulder. “I need it in here just as much as I need it outside. Halflings are always one ambush from death.”

“You’re safe inside my tavern.”

“If Serenna hears you saying that she’ll cut your ears to look like mine,” replied Elric, knowing how Serenna was jealous of her tavern. His hand went instinctively to his left ear, feeling it round like a human’s, but not naturally; it had been cut and burned. “So, what you got for me?” He fought the memories.

“No rest for the wicked, is there?”

Tres picked up from behind the balcony a blue-and-yellow-ish envelope, sealed with sky-blue wax. The blazon stamp didn’t belong to any lord or king in Khezarï, which meant it came from Midgard, beyond the grand Toruk River on the west. Elric had seen the raven skull on some flags before when the King of Borghild was still young enough to try conquering the kingdoms of Midgard to build his empire. Nevertheless, Thor stopped him – yes, Thor the God of Thunder.

“Nothing is better than Midgard in summer,” said Elric, sarcastically. He meant to break the seal to find out what his mission was, but Tres stopped him, holding his hands with his and looking seriously into Elric’s deep blue eyes.

“Don’t open it in Khezarï,” the leader alerted. The halfling couldn’t remember when Tres had spoken so earnestly, not even once. “Travel to Farwater, my old friend Thalirin will take you down to Midgard. Once you’re safe on the other continent, you break the seal. Trust me: you do not want to be caught with that by a lord.”

Elric frowned but he trusted Tres and the Guild with his life. He put the letter away. It wasn’t very common for Midgardian kings to hire the Guild in Khezarï – their numbers were much fewer, but they had their bounty hunters there – and Elric himself, on his many years of service to the Guild, had gone on just one mission. It was even rarer for a mission to come from Borghild.

Borghild had the worst reputation. Their kings were greedy and merciless, and their people, rude and selfish. Most were thieves, murderers, and mercenaries – and none with the good reputation of the Ghosts of the Dew. Even their very presence had been forbidden by the Five Kings of Khezarï a few years back after an incident. Elric knew that the mission would involve something far more precious than the gold it offered to the Hunter.

“I should report you to a lord,” said Elric playfully, putting on his helmet.

“There are no kings, there are the three laws,” replied Tres, reminding him of the Guild oath.

“Blah, blah, blah.”

On his way out, he crossed eyes with Ioren, a female elf, one of the leaders of the Guild, responsible for assigning missions from elf lords to the Hunters. They nodded at each other respectfully – she wasn’t a halfling like him but had suffered her own, unfair share of prejudice.

Outside, the crooked looks were less common while he wore his helmet. His identity as a halfling wasn’t known to many, and Serenna would judge it as treason if anyone of the Guild should reveal it to harm Elric in any way.

Sif was drinking water from the horses’ and ṣ̄asnies’ drinking fountain. Sif lifted lovingly her beautiful silvery-yellow eyes to him. They glimmered with happiness when she realized it was Elric.

With bluish-silver fur, tainted with black spots here and there, Sif grabbed the attention of every eye around her; she was one of the most beautiful beasts of Khezarï. She was a long way from home. The Forest of Ancronn was far north, beyond the cities of Elbeth and Ubbin. She was a little bit shorter than horses and had six paws – but the two central ones were folded in, hugging her belly, and were usually only used to run or hike.

They had a long journey ahead. From the Guild to Farwater, it was about five days on horse and three on ṣ̄asnies; but Elric and his loyal Sif could make it in one and a half if necessary. Usually, there was no reason to hurry.

He petted the beast before adjusting her saddle then checked his bow, arrows, and hyrr stones. Alongside them, was his nameless sword; the one inheritance his elven mother, Yrsa, had left him. It had a curved blade sharpened on just one side. On the blade itself was carved Tel'miir suor ath Freyja; the words and letters were elven. The Blessing of Freya. They themselves didn’t mean anything to him, but they were everything to his parents.

Those words, however, brought him memories that he wished he could forget.

Elric woke by the pounding on the door. He stared through his window. Flickering lights of torches cast draugar-ish shadows on his walls. Fear made his heart pound in his chest. By his door, his mother mouthed for him to hide. He did it. He heard the men barging in, ripping the door from the threshold. Elric closed his eyes, for he wouldn’t see. But he heard. He heard everything they did to her. How they broke her; body, and soul. They asked for him; demanding to know where the abomination was. She didn’t give him up. Elric knew they would come for him when they’d get tired of her. He dared look once, but to his secret trap door under his other window, the one that led to the trees outside. Elric ran. His life depended on it.

After he was found by Saurun, the leader dwarf of the Guild, he returned to his home. The only thing that survived the fire was that sword.

Elric mounted Sif and gently tapped between her ribs. They departed to the northwest. When they were outside the village, they accelerated with her six paws, stopping after three hours, when the sunlight started to fade into the night.

Farwater was the only great city equally inhabited by the three major races of Khezarï. Old stories told it was the very first city built on the continent, and from there, princes and kings explored and built the other cities, each under their rule, until the end of the War of the Races, when they were united under one king or queen of each race. Those old kings became the Lords of the Cities, and they ruled under the Five Kings. The city itself was the most impressive there was – even more than Ocala. It was divided into three levels.

The first level of the city was built on a golden, floating platform on the surface of the biggest lake in Khezarï. Its buildings were no taller than three floors – except for a white-golden tower, in the middle of it, where the elected lord lived. Its round, delicate, and pointy shapes were characteristic of elven architecture, and elves made the most of its permanent inhabitants. This was the only level above ground. Many rivers flowed into this lake, and from it, the biggest waterfall on Khezarï fell onto the Toruk River.

Elric wouldn’t see much of the second level. He would pass through it towards the third. Farwater was a vertical city, built to connect Khezarï to Midgard, the latter being almost 33ft lower than the first, and the natural wall above the Toruk River separated them.

Hunter and mount embarked on a small boat – one of the thousands that crossed the lake every hour – to get to one of the busiest and common platforms. The Elnyë Tower stared down at its subjects, not knowing much of what happens beneath the surface.

A glass tunnel, magically built underwater, led to the second level. Their passage there couldn’t have been more pleasant. They saw fishes of many kinds; the deeper they went, the bigger. One took interest in Sif and followed them until they reached the exit down below.

They arrived at the second level. It was deep underground, with buildings almost solely made of stone; they were intricate and rustic, with windows forged of gemstone – too thin to have any market value, but much prettier than glass. The dwarves were the most common there, but they had built most of both underground levels.

Through their short passage in Dwarftown, as it was commonly known among Farwater people, they could only hear the water of the waterfall behind which most of the city was. They walked by large and small corridors. Most were full of people and stores, and others were not. They saw a child-dwarf pickpocketing an unaware elf. Some human children came to take a closer look at Sif, and some elves looked at him with judging eyes, staring head to toe, as if they knew what lay under that mask.

When the ground became wet and slippery, they knew they were out of Dawrftown and were in the human part of the city known as Lymph. The air was perpetually moist, and everything was covered with a blue, dim light. Despite the beauty of the waterfall that could be seen from anywhere here, Elric hated this part of Farwater. His visor never got completely clean, and he always had to remove it.

To cross the waterfall, ancient magicians developed an underwater tunnel, like the one on the lake, but this one was not made of glass, but bjorn, a rare and powerful metal from which his armor was also built. It was much shorter and busier. Elric and Sif waited almost an hour to cross. They reached the port on the other side of the waterfall when the twilight was beginning.

Despite not being as dangerous as the Vaddon River on the other side of Khezarï, the unmeasurable deep waters of the Toruk holds mysteries no man, dwarf, or elf has ever explored. It also hid monsters capable of wrecking – and swallowing – entire boats. It was common that wizards lived on the boats, being paid to keep them floating on the salty water. This fact made the trip across expensive, but the Guild’s prices already covered the costs.

The Midgard heat always made Elric regret wearing his armor. They had to ride a couple of hours in the night before they could reach a safe place to stay. The small inn was far away enough from the river that he could not smell the dreadful salty air. He’d been there a few times before, most of them not on official mission, and knew that the staff would treat Sif gently. He unloaded her saddle and let the keeper take her to be fed the best meat his gold could buy.

Before entering his rented room, he drew a rune on the door that would destroy any spells that might’ve been previously cast on the accommodation. A common practice among Hunters and wizards to protect themselves from people who tried to take advantage of weary travelers. Once he was inside, safe from spying eyes, he broke the seal of the mission letter and read it.

Then, he laughed out loud.

Not only for the absurd amount of gold he would be paid for the job – enough to buy his own small kingdom – but also for the object he had to recover – which was extremely more valuable than any amount of gold. The king of Borghild was much more ambitious and daring than Elric imagined. His mission was to go to Jotunheim, the realm of ice giants, and retrieve Mjölnir from the hands of the giant Thyrm.

There was nothing written in the letter about the king’s purpose for the legendary hammer. Maybe he would return it to Thor and gain the god’s favor or keep it for himself. It was a weapon powerful enough to conquer Midgard and Khezarï, and whatever was beyond the Lonely Mountain. The mission was a suicidal one, but now, Elric had no choice but to continue. His and the Guild’s reputation would be scared by leaving a mission in the middle of it.

The next morning, they departed. Elric and Sif crossed many kingdoms, great and small, going southwest on Midgard. They crossed forests of giant trees with big distances between them. They outlined a forest so dense, with trees so close to one another, that Sif couldn’t go through them. Many beautiful places, most belonging to humans, but most were corrupted by greedy kings or lords.

They were close to Borghild at some point; they could pay a visit to their client; all they needed was to ride three hours northward when the road forked beyond the Kingdom of Lagertha. Alas, they didn’t. They continued on their path until nightfall.

They set up camp near a purple-watered riverbank. They had dinner and rested for the night.

The movement woke Sif from her nap. Ancronn-cats were smarter than other mounts; if they were well trained, they could keep vigil throughout the night, but if they stayed up all night, the rider would have to continue on foot the next day. Elric knew that. He trained himself and his cat to sleep lightly, so they would wake up if they heard anything. Someone was nearby.

Elric stood up with an arrow ready on his bow. He heard steps coming from the east. He pointed his arrow where he believed the person would appear.

“One more step, this arrow goes between your eyes,” he said.

A human that seemed to be double Elric’s age appeared. However, as a human, he probably was half. His blond hair was shaved on the side, and the rest was about four inches long. His yellow eyes were intense and bright. Elric could feel in his half-blood veins that there was magic in him.

“Elric Galkael?” He asked, with his hands up. “I’m Bo. I came in Borghild King’s name,” as he said, he removed the scarf that covered the long neck of his leather jacket. There was a raven skull golden pin attached to it. “My king sent me to help you cross the Ice Sea that stands between us and Jotunheim.”

“Do you know what I’m looking for?” Elric asked, without putting his bow down. Bo shook his head.

It seemed the King kept his intentions a secret. If he didn’t trust his own subordinates and citizens, Elric had no reason to. He spent the rest of the night awake, letting Sif rest. Bo was a spokesman, the opposite of Elric. The human spoke the whole time about his seaward adventures. Elric was particularly interested in a far, far away island divided into two kingdoms. Its name was Sildeon and few people in Midgard or Khezarï heard about it.

“If we were in winter, we could walk to the island,” Bo said, while he settled Sif in the small stable he had in the basement of his boat. “But during summer, these waters are treacherous, always ready to swallow a boat. Hundreds of sailors and fishermen disappeared here.”

Elric said nothing, for the Hunter wanted to make sure his ancronn-cat was safe, nicely tied up, and with enough food for the trip. Even fewer words were said by Bo during the sailing; he could not afford to keep his eyes off the sea.

The ice island of Jotunheim appeared on the horizon by twilight. Bo and Elric shivered from the winds that came from it. They pulled their clothes closer. The beach was short, no more than a few yards long. It was covered with black sand but sprinkled with some pointy blue rocks here and there.

The trees on the shore were dark navy-blue, almost as black as the sand, with little, numerous white-bluish leaves that emitted their own light, like stars in the night. They weren’t frozen trees, but just as alive as any other in the green of Midgard. Behind it all, a single mountain whose peak was hidden among the clouds.

“Can you see the tear on the mountain?” Bo asked. Elric could see the shape of a lightning bolt birthing from a hole that was clearly the result of an impact. “That’s where Mjölnir is.”

“I thought you didn’t know what I was looking for,” Elric said with his hand on the sword’s grip.

“You’re the first foreigner hired for this job, but countless of our own warriors tried. People talk, rumors spread. And the shape of that tear says confirms everything. The King offered his daughter in marriage to anyone who’d bring him the hammer.” Elric thought about a girl he was going to marry a long time ago until their parents found out about their romance. They’d cut the pointy end of his left ear, attempting to round it like a human’s; then, they burned it, so it wouldn’t regenerate. He’d considered using magic to fix it, but he decided against it. It would be a reminder of how cruel people of any race can be. “It isn’t a good idea to port during the night. The draugr are highly active in the moonlight.”

Elric knew many stories about the living-dead that inhabited Jotunheim. Nevertheless, he was ready for them. The draugr were weak to fire, and the hyrr he brought would be perfect for the job. The hyrr were enchanted stones he received as payment for a mission a few years back. They could light up an arrow as soon as it left the bow. He’d spent a few hours that night enchanting his arrows; each time he did it, a small sparkle came out. He did the same with his sword.

As soon as the sun was up, Elric departed on a small boat used to apport places without ports, leaving instructions to take Sif to Tres, who would take care of the ancronn-cat in case he didn’t return from his mission. He stood on the sand, feeling it hard under his feet. He would’ve brought Sif, but it was too dangerous for her, and the hike was too steep.

Elric heard the growl of the draugr somewhere around him. He armed and lifted his bow, ready to strike. He heard steps on his right. He let the arrow go when the living-dead was in sight. The creature fell and burned like dry wood. His screeching was deafening, but it lasted only a few seconds, until the fire turned the draugr into ash.

The sound attracted more draugr from all directions. Elric disposed of them without a problem, but the noise they made would bring more and he’d soon be overwhelmed. He ran through the trail that led to the mountain, hiking it as fast as he could. He found a haven about seven yards above the ground. Looking down, he saw the draugr fighting to get to him, but they had no strength in their thin arms; and their numbers were working against them as well. They trampled one another, taking away the chance for any of them to firmly grab a ledge. It was pure chaos.

Going up that mountain was the hardest thing Elric had ever done – and he had killed an ice giant once before. For the first time, the cold was bothering him in a way that not even the northern winter in Khezarï had bothered him. It took him hours; he almost fell a couple of times and twisted his ankle twice, but he fought through the pain and got to the impact hole. To his surprise, there were some draugr there.

Elric lit two undead with arrows, but they got to him faster than expected. He used his hand to stick one arrow in one’s eyes while drawing his sword with the other hand. He wasn’t very fond of sword-fighting, he preferred his bow and arrow, but he was skilled enough to deal with some draugr. Different from the arrows, the blade wouldn’t light them up openly, but every time he’d cut one of them, they would burn inside out thanks to the hyrr spell. The screeching and stenches were the same.

Panting, Elric saw the last draugr turning into ash. He walked deeper into the cavern and could feel a magical pulsing growing as he moved deeper in. He knew he was moving closer to the hammer. He could feel his arm hair lifting from the electric static under his armor.

The walls seemed to close in on him. The dehydration and fatigue finally caught up to him. Even the bluish stones of the ground seemed as comfortable as one of Madam Heresa’s bed. He couldn’t let his exhaustion get the best of him, nevertheless, his will alone couldn’t keep the waking nightmares away.

Bright eyes appeared on the walls, staring down at him. They had no faces or bodies, but they looked superior. Tres taught him to keep the looks away, to ignore them. A hand tried to grab him by the wrist, but his reflexes were faster. When he looked, thinking he’d seen a draugr, but there was nothing. Even the eyes were no longer there.

A man was standing in front of him. His face was dark but not as black as a dark-elf’s. His brown eyes were bright in anger, but he still could see Jahee’s eyes on his. The one girl Elric ever loved: a human girl. The father lifted his hand towards him. Elric lifted his to his left ear, even if all he felt was the cold bjorn of his helmet. A cold breeze wafted from behind, taking the vision away.

Mjölnir was on the ground, a few yards ahead. Elric looked around, searching for Thyrm, but there was no sign of the giant. Elric thought it was weird how easily he’d got there, considering Bo’s stories and his own expectations. He took the hammer, preparing himself to endure some electrical shock but none came. The hammer was heavier than he could carry or long or use in battle, but nothing happened when Elric picked it up.

“I’ve been waiting for you, Elric Galkael,” he heard a voice from the path he came in. He turned with his sword ready.

“Who are you? Where’s Thyrm?” Elric said.

“Thyrm did not steal the hammer, I did.” There was something familiar in his voice, but Elric couldn’t place it, no matter how hard he tried.

“Why?”

“Because you will need it. And so will she.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Your destiny, of course. However, it does not lie in Godheim.”

The man snapped his fingers. Everything around the half-blood was blinded by an intense bluish light. The cold and the weight of the hammer disappeared.

Bo was halfway across the Ice Sea, but he could see the beacon shining on the top of the mountain. It seems that his employer did what he’d set out to do. He was glad his part was over. He hated lying, and that is exactly what he was hired to do.

He knew Elric was gone. Just as Mjölnir was. All that was left to do was to take the ancronn-cat back to the Guild, and Bo would be free.