Glacia wasted no time in marshalling her forces, calling in favors owed, but more often using threats to cajole the different wizards, warlords, and fell creatures who commanded large numbers of followers in the far north. The forces of Winter were like a wild, raging storm. Powerful, cold...and not easily controlled. While the Council claimed to rule and commanded the greatest power, their perspective wasn't held by many of the tribes and large creatures of the frozen mountains and tundra.
She sent a message to Boss Glog, someone who owed her a favor and was easier to control than most. The ice trolls of Calminar Glacier were content in their icy homes, but Boss Glog knew that if he didn't want his head shattered during Summer hibernation, he needed to make a passable showing. He sent his eldest daughter, Blogga, an ambitious and troubling child, off with a hundred of the loudest and warlike of the younger generation. She would either perish in the harsh rays of the Southern sun or carve out lands of her own. The south had many rivers, and she'd always dreamed of building a traditional bridge and collecting tolls. Either way, Glog would have peace in his home until the next little jerk grew up and decided to make a try for his crown.
In the deeper caverns where Winter stored armies on ice, word came from General Glacia to the Deep Wardens to release the hunting packs of Snarlfangs. Calendish Mar had reported his fondness for the fast-moving shock troops, which were ideal for outflanking an enemy force, attacking baggage trains, and turning warmlander villages into uninhabited ruins. The sheer number involved, and where they were stored, presented a quandary to the Wardens. Armies of creatures were herded into the caverns after successful wars and frozen in place. Pulling them out wasn't a quick or orderly process. Deep Warden Fiscus tried to explain this to the messenger when a Rime Scout mounted on a gigantic snowy owl brought the orders.
"Five hundred Snarlfangs? We will need to delve deeply to uncover those, and there are thousands, if not tens of thousands, of other creatures in the way. Does she want those awakened as well?"
The Rime Scout glared at him, "You've been given your orders. Five Hundred Snarlfangs, and as fast as possible. The army marches soon. And why would we not want more troops? Of course, she wants them all. Silly question. Is your brain ice-rotted?" He turned, mounted his owl, and flew into the night.
Fiscus pondered the problem, then decided it wasn't his problem at all. He had orders. He called for a meeting of the Deep Wardens, waking every doddering oldster from hibernation. "We are to empty the oldest five tunnels and dig into the great chasm until we have sent five hundred Snarlfangs to Winter's army. Anything in the way will also be sent. Alert every village and croft that we need beastmasters, even the youngest. The little snots get a promotion and a pack of their own. If they complain, feed them to the dogs. We have three days to complete our task." Only one person asked a question that annoyed Fiscus, an old wreck named Bluenose.
"Hurr, young Fiscus, is it? Spouting out orders like he's in charge? Too hasty, youngster, too hasty. You thaw them that fast, they're stupid and rabid. Hard to control. Let's get a nap and a drink, then plan out a proper awakening. We'll get the job done in a month or two." Several of the older Wardens mumbled through their beards in support.
Fiscus almost welcomed the attempt to usurp his authority. It made it easier to instill some discipline in the ranks. Bluenose wouldn't be going south with the army or back into hibernation. He was the first person fed to the newly awakened canine horde. And while the creatures were unruly and vicious, with only bare instincts of hunting and killing left, that was the Beastmasters' problem
In the extreme northern lands, where the largest of creatures roamed the rugged landscapes, Farkinal Var, the envoy to the Jotun enclave of Morthag Chasm, encountered difficulties convincing the mercenaries to head south with the army of winter. Just getting to their village of stone and ice situated in the high peaks was a long journey, and he'd needed both a contingent of Knights and an impressive baggage train of supplies to get there. Fodder, fuel for fires, and food were difficult to come by on the journey. And, of course, the local denizens considered his caravan to be tasty treats.
They traveled along an ancient stone road that led into the high peaks and along one edge of Morthag Chasm. The impossibly deep chasm cut the mountains in half, its bottom so deep and dangerous that no explorer had ever returned. A narrow (for Jotun) pathway followed a small shelf at the edge of the chasm, eventually leading to the enclave of ice giants. The path was said to continue to high meadows where mammoths grazed on the tundra lichen and winter wheat. The Jotun allowed no one past their village. Grazing lands were precious in the extreme north. The Jotun had carved steps in the mountain, but each step was over eight feet tall. When they were asked to build a trail for smallish legs, they declined, saying that would only encourage smallish visitors. After a long and treacherous journey, the envoys were met at the gate by one of the largest Jotun anyone had ever seen, leaning back against the wall of the stone fortress, with one leg elevated and in splints. They had been worried he would be difficult to talk to; an injured Jotun was an angry Jotun, but this one waved them over, seemingly in a good mood.
"Come and sit, honored guests of Winter. Brogthall of Morthag Chasm welcomes you. There is good, strong drink in the barrel and flavored ox milk slush in the tub. Refresh yourselves while we talk of the wider world and what brings you here."
It would have been rude and a violation of guesting rites to turn down either offer. Food and drink were what completed the ritual and guaranteed their safety. Var was delighted with the frozen, sweetened, ox milk slush. Less so with the drink. He was warned by the fact that it was a drink. Most liquids would be frozen solid. This clear liquid was thick, with the slight scent of juniper berries and something else. It was delightfully cold and slid down his throat, where it burned in his stomach like an unholy fire. Choking hard, he held up a hand so his Rime Knights would stand back and not charge the wounded Jotun. It took a minute for him to get himself under control.
"A delightful beverage. Might I enquire its origin?"
"Bootleg trollish gin. As close to pure alcohol as I've ever seen, with touches of juniper and raspberry. The dwarves I trade with drink it when they travel to cold areas and use it to clean their machinery. Quite a kick to it. Helps me get through the long days of being useless while this leg freezes up. A few more storms and it will be fine."
Farkinal Var had heard of this Jotun, a hero of the first expedition south. Glacia needed warriors like him. "I'm sure we could heal you faster. I know you would hate to miss out on the glory of conquering the warmlands."
"Glory is correct! It was an amazing series of battles. We crushed all before us, leaving a frozen wasteland of broken villages. The Warmlander wizards were hunted and tortured as we tore their college down stone by stone. Tricky things they were. We made a game of catching them and squishing them. You had to be quick or they might melt part of a finger. We kept score that way. Skibbi only had six fingers left when we trapped the Duchess's forces and forced them to retreat. Their cavalry and mounts deserted and ran for the hills, pursued by wolves. The army dug holes in the ground and covered themselves with dirt, hoping to hide. It was pitiful.
"The only resistance was a few meddlesome heroes and the demonic weapons of the Baron of Gadobhra. He sent them to the Duchess to test them in battle, and now sells them to anyone with a pocket full of gold. Bronk makes good use of them, showing the Maple Priests why they should behave and pay their tithes. Who knew the little bastards could use them to toss clinging flames? That was a scare, I tell you. It will be years before Skibbi and Dobluk pull themselves together in Hel and make it home. I dodged better and only lost a leg."
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He put two fingers down and mimicked walking, then curled on up and bounced the remaining finger along the ground to illustrate his story. "You should have seen me, hopping up and down, stamping the little men into the ground. I might have killed them all if it weren't for a son of Muspelheim. The bastard was a Captain from the Smoke with a mighty furnace. He was the only warrior there who could stop me. We fought, and laughed, and then, when he could have melted me to snow water, he took my parole. I think he'd heard of my fine ox. Poor thing. Did I mention he is a butcher? That ox will be several tons of steaks when he gets hold of it. But until it is delivered, I am not free to join in glorious battle again. I must sit and guard our happy home and greet esteemed visitors."
Farkinal Var had never heard so many words from any Jotun, ever. And now was not the time for it. He needed mercenaries. "Certainly, it has been delivered by now? And you have a journey ahead of you. Come with us, and we will heal your leg, and glory awaits you."
The huge giant looked like he was about to agree, but then shook his head sideways. "No, as much as I would like to. I cannot. At least until my daughter returns."
"Daughter?"
"Ah, you've heard of her, have you? A beautiful, young flower suitable for a Rime King, growing strong in our quaint village. She has bloomed into a fine woman. I sent her south with my animals. If I make war and break my bond, I risk her being taken hostage and sold as a thrall. The oxen I can lose, not so much the daughter. Harder to raise, and my wife is fond of her. So fond that she would kill us all if anyone so much as mentioned I was heading south again. Eat with us tonight, but no talk of this matter."
"That makes no sense. Why send your daughter and not an expendable thrall?"
"The obvious, of course, so she can spy on the warmlanders and bring back information on their defenses, their heroes, and any weaknesses we can exploit. I sent her with three oxen, a bull, and two cows. She will gift the fine ox, my best one. Then offer to sell the other two. She will stay and show them how to handle the animals and then return home with a sack of gold and much information. I will send her report directly to you."
Var was slightly astounded at a giant planning something like this. This must be one of their Jarls, a crafty old warrior. And cruel. Chances were, he wasn't getting that daughter back. The information she could get by spying would be useful, especially if it came to him first. But he still needed troops.
"Very well. It saddens me that you must stay. It would be good to have you lead the warriors of your tribe. How many of you can I count on for the army of General Glacia? And she has authorized a sizable bonus in pay."
"A bonus? That is good to hear, and so unexpected. Only three times before have I been offered bonuses for my service. Two of which I'm still owed. I don't suppose you brought my back pay, did you? It's hard to tell the youngsters about a bonus for them when I am waiting on mine."
Var snapped his fingers, and a large chest was brought forward. "I do have some funds with me. How much are you owed?"
Brogthall started to answer, then his eyes got wide and he pointed, "By Ymirs frozen testicles! The Great Drake has returned; he must have smelled the gold." Heads turned, and the Jotun casually picked up the chest and placed it in his pouch. "Ah, my apologies, just a cloud. I think. It's very suspicious and was shaped like a drake just a moment ago. They are masters of stealth and deception. I will keep the gold hidden, just in case."
"Good, then you accept that gold as the signing bonus for your village."
The giant chuckled, "I accept this gold as part of the back pay from three wars ago. Thank you for that. I must sadly tell you that all the males of my village have gone North. It's mammoth milking season. The tribe has become fond of our traditional desserts. Only a few spinster maidens and vicious wives remain here. Tread carefully, they've had to do all the chores themselves since the menfolk and half the women left, and are in a bad mood. It's why I sit out here a lot."
"Unacceptable. I need troops!"
The Jotun smiled. "I can help with that, and have made your path easy. I am very helpful this way. Go back the way you came, 627 stairs. Knock thrice on the cliff wall, bray like a donkey, and shout out, "Get it while it's still kicking." The Hungry Ones will open their passage and come to see what you brought them. I've told them you will give them your fine horses and pack animals as a signing bonus, and their tribe will all follow you to war."
Var considered. It would be a miserable walk home for the knights. He would fly. Hungry Ones were terrifying in battle. "How many in the tribe?"
"Seventy-eleven, by last count. And they do love to count. They hold good lands in the hidden valleys and have grown fat eating beaver and landtrout. They need to be trimmed a little, so toss them at any enemy you can and watch the carnage from a distance."
That was a huge tribe. Var had hoped for a dozen. The Ice Wizard was rapidly coming to like his new ally. Jarl Brogthall was a canny, calculating warrior, even injured. Between the report from his spy and a horde of Hungry Ones, Farkinal Var knew he could gain a seat on Glacia's war council.
"Excellent. Based on what you've said, perhaps it would be best not to disturb your wife and elderly aunts. We will leave immediately, and I will convey your support of Winter to the council." Without any more pleasantries, they turned and left.
Brogthall waited, then tapped on the gate. His wife came to check on him, bringing his lunch. "So, what does the council demand, and what did you have to give them?" She was much smaller than her icy husband, choosing a more fleshy form, and only twenty feet tall. Once healed, he would shed his frost and regain a more comfortable form.
"It was touch and go, but I've had a lot of time to think about things lately. Neverfull and Scrapscrounger came to see me last week, and I mentioned the huge herds of the southern folk, and the food that roamed everywhere. They were growling and drooling by the time I finished and would have run south immediately, but were scared of making the trek without a guide. They promised me three barrels of pickled landtrout if I found them one. Jarl Neverfull will be joining Farkinel Var on his trip south, munching on pack ponies and fat knights along the way. Sadly, that will leave their lands unattended, with no one to keep the beavers and weasels from overbreeding."
"A shame. Will they be back?"
"No, they will either be killed in battle or eat their way through the cities of the south. Either way, our tribe has new lands. I'm sure you can handle claiming them and getting some of our excess children to take over."
"I'm sure I can, too. It's nice to see you being useful, even if you shirk your chores at times."
He handed her the chest. "And, my back pay arrived, unexpectedly."
She grinned widely, showing strong, white teeth. "Even better. I may need a dowry soon for Signe if she finds a husband among the small folk. You're sure they are strong enough for her? I don't want to hear about her cracking her husband's spine on their wedding night."
Brogthall laughed. "At least one is, and from what I saw, several others. I wonder who she will drag back here?"