“I see a village!” shouted Bjorn from atop a snow-covered hill.
I grunted in acknowledgement as Wulf and I carried our friend, Han, between us.
“Just a little further, Kargon,” said Wulf to me. “We’ve drug him this far.”
The cold was setting in. Ever since our encounter with the beast, I had felt nothing but cold. Even beside the largest of bonfires I was unable to warm myself. In my mind I was cursed. Wulf and Bjorn appeared to suffer from the same affliction, but none of us said anything about it. We were Norsemen. “That which does not kill us serves to make us stronger.” We lived by that code and would never admit to weakness.
Han, however, could pass as dead if it weren’t for his icy cold breath. His lungs pumped frigid air and his heart still beat, but his eyes did not open. He was comatose, but alive. He had met the frost beast face to face and survived, for now.
“Let’s hope they have a healer,” said Wulf. “If Han survives, he’ll become a legend. Few people have ever faced a frost beast and lived.”
“How many people do you know who have even heard of a frost beast?” I asked bitterly. Until I had seen the beast, I would never have even imagined such a thing existed. There were no legends of such a demon. No indication or evidence except for our own memories of what had happened.
“Well, none, actually,” said Wulf. “But surely we must believe our own eyes.”
“I’m not doubting what we saw,” I replied, “but how come we’ve never heard of this beast before? Shouldn’t something like this have at least appeared in legends?”
“It has,” rasped a voice from behind us.
We almost dropped Han as Wulf and I spun around. We saw a withered old man with a long white beard dressed in animal furs.
Who in the name of Odin is that?” asked Bjorn as he returned to see what was taking us so long.
“My name has been forgotten by the gods long ago,” spoke the old man. “But the beast which you speak of dates back before the time of the giants. When the world was nothing but ice, there lived the Beasts of Kjeldor. They were composed of the very ice with which the world was constructed and reveled in their frigid environment.”
“So what happened once the giants came?” asked Wulf.
“When the first giants appeared on this world,” continued the old man,” the beasts were intimidated by their great size and the warmth of their bodies. The Beasts of Kjeldor hid themselves away. Later, after the giants had left and the gods created people, the beasts reappeared. The warmth of the peoples’ bodies reminded the Beasts of Kjeldor of the giants who had frightened them into hiding long ago. Enrage, the beasts attacked and wreaked havoc amongst the population.”
“How come they did not destroy us all?” asked Bjorn.
“I’m getting to that!” snapped the old man impatiently. “Now, the Beasts of Kjeldor were so savage that they killed all the people they came across. None ever survived an attack from one of the beasts. Whole villages were wiped out without a trace as the beasts proceeded with their rampage of icy destruction. None who ever saw a beast ever lived to tell the tale.”
“That would explain why there are no legends.” I said.
“If I may continue?” snapped the old man again. “There was a man who survived countless attacks by the beasts, but never spoke of them. His name was Argus Doomsblade.”
The three of us gasped in astonishment at this name. Doomsblade was my surname.
“Yes, yes,” muttered the old man, waving his hand. “You’re his descendant, Kargon Doomsblade. Anyways, Argus left his wife and baby one day to raid a neighbouring village with the rest of the men of his village. While he was gone, a third village raided his home village, killed his wife, and took his baby. That baby grew up knowing all that had happened and decided to keep his father’s name, but I digress.
“Argus was grieved by his loss,” continued the elder. “He left his village behind to wander the earth, seeking out adventure. He battled many wild beasts, defeating many bears and lone wolves. None was as spectacular as when he bested a pack of wolves in hand to hand combat. While skinning their bodies, he was visited by a talking ball of flame which instructed him to accept the sword it had brought to him to destroy the Beasts of Kjeldor. Naturally, Argus had no idea what the Beasts of Kjeldor were, but he accepted the sword anyways. The next day, he encountered one of the beasts the ball of flame spoke of. He witnessed it ravage a village, its breath turning people to ice, it’s teeth and claws tearing apart other villagers in a frenzy. Argus ran towards the village, but by the time he arrived, it was blanketed in snow. There was no evidence that the village was ever there. The beast charged Argus and tried to freeze him with its breath. The magic heat of the sword protected Argus as he drove his sword into the beast, destroying it instantly. Argus then travelled the world, hunting the Beasts of Kjeldor and destroying them. He killed all but one of them before his death. That last beast has now awakened from another centuries-long slumber, and he is angry.”
“Angry from what?” asked Bjorn.
“My ancestor killed all of his kind,” I said. “What do you think he’s mad about?”
“Then why didn’t he destroy us?” asked Wulf.
“Because you were present with Kargon,” explained the old man. “Argus’s descendants have been magically enchanted with the magical fire he received from the sword given to him by the ball of flame.”
“But Argus’s child was born before he was given the magic sword,” argued Wulf.
“Don’t question magic!” snapped the elder again. “Magic works in mysterious ways; ways you’ll never begin to comprehend.”
“I think he’s making this all up,” said Bjorn, turning to leave.
“If that were true,” said the old man, “then how would I know about the internal coldness you are all feeling now?”
Bjorn stopped in his tracks. None of us had mentioned the frigid chill that penetrated us to the bones to each other.
“The magic imbued upon the Doomsblade bloodline has weakened over time,” continued the elder. “When Argus possessed it, he was completely immune to the effects of cold. The ability was magically passed to his first-born son when he died, then that one’s first-born son and so on. Over time the ability has weakened and can only delay the effects of coldness. The beast instantly consumed your two friends, correct?”
I nodded. Swen and Yuri were the first two attacked. By the time I arrived with Wulf and Bjorn, Han faced the beast alone.
“The power of your bloodline has stretched out to protect your friends as well as yourself,” said the old man. “But you will not live long. The effects of the cold will only be delayed now. Your body will slowly succumb to the frigid chill and leave you a frozen corpse.”
“Isn’t there a way to stop this?” asked Wulf.
“There is, but it is not easy,” said the elder. “Yet, it’s ironic in its simplicity. You must slay the Last Beast of Kjeldor. Once done, all wrongs they have committed shall be undone; all those who have suffered from their rage shall be freed from their icy prisons, buried so deep below the snow.”
“Free so many people,” said Bjorn, a wistful expression mapping his face.
“And ourselves,” I said.
“We’ll be heroes!” said Bjorn excitedly.
“We’ll be legends!” added Wulf, joining in Bjorn’s excitement.
“We’ll be alive,” I said monotonously. “That’s good enough for me.”
“How do we destroy this beast?” asked Wulf.
“You must destroy it with the very sword Argus Doomsblade used,” explained the old man. “To find it, you must journey through the Broken Lands, cross the Unmerciful mountains, and descend into the Cavern of Despair.”
“Is that all?” asked Bjorn sincerely. “I was hoping for a challenge.”
“The sword is guarded by the ancient red dragon, Flamewing,” finished the elder.
“I’ll make a rug of its hide and mount its head on my wall,” I vowed.
“How will we find the Last Beast?” asked Wulf.
“Your first encounter spooked it because of the unnatural hear it felt radiating from Kargon,” responded the old man. “Soon it will realize exactly who Kargon is and will come hunting for him. Be sure you have the sword by the time it finds you.”
“That means we have to move fast,” said Wulf.
I grunted in agreement.
“Then hurry,” said the old man. “So that I soon may be free.”
He faded away.
“Let’s go,” said Bjorn, running off.
“What did he mean by ‘soon be free’?” asked Wulf, picking up Han by the torso.
“I don’t know,” I said, hoisting Han’s lower half.
We explained to the villagers our story of what had happened to us. We were hunting in the woods for an escaped criminal from our village and decided to divide into two teams to spread out more. Han, Sven, and Yuri were on one team, leaving Bjorn, Wulf, and myself on the other. We had heard screams and ran to aid our friends. We found them being attacked by a beast standing three times as tall as a man made purely of ice. It’s maw gaping, we saw it spray a blast of frost onto Han as we charged. When we closed in, the beast fled. We arrived in time to discover Han still breathing, but Yuri and Sven were half buried in snow, frozen in a block of ice. We told them of our encounter with the strange old man on the way here and of all he told us.
They agreed to take care of Han while we went to slay the dragon and several of their young warriors were eager to join us.
“How can only three men hope to slay Flamewing?” they demanded. Wulf and I admitted that they had a point, but Bjorn was too caught up in the heroism at the thought of the three of us defeating the dragon alone to allow any others to come. To convince him, I gave Bjorn a punch to the face which left him sprawled in the snow. When he got to his feet, Bjorn agreed that the warriors could join us.
Fully equipped with food and weapons, our party, now eleven strong, left early the next morning into the Broken Lands. Our journey through the Broken Lands was relatively uneventful. We fought and killed a grizzly bear, but that was it as far as danger was concerned. We made it to the foot of the Unmerciful Mountains. We broke out our mountain gear and proceeded to climb.
As we were scaling a hundred-foot sheer cliff face, we were ambushed by a group of giant eagles. They possessed twenty-foot wingspans and razor-sharp beaks and talons. We clung to our rops as they dove in attack.
“Incoming!” shouted Bjorn. Being the most experienced climber, he was in the lead pounding in the new safety spikes through which our rope was looped. He let go of the cliff to fend off the bird and fell. Being directly below him on the rope, I dug my hands in and braced myself to support his weight.
“Damn birds!” he cursed as he scrambled to secure himself on the Cliffside once again. Screams from below indicated that some of our followers had not fared so well. The birds, five in number, retreated. They each bore with them one of our men. That left six of us now.
“Damn birds,” I agreed with Bjorn as we continued our climb.
Over the top of the Unmerciful Mountains we discovered the Cavern of Despair. Smoke slowly billowed out from the opening in the rock face.
“Looks like Flamewing’s home”, said Wulf.
“We charge!” shouted one of the village warriors as he charged with his two remaining comrades into the cave.
“No, wait!” shouted Wulf.
“So much for surprise,” I muttered.
“Die, Flamewing!” roared Bjorn as he charged in after the other three.
“Damn fools,” I said, drawing my sword. “We’ll never be able to take him by surprise with only two of us, anyways.”
“We charge?” asked Wulf, gripping his battle ax.
“We charge,” I snarled as I charged into the cavern which was now filled with the sounds of battle. Through the smoke of the cave I saw the great dragon snap our last follower in half with his great jaws. The other two lay charred amongst the bones of countless victims. Bjorn was standing at the monster’s feet, hacking up at Flamewing’s torso, but unable to penetrate the thick scales.
“We’ll never be able to even hurt the dragon like that,” said Wulf as he surveyed the situatin with me.
“You and Bjorn keep him distracted,” I said. “I’ll take care of the rest.”
“With pleasure,” growled Wulf as he launched himself onto the dragon’s flank and swung repeatedly with his great ax.
As my comrades battled the dragon, parrying his physical and avoiding his deadly breath, I scaled the cavern wall until I was on a ledge beside where the dragon battled. I leaped from the ledge and landed on the dragon’s back. Bjorn and Wulf fought more ferociously, distracting the dragon from my presence. I climbed my way to the dragon’s head and launched myself from his cranium, twisting in mid-air, then came to rest straddlingthe dragon’s snout facing him.
Flamewing’s eyes darkened in rage when he saw me, but I acted quickly. Plunging my blade into his left eye, the tip of my sword pierced his brain. The dragon’s lifeless body hit the floor with a mighty thud. I glanced at my companions to see Wulf kneeling beside a fallen Bjorn.
“How bad is it?” I asked Wulf as I approached. Wulf looked up and shook his head.
“Kargon,” whispered Bjorn from the floor. I kneeled beside him. “I can hear the songs of the Valkyries coming to take me away.”
“You have fought well this day,” I told him. “May we meet again in Valhalla.”
He smiled weakly. “In Valhalla, my friend.”
His eyes rolled back in his head.
“Kargon,” said Wulf, reluctantly breaking the silence. “I think I’ve found the sword.” I turned to see him bearing a rather ordinary looking two-handed sword. I took the great sword from him and felt its heat radiating through my body, extinguishing the frigid chill I had been plagued with for days. I noticed Wulf shivering once I took the sword from him.
“We have not much time,” I said.
“I’m fine,” he chattered. “Just a little cold.”
A sudden blast of frost that came out of nowhere knocked him to the ground in a frozen block of ice.
“Wulf!” I shouted in surprise.
I heard a growling from behind me a split second before something large and extremely cold knocked me down and pinned me. I twisted to face upward and saw the gaping maw of the frozen horror, the Last Beast of Kjeldor.
The beast breathed a torrent of icy breath on me, but it was magically diverted to the sides by the power of my new blade. Enraged, the beast drew back its long, icy claws in preparation to strike. I stabbed my blade into its gut, shouting a war cry as loud as I could.
The beast reared back in pain, my blade protruding from its mid-section. It let out the loudest howl I had heard in my life. I covered my ears out of fear of a shattered ear-drum. I slowly got to my feet and faced the howling beast.
In a fit of rage, the beast charged again. At the last second, I grabbed the hilt of my ancestor’s sword, side-stepped and ripped the sword through the beast’s body with all my might. The Last Beast of Kjeldor was torn in half, its disjointed body falling to the ground.
“Argus’s mission is over,” I said, tossing the sword into the beast’s melting corpse.
“Yes, my mission has finaly ended,” said the old man from before, materializing beside me.
“You are Argus Doomsblade?” I asked in astonishment.
“Of course,” he snapped. “Well, his ghost, anyway. How did you think I knew all the stuff I told you?”
I shrugged.
“Exactly!” he snapped. “You’ve donge good, my boy. Damn good. Everyone I was unable to free in life has now been set free by your heroism and resourcefulness. Now I can finally get some damn rest.”
Argus Doomsblade faded from my sight for the last time.
“Kargon,” coughed Wulf from behind me. I looked in his direction to find him soaked a shivering. “Is it over?”
“It’s over, my friend,” I said helping him up. “It’s finally over.”