Ymir and Petra lead their small attack team toward the looming silhouette of Bridgefort. What was once a sanctuary had become foreboding, but with Ymir alongside the cluster of families and refugees, hope had returned. Not even the low trumpeting of scout horns from the fort’s walls slowed their courageous march.

  “Prepare, daughter,” Ymir growled to Petra. “Your friend said they had archers, remember?”

  “I remember, father,” the young goddess replied, stepping ahead of the others, pulling her twin hatchets from her hips.

  “Do not tempt them!”

  “Father!” Petra said over her shoulder. “I know what I am doing!” There was a smattering of distant sounds. Clacks and twangs from the castle wall. Against the glow of the rising sun, Petra tried to make out any shapes, and just barely noticed flashes of reflected light.

  “Petra!” Ymir roared.

  Petra bent at the waist and, using the flat side of the axes, flicked snow into the air. As the powder went skyward, it seemed to grow in volume until it became a dense wall. There were small puff sounds as the arrows and spears slung from the walls of Bridgefort struck Petra’s defensive wall.

  “What father!?” Petra roared back.

  “I apologize. That was very good.”

  “Thank you,” Petra said with a nod as the wall of snow burst, the arrows and spears tumbling down amongst the dancing snowflakes.

  “You should have told me what you were planning.”

  “Why is that? So you could be riddled with arrows while I explained?”

  Ymir groaned and began to lead the group forward again. As he passed his daughter, he shook his head. And for some reason, the light inside the gods shined brighter. Petra had lost her mortality too long ago to understand why.

  “The siege begins!” Ymir cried as he hefted his felled tree battering ram from off his back. The door was only fifty or so paces ahead, and Petra could now see the heads of the ranged guards atop the fort’s walls. Another volley would be coming.

  And so she dashed forward, again slinging a wall of snow and ice in front of their makeshift invasion force to catch the wave of spears and arrows once more.

  “Prepare brothers and sisters!” Ymir commanded. “When the wall clears, we will charge!”

  The barbarians howled in response and Petra smiled wildly before crying out herself. She allowed the snow-wall to fall. To her horror, though, a stray spear was still whizzing down from the top of the fortress and its point was barreling down on the group’s mortal members.

  Ymir’s shout began with pain but turned to laughter. In a blur, despite the massive weight of the tree trunk in his hands, he put himself between the spear and mortals. The weapon burrowed into his right shoulder, but there was no sign of blood. His laughter was joined by grateful battle cries, and the team broke into a sprint.

  “Petra, help me get us through before they can fire again.”

  “Yes father!” Petra lifted her right hatchet, squinting to guide her aim, before throwing it at the door. It ripped through the cold air, head over handle, before burrowing deep in the planks. Instantly, the cracking sound of spreading ice rang out. White frost spread out from the blade across the wooden door.

  Ymir roared again as he readied his battering ram. He skidded to a halt before the door, but allowed the momentum to sling the ram head forward. The flat, iron capped head of the ram struck the frozen wood and the door exploded. Shards of ice blended with splinters and bent metal bands that clattered across the stone floor inside the fortress.

  The slavers that had been shoring the inside of the fortress gate were scattered as well. Some were luckier than others, simply being thrown backward as opposed to being gored by splinters of ice and wood, or smashed beneath falling planks. But their luck ran out as Ymir and Petra’s barbarians rushed in, delivering the coup de grace.

  As Ymir watched with pride, his face twisted with confusion. “Petra, look in their hands. They disrespect my friendship with Gessel.” The frozen waste slavers, warriors normally wielding spears, axes, and knives were equipped with war hammers, swords, shields, and mismatched armor in the silver, gold, and white color schemes of the Church of the Will.

  “Be careful, friends,” Petra warned. “Our enemies are better equipped than we would expect. They are geared for war, not for the Wastes!”

  The group pushed further into the fortress as Ymir threw the battering ram to the floor. A side corridor rang out with the sounds of approaching slavers as the giant god ripped his coat off of his shoulders. On his back was a huge, double headed battle axe.

  Petra stopped the attackers when she heard her father’s barks. They looked back to see him surrounded by five slavers armed with paladin equipment. “Father!”

  Ymir paid no mind to her. Instead he leapt backward gracefully despite his immense size, swinging the battleaxe as he did. The screams of the slavers filled the fortress as five human-sized spikes of ice leapt from the stone floor, firing upward at a light angle and piercing the armor and flesh of each of the slavers. Their screams moved from shock to pain in an instant before going silent a moment later.

  “Worry not!” Ymir called ahead. “Remember who taught you, my love. These slavers are lead by their oracle. Find her and we can end this affront to my treaty and her crimes against the children.”

  “Yes father!” Petra looked to her mortal partners. “Let’s hurry. Our families are waiting.”

  The team moved forward, clashing with groups of slavers who hid behind walls or in side rooms. Petra lead the team down halls and into random chambers, not quite knowing where she was headed. She only knew that the more defenders she found, the closer they were to their oracle.

  Finally, they arrived at the large hall that lead out to the titular bridge, the single point of easy access to Talnor from the frozen wastes. In that hall, twenty slavers were waiting for their arrival.

  “Our destiny will not be taken!” one screamed, prompting a smattering of battle cries from the others. Amongst the twenty was a combination of armor and weaponry both of slaver make, and from the Church of the Will.

  As Petra tried to study the group, a fluttering cloth in the corner caught her eye.

  “Winter’s Daughter,” one of her allies called. “That room! Could that be where they hide the witch?”

  “Let's find out,” Petra offered as she readied her blades. The slavers charged and the barbarians charged to meet them. Blades clashed with shields as the sides met, but the barbarians had the strength of an avatar on their side.

  Petra, in response to the proximity of her allies, used her powers carefully, freezing the points of impact for her axes to make every swing that much more lethal. A harsh, frosted exhale would render an enemy’s armor brittle. A sheet of ice beneath her boots allowed her to slide with practiced agility from one target to the next.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  But the slavers had the benefit of numbers. Corridors that splintered off of the hall rang out with approaching defenders. And when one of her barbarians screamed in pain, Petra looked to see the mistake she had made.

  A balcony she had not noticed before wreathed the hall. And now, it seemed the archers and spearmen from the wall had populated the balcony and were taking aim at her barbarians.

  Petra’s rage began to boil up, at herself and at the slavers, as she watched them prepare their next volley. And then, as he had so many times before, her father came to the rescue.

  A wall of rime surged around the entire balcony, shredding the planks and sending the slavers tumbling down. The cacophony was deafening, but the surge of faith warming her core was enough of a response.

  “Petra, no more wasting time! Find the oracle!” Ymir shouted from a doorway above.

  “Go, Winter’s Daughter. We will take care of this!” a barbarian urged.

  Petra paused and saw the blowing cloth at the side of the room. She noticed the glow of a fire inside the room. She nodded, and hurried to the doorway.

  Lightly, she pushed aside the cloth, expecting an attack from whoever this oracle would be. But none came.

  At the other end of the small room was a massive furnace. Huge, iron pipes ran from it and into the ceiling. Presumably a heating system for the fortress. But the grated door to the furnace was wide open, though there was no fuel to be seen.

  To the left of the furnace was a table, transformed into an altar by means of burning candles and a crimson tablecloth. As Petra’s eyes focused on what was resting on the table, her rage bloomed.

  An adult body, naked and pale, lay with its eyes closed. An elderly woman, bundled in thick clothes hunched over the corpse. Every inch of her was drenched in accessories of gold, jewels, or crafted bones and teeth of beasts that roamed with wastes.

  “Welcome, Ymirstottir,” the oracle said sadly. “Do not mind me working.” As she said this, she looped her frail hands beneath the body and hefted it, with effort, from the table. Petra watched, her eyes beginning to mist up, as the oracle walked the corpse to the furnace door and let it tumble in. There was a burst of heat in the room as the flames embraced their new fuel. Petra looked away, but noticed a pile of empty shackles on the floor and felt she was about to vomit.

  “What have you done?”

  “The sun’s rise means an end to winter. And an end to us, it seems,” the oracle responded. “Worry not. These were our own. You reclaimed all of your people.”

  “That is not better,” Petra growled.

  “And why not? You spill the blood of our mature on the stones of these treated halls. At least I have the decency to offer ceremony to these final moments.”

  “Why are you doing this? Why didn’t you stay in your mountains and freeze? Why did you kill the paladins here?” Petra’s fury was growing with each breath she took that was tinged with the scent of burning corpses.

  “Kill them? They were gone when we arrived here. A gift from The Throne.” The oracle said, waving dismissively. She eyed Petra, then grinned. “What would it hurt to tell you the ‘why?’ We are to be eliminated, it seems. I was given a grand vision, Ymirstottir. And not just some deprived hallucination in the mountain fog. A true vision of things to come. A gift from the Dreamweaver.”

  “Why would he give you a vision?”

  “To prepare for the coming fire. The Dreamweaver is seeking to save as many as he can. A shame we failed, even with his help.”

  “That is impossible. On what authority does he choose who to save?”

  “On what authority do you drive me to burn my people?” The oracle stared at Petra’s eyes. Hatred, sorrow, and despair had consumed the old woman.

  Overcome with guilt and confusion, Petra began to cry. “Why are you doing this?”

  “The same reason you are. To survive. Now, I’m done talking to you, you frozen brat. The poison is taking me. Likely starting to take those outside as well. If you truly want to see what is in store for you and your barbarians, take my gift.” The oracle reached down her coat and withdrew a massive locket. She whispered something into it and the locket opened to reveal a large glowing pearl. “Take it like you took everything else. Take it so I may finally depart this wicked place.”

  Petra was conflicted for more than one reason. But if she saw the vision, maybe she would better understand the slavers’ campaign. Maybe she would understand what spurred it. Regardless, her tribe was safe now. Her contract was over and her avatar would fail soon. There was no harm in empathy.

  The goddess approached the oracle slowly and held out her open hand. The oracle turned the locket and dumped the pearl into Petra’s hand and there was a surge of bright light.

  When Petra’s vision came back, the whole room was lit with an otherworldly and foreboding red. The sound of metal clanging was coming from the hall outside. Petra looked around the room quickly. The oracle was gone, as were the shackles. The furnace was rusted and in harsh disrepair. Slowly, she stepped out into the fort.

  The massive door leading to the bridge was completely destroyed. Only shards of planks hung on the mighty hinges. The metal sound was from an army, in massive formation, that filled the room to bursting. With a shout, the army broke into a charge down the bridge.

  Petra looked down the bridge to see the shape of a woman walking to meet the army, but her whole body was magma. The bricks beneath her feet were glowing, molten puddles. As the army charged, she waved her hand. A hot gale stole Petra’s breath. The entire army was lifted from the bridge and thrown into the chasm.

  The woman, satisfied, knelt down and tore a massive boulder from the bridge, and heaved it at the fortress. Petra followed the boulder as it flew and gasped when something caught it. It took her a moment to divine the shape, but when she realized she was looking at a hand made out of tree trunks, vines, and other plant matter, she began searching for its source.

  The base of the arm-like tree was bursting clear from the floor of the fortress where the army had just been standing. Now, there were two stags, their antlers clattering as they fought. One was much larger than the other, its rack of antlers so large and full she could not count the points. The other was much smaller, much lighter in color, and with frightfully human eyes. The smaller deer paused and let out a whistle.

  Pebbles began falling to the ground, and Petra looked up to see the tree-arm bringing the boulder down toward her and the fighting stags. The goddess began running for the bridge, her only point of egress.

  But then she heard a new sound. A sound she could only describe as a crowd screaming in pain and horror. A colossus of flesh rose up from the chasm beneath the bridge. Petra could see from the pieces of armor and weaponry that this golem was made of the army the woman had thrown from the bridge.

  Her mind struggled to make sense of the shape. She searched for a face, but there were too many. She looked for arms or legs, but even those were too numerous to be natural. It moaned with a hundred voices and screamed with a hundred others then came to begin its attack.

  The thunder clap shocked Petra more than the flash of light as the blue forks of lightning surged right past her head. She whipped around to see another woman standing behind her, but this one was a constantly vibrating mass of clouds, water, and lightning. Furious electric eyes were staring at the colossus.

  With the clack of hooves, the younger stag ran to join Petra and the storm-woman on the bridge. Petra saw one of its antlers was shining with blood. When she looked back to the fortress, the larger stag was leaning to one side, sinister and staring with a bloody gash in his shoulder.

  Another gust of hot wind called Petra’s attention back to the woman on fire. She braced herself for the gale, waiting to be blown into the arms of the mess of corpses, but another, gentler warmth interrupted it.

  Golden light fell on Petra, the storm-woman, and the stag, protecting them as the hot wind raged. An angel came down to land beside Petra, his body just a friendly golden light. But in the midst of all of the light, Petra could see a smile.

  A heavy hand fell on her shoulder.

  “Petra,” her father said. “The gods are dead, Petra. Divinity is over.”

  The angel surged brighter and disappeared. The storm-woman wisped away in the wind. The stag galloped off back into the fortress.

  “The gods are dead, Petra.”

  Petra turned to look at her father and screamed. Ymir was looking at her through two deep, bloody holes. A gash in his torso was spilling blood and organs onto the bridge, and a slit in his throat was still slowly oozing.

  “Divinity is over Petra. The gods are dead.” He repeated those words again and again as Petra stared with wide eyes. And behind him, where the giant stag had been, was a pile of bodies. Each was a god Petra recognized by name. Standing at the base and facing the pile was a man whose salient feature was his profound normalcy. A wrinkled forehead. A receding hairline. The man turned to look at Petra, and there was a distant explosion, the sound so loud the bridge trembled. And slowly, but steadily, came a heat beyond anything Petra had experienced. A wall of fire filled her entire field of vision.

  Petra took a deep breath and turned to ash.

  “Petra! The slavers are dying! They had been poisoned! The battle is over!” Ymir shouted to his daughter.

  Petra looked around, confused. She was on the bridge, but the early spring morning sky was back to its normal color, and the bridge was back to normal.

  There was no sign of the melted woman. The stags were gone. And so was the golem of flesh.

  “What did you just see?”

  “I don’t know, father,” Petra said softly. “I think my contract is not over, though.”

  Ymir chortled. “I told you it was a silly contract to make, dear.”