Devrik was deeply skeptical of Vulk’s “plan” to seek out and recover the long lost Staff of Summer, but eventually he succumbed to the peer pressure – that, and the boredom of enforced inactivity, due to the winter weather, in a city he knew little of. The execution, by beheading, of the treasonous and arguably mad Crown Prince the day before had also left everyone unsettled, and a little action might do them good. Still, his doubts remained…

“After all,” he grumbled as they rode out of Zhuran’s South Gate two days later, “it’s not like we’re two for two in the freeing-malevolent-entities-from-their-justly-deserved-imprisonment game or anything… so what could possibly go wrong this time?”

The others, having heard it all before, said nothing and the cavalcade proceeded west into the Arnoth Highlands as quickly as the frozen, snow-covered roads allowed. Fortunately the weather was clear and dry, if very cold, and promised to hold so for at least the next fivnight, according to Korwin. And so it proved, somewhat to his companion’s surprise.

They crossed the semi-frozen Eigaril River at the Sarnik Ford on the third day out from the capital. The narrow but fast moving stream’s rocky shallows were slick with a coating of ice, which nearly brought down Haplo’s horse, rider and all. But disaster was averted, if narrowly, and the next afternoon brought the group to the small mountain hamlet of Winter’s Forge.

Nestled in a narrow alpine valley in the foothills of Mount Eigarstal, this was one of several small communities in the region that claimed to be the settlement closest to the Halls of the Winter King. Vulk, after careful study of what texts he could find, and strongly influenced by his dream-intuition (he carefully didn’t emphasis the latter point, especially to Devrik) had come to the conclusion that Winter’s Forge was the real deal.

The hamlet consisted of a half score of ramshackle buildings, the largest of which appeared to be both town hall and occasional inn. It’s two modest arms (they could hardly be called wings) encompassed the local well, and a decrepit sign depicting an ice-covered anvil swung above the main door. The Hand’s arrival was known to all the locals before they’d even managed to inquire about rooms, apparently by some species of psychic osmosis, and the main room began to fill up quickly with curious natives.

Stabling was found for the horses in various stalls or sheds around the hamlet, as were rooms for the humans, eventually – the hamlet rarely received more than three or four travelers at a time, and the Frozen Anvil had only three rooms.

“None of which are fit for a Lady,” the proprietor exclaimed, almost wringing his hands in anxiety. He was a tall, slender man of middle years, his face leathery and his sandy hair fast receding from a high forehead, who went by the name of Olberth.

“I’m sure your rooms are perfectly adequate,” said Mariala with a reassuring smile – which in no way conveyed her certainty that nothing in this miserable mountain pimple was even close to adequate. Thank Shala she’d learned that cantrip for killing vermin in her first year at chantry. “If I may have the smallest chamber, the men can share the other two rooms between them–”

This suggestion was greeted with more hand-wringing. It seemed all the rooms were small, the beds not only small but few in number, and what with the leaking roof in the owner’s own room, well… Eventually, with the help of several of the locals, it was all sorted out and the men assigned various beds in either the inn or one of three other nearby houses. No one, however, seemed willing to put forth their own home as adequate for the Lady’s (Mariala could hear the capitalization) unquestionably refined needs.

The Margrave of Greentower was about ready to put her noble foot down when an older woman, who had entered the common room in the midst of the discussion on settling the men, spoke up. “Oh for the love of Alea, the poor woman can stay with me,” she snorted in exasperation. “I don’t imagine, having ridden out to the arse-end of nowhere, she expected to find a palace. If she says she’s fine with what’s available, why must you make a fuss, Olberth?”

Clearly abashed at this rebuke, but equally clearly relieved to have the intimidating noblewoman taken off his hands, Olberth managed a few garbled words before dashing off to get Vulk, Devrik and Erol settled in their rooms. As the others were carried off by their new hosts to settle into their own accommodations the old woman offered Mariala an awkward half-curtsey, half-bow. Mariala smiled, genuinely this time, and offered her hand, introducing herself. “Mariala, and thank you so much for your hospitality.”

The old woman snorted again, but this time with a smile of her own, and took the proffered hand. Her grip was dry, firm and surprisingly warm. “Arella, pleased to meet you m’lady. And you might want to actually see the accommodations before you thank me.”

As it turned out, Arella’s home was the second largest in the hamlet, after the town hall/inn, and although worn with age it was tidy and clean. The small bedroom she installed Mariala in was both pleasant and entirely free of vermin. She had dragooned a neighbor youth to bring Mariala’s horse along, as her own small stable was, she assured her guest, drier and warmer than the shed they’d planned to house the poor beast in. “My late husband, may he be one with the All, was very insistent that the animals be properly tended to, and I’ve kept it up since his death.”

After she’d had time to clean up and rest for a bit, Arella knocked on Mariala’s door and asked if she’d be joining her friends for supper at the Frozen Anvil. “Everyone will be there, it’s unusual to get any visitors this time of year, never mind so many. It’ll be crowded, but one thing old Olberth does well is set a decent table.” The man in question had to be at least a decade younger than Arella, Mariala thought in amusement.

“Yes, I’d planned on joining my companions,” Mariala replied, reaching for her cloak. “We’re searching for some… information, and were hoping the local common room might be the best place to find it. Will you be joining the crowd?”

It turned out she was, and that she’d been right about the village turning out for the excitement of the exotic visitors. Although every seat in the common room was taken when they arrived, and people lined the walls, Mariala had no trouble finding a spot between Vulk and Devrik. Arella gave one young man near the door a look, and he quickly scrambled to his feet and offered her his seat. Patting him kindly on the cheek with an approving smile, she asked him to be a dear and fetch her a hot cider as she sat down.

The Hand shared with the room what information of the larger world they seemed interested in, telling tales of the recent battles, the narrow escape of the Crown Princess, and the restoration of the king. These remote subjects of his seemed genuinely to think well of the old man, and to be grateful that he was again ruling over them. The fate of the late Crown Prince was glossed over, and no one seemed inclined to pursue the matter – it seemed the usurper was likely to be quietly and quickly forgotten by his own would-be subjects.

The crowd also seemed very interested in the marriage that had united the kingdoms of Nolkior and Arushal, and even the men seemed fascinated by the details of the event. Much discussion was given to how this union would affect Tharkia – would the new Kingdom of Ukala retain Nolkior’s claim to their own country, or would they relinquish it, leaving only Serviar’s claim to hang over the throne, and poor, beleaguered King Balen?

Eventually the conversation was brought around to local tales, and to the legend of the Winter King. A strange reluctance seemed to fall over the crowd as Vulk and Mariala pressed the point. It was clear from their own stories that the hamlet milked the legend for all they could, and that it was the main reason they even had visitors, now that the old iron mine was played out. Yet with these visitors they seemed oddly reticent… the Hand hadn’t identified themselves directly, but the stories they’d told had made it clear that this group was, at the very least, competent.

Eventually several people offered up directions to the supposed “mountain seat” of the Winter King, although claiming that at this time of year it was too dangerous to make the several-mile journey. Both Mariala and Vulk had no trouble detecting the falsehood of these statements, but they also could sense that there were lies of omission going on as well. Letting the conversation be led off onto other paths, the two leaned in to speak quietly amongst themselves and to Devrik.

“I think they know where the true Halls are,” Vulk said in frustration, “but they are adamant about keeping that information secret. They’re happy enough to make some coin sending seekers to some made-up spot, but not to the true location. Why?”

“I agree, my own spells have made it very clear that we’re being actively lied to,” Mariala said, “and that other truths are being deliberately withheld. But I’m no clearer on the why than you are… Devrik?”

“I take your word on the lying, of course,” the fire mage rumbled. “But I don’t see what we can do about it. We’ve offered money, rather a lot, and yet they seem absolutely –”

“Oh, they are hide-bound, superstitious and fearful fools,” a querulous voice suddenly interrupted Devrik. The three friends turned to find Arella standing close behind them, a look of mixed resignation and annoyance on her face. “I suggest you three join me for some tea at my home. It will be easier to explain there than in the middle of this barn dance.”

An hour later the four of them where seated comfortably enough around the small fire in Arella’s parlor, as the old woman began her explanation. “It’s pretty damn obvious that you lot are more than the usual run of souvenir hunters, thrill seekers or arcane historians we usually get here, seeking the way to the Halls of the Winter King. I’d say you’d be what they call them there “adventurers,” like what the old stories talk about… and the others sense that too.”

She waved her hand impatiently when Vulk began to offer explanations. “Pish, it’s neither here nor there, as long as you’re competent adventurers. That’s what we need right now, though the others might deny it.”

“I’d like to think we’re above average,” Mariala said smoothly, noting the sardonic gleam in Devrik’s eye and cutting off any snarky comments he might have been inclined to offer. “But please, won’t you tell us why you feel the need for someone like us just now?”

“Well, that’s why we’re hear, dearie, init?” the old woman said with a laugh, apparently satisfied about the group’s bona fides. “You see, it’s well know in this hamlet where the ancient fortress and high seat of the Winter King can be found – and has been known for generations. In truth, it’s not far from here at all.

“But you see, our folk were charged long ago to keep the secret from all who might come looking… legends say that after the great Telnori wizard Hastur had defeated the Winter King and imprisoned him in a block of ice deep beneath the mountain, this was the first place he and his apprentice reached.

“Hastur was near to death, having been mortally wounded by the fell magics of that giant necromancer, and would never have made it even this far without his apprentice’s help. This was a larger town then, although already much reduced thanks to the years of eternal winter, and there was a physician here… sadly, his skills were not enough, and after a tenday the great wizard passed to the All. But not before exacting a promise from the townsfolk that they would not let anyone near the old fortress, lest his spells be broken and the Winter King freed once more.

“Already the terrible, endless winter had ended, and a marvelous spring was bursting forth with astonishing speed, as if nature wished to make up for all the years of growth lost to the cold. In their gratitude (and fear, lest the miracle be withdrawn) the men and women of Winter’s Forge agreed, and their oath was reaffirmed and taken up by each new generation. Even as time took its toll, and the town shrank to a village, and the village to a hamlet, the faith has been kept.

“But I fear that the time has come to break that faith.” She paused for a moment, lost in some melancholy thought, before resuming her tale.

“In my lifetime, I have seen the winters in these hills grow ever harsher, ever longer, and the effects spreading ever-farther afield. My dear Harult traveled much in the region, and became convinced, near the end, that the spells of Hastur were slowly beginning to fail, and the power of the Winter King was growing and spreading once more. Some in the village dismissed our arguments, saying there have been harsh winters before; but they are willfully blind to what is happening, hiding their fear behind “faith” and “honor.” Others simply no longer really believe in the old legends.

“The believers fear to tamper with what has always protected us, the unbelievers don’t care, and so we sit, sliding ever closer to a terrible doom, I feel it in my bones. I don’t know what you can do, exactly, but you lot practically reek of the uncanny… if you can renew Hastur’s spells, or destroy the Winter King for good, either one… well, I think it’s better to risk it now than wait for him to regain his full strength. I’m too old to be living in eternal winter!

“I will tell you how to find the true High Seat of the Winter King.”

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

That night Vulk had “The Dream” again. Like the previous two times, it was identical in the action it portrayed, feeling far more like a memory than a dream. But this time when the dream faded he didn’t immediately wake up. Instead he floated in a dark void, and after a few moments he heard a voice, soft but piercingly clear… the voice of his Great Beast mentor, Dügora.

“He who takes the High Seat of the Winter King
If his heart be open to Winter’s beauty
Shall see all of Winter’s Realm laid bare
And then the Wheel of Heaven shall be his
To be turned at his will and with the path unlocked
Shall the treasures of Winter’s Heart be opened”

As the last syllable faded away, Vulk woke suddenly and completely. He reached for the stick of graphite and scraps of paper he’d been keeping by his bedside since the dreams had begun, and quickly wrote down the words – although they seemed etched in his mind, and he doubted he’d ever forget them. Re-reading them he realized, with a start, that some version of this had been in the Ur-Tel’naru documents he’d been translating – a section that he’d had trouble deciphering, but that now seemed perfectly clear.

He eventually laid back down, certain that he’d be unable to sleep.. but in minutes he had drifted off into a deep and, this time, dreamless slumber.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Early the next morning the Hand, having reassembled themselves in the yard in front of the Frozen Anvil, set off along the almost non-existent, overgrown, snow covered track Arella had described for them the night before. The few locals who were up to see them off, which included the anxious Olberth, seem dismayed at their choice of direction, but uncertain of how to dissuade them. All their blandishments and suggestions about the desirability of the opposite, much wider and better tended trail seemed to fall on deaf ears. No one had any illusions about using force on this group, of course…

After several hours of hard travel, they were forced to leave the horses behind, securely tied to trees in a wide clearing at the foot of a steep, stoney slope. Jeb and Therok were detailed to keep watch over them, and the rest of the party continued onward and upward. Arella’s directions had been admirably clear, and they knew from this point it was less than a mile to the “High Seat,” but a mile the horses could never traverse. Indeed, it took well over an hour for the humans (and human-adjacents) to finally come within sight of their goal.

Stepping out of a stand of snow-covered firs, a wide plateau opened suddenly to the east, a steep slope rolling down to the south and sheer cliffs to the north. A frozen  stream cascaded down from the highest cliff in undulating, icy sheets, to “flow” around a pier of stone on a middle level, before tumbling in silent, motionless waves down the lower cliff into a narrow pool then running down the slope to the east.

On the rocky pier was set a circular dais of light gray stone, upon which sat a massive chair of carved granite. Clearly meant for one of the larger species of Gyantari, it remained surprisingly free of snow and ice. A narrow flight of large, deep and high steps was carved into the stone of the nearer cliff, leading up to the central plateau and the High Seat. Unlike the seat itself, the stairs were covered in snow and ice, and looked treacherous. A cold, oppressive weight and a sense of foreboding seemed to bear down on everyone, with the exception of Korwin, who actually felt quite energized.

Before continuing, it was decided that Vulk should send Cherdon aloft to scout the stone chair and the area around them. But as the falcon soared upward in a widening gyre a series of sudden, sharp cracks, like a score of whips snapping at once, broke the snow-muffled silence. Rising up from the shattering ice of the frozen stream to the north were a dozen skeletal corpses of men, the “flesh” that knit their bones made of glittering blue ice. Some bore pitted, rusting blades, others merely razor claws of ice. Between these hideous specters, rising from the ice with them, were great hounds, the size of dire wolves, the solid ice of their forms cracking and instantly reforming as they stalked forward, eyes glowing red.

Erol was the first to leap forward to meet the shambling hoard as it moved toward the group, his trident flashing in the winter sun as he drove it into the flank of the nearest ice hound. It made no sound as it staggered back, great cracks radiating from it side… and it didn’t go down.

Toran had his battle-axe out and chopped mightily at the legs of another ice hound, causing it to stumble but also doing no real damage.

Near the back of the group, Mariala cast Resistance on herself, while Vulk attempted to cast Kasira’s Smile on Devrik, who was rushing forward, roaring out the incantation to Arkel’s Fiery Ribbons. Unfortunately both Vulk’s ritual and Devrik’s spell failed in the cold, forbidding atmosphere of the area.

Haplo, near the front, whipped his hand axe from his belt, swinging it in a mighty arc at the “belly” of the nearest ice zombie, shattering its spine as it claws scrapped uselessly against his armor. Even as it fell to pieces, once again merely lifeless bone and ice, a second one attacked. Haplo continued his follow through, turning it into a powerful counterattack that embedded the axe in the creature’s skull. It, too, collapsed in ruin.

As his spell sputtered out into nothing, an ice hound leapt for Devrik’s throat. The fire mage pulled his massive battle sword from its sheath on his back and counterstuck as he ducked beneath the glittering body. The blow shattered the beast’s hip, and it fell to the ground, writhing as widening cracks ran up its body, until it shattered into a thousand inanimate shards.

More ice hounds, outstripping the more shambling zombies, leapt to attack Erol and Toran, who blocked and evaded, waiting for their moment. Two bore down on Erol, who countered the first attack, piercing the ice warrior’s chest, and nearly dodged the second but couldn’t avoid a freezing gash to his thigh. Toran’s opponent wielded two ice-coated blades, and its attack was swift and vicious. It scored a screeching hit across the armor covering his belly, and managed to dodge the Khundari Shadow Warrior’s counterattack.

Devrik and Haplo both dodged attacks of their own, while Korwin summoned up his Ice Blade. The spell seemed to flow effortlessly from him, and the resultant blade that encased his right forearm seemed both sharper and stronger than any he’d yet manifested. Even so, the ice hound he first swung it at easily dodged his blow, circling around to try and get behind him.

As more of the ice dead swarmed over them, Erol shattered the brittle metal of a frozen sword and the hand that wielded it. Again, fractures radiated out from the destroyed limb, causing the zombie to collapse into shards. At the same moment Toran drove his battle-axe through shoulder of another ice zombie as it clawed at his chest, cleaving the creature almost in two and it shattering it.

Vulk had attempted to turn the clearly undead mob with his holy symbol, but in doing so had sensed no hint of the Shadow. Whatever these monsters were, they were not true undead. Of course, merely necromantically animated corpses were bad enough… Focusing past the dampening effects of whatever magic ruled this place, Vulk again cast Kasira’s Smile, and this time it worked – with a vengeance!

Devrik felt the surge of power flow through him, recognizing the blessing of Kasira. Momentarily free of opponents, he tried again to cast Arkel’s Fiery Ribbons, and this time achieved some measure of success. The spell seemed weak, however, and the ribbons moved sluggishly. Only one fully hit an ice hound, which collapsed to the ground as its legs melted beneath it, while a second hound almost dodged another ribbon, taking only a glancing blow to its left side, which sagged a bit.

The damage caused the beast to turn aside from Devrik, however, and instead it leapt toward Korwin. The water mage’s ice-blade managed to block the bite attack, the ice hound biting down on the blade and inadvertently driving it it through its own skull. It shattered into pieces at Korwin’s feet.

As Haplo and Erol caused more damage to the relentlessly approaching enemies, yet another ice zombie lunged at Devrik. As the fire mage’s counterstrike shattered its right arm and blade, sending a lethal spiderweb of cracks along its torso, the creature still managed to drive its second blade through his armor, scoring a deep cut along his abdomen. The injury itself was relatively minor, but the shock of the supernatural cold hit Devrik like a sledge hammer, driving him down into darkness…

Erol saw his friend topple over, and immediately felt his extratemporal psionic power engage. Time slowed to a molasses flow as he ran across the field to drive his trident into the side of the ice hound that was scrambling over the disintegrating corpse of its former companion to savage the unconscious Devrik. The hound cracked in two, and both halves shattered as they hit the ground. His second attack took the ice zombie shambling toward his friend in the neck, neatly decapitating it.

Haplo and Vulk, momentarily back-to-back, both managed to dodge attacks from an ice hound and an ice zombie, respectively. Toran sent a cross-bow bolt into the ice zombie threatening Vulk, taking off its weapon hand and causing a chain reaction of cracks that ended with it collapsing into shards off ice and bone.

Mariala, drifting back into the cover of the trees, managed to position herself behind another ice zombie as it lurched toward Devrik, who was being helped to his feet by Erol. Neither seemed aware of the danger, and she leapt to the attack with her Khundari dagger, taking the creature in the upper back, shattering it.

Korwin killed another ice hound at the same moment, but was wounded himself in the process – the gash sent a wave of intense cold through him, momentarily dazing him, enough so that, as he staggered back, he was unable to completely block the next ice zombie’s slash at his abdomen. Even as a second wave of black cold washed through him he drove his own ice blade into its head… as it disintegrated into its component parts he collapsed on top of it, unconscious.

Toran was forced to drop his cross-bow as an ice hound lunged at him from less than two meters away; he barely had time to whip two tabûri throwing knives from his belt and hurl them. They met the beast in mid-leap, taking it in the throat and belly, shattering it into several pieces. The creature’s momentum, however, couldn’t be stopped, and the disintegrating body slammed into Toran’s head, momentarily stunning him.

Another ice hound, thinking to take advantage of the situation, had time to be only briefly surprised when the Khundari, whirled around and cut its legs out from beneath it with his battleaxe. Erol took out the last of the ice hounds before turning to help Mariala, who was facing one of the last two zombies. But despite a few dodges and feints she needed no help, driving her dagger into the monster’s thigh, then whipping it back up to shatter its jaw with the pommel as it collapsed.

The last ice zombie lunged at Haplo, glittering claws grasping for his face, only to meet the head of his hand axe instead. As the mindless creature gnawed on the weapon, held at arms length, its arms flailing, Toran stepped up from behind and cut it in two at the waist with a single powerful swing.

As the silence of the snow-muffled mountains settled over them again, the Hand stared warily around, cautious of a second wave of uncanny enemies arising from the again-frozen stream. But when, after several minutes, there appeared no new attack, they began to tend to their wounds. Korwin was revived, and Vulk’s healing ability, along with the group’s vials of Baylorium 7, soon had everyone back in fighting condition.

Once everyone was rested and generally healed up, the group cautiously mounted the stone stairway up to the middle shelf of land that held the small island of the High Seat of the Winter King. The stairs were covered in drifts of snow and coated in ice, the stone cracked and uneven, making the ascent just as treacherous as they had feared. Only Korwin seemed to have no trouble, skipping eagerly up the stairs as if he was in his own home.

As the last of the others made it to the top they found the water mage standing at the edge of the frozen stream that flowed around the pier of rock containing the giant seat.He was unsure, as were his companions, whether crossing the stream might not be a very bad idea – another wave of undead? The water suddenly unfreezing and sweeping people over the falls? Worse?

Erol volunteered to go first, tying a rope around his chest, under his arm pits, while Toran cast Joining of Merkunon to anchor himself to the bedrock of the mountain, the other end of the rope firmly tied around his own waist. Certainly no one would be swept away, should that be the trap that awaited them, and if some other dire eventuality occurred they could at least drag Erol’s body back. Korwin cast Demokirian’s Freeze over the ice and touched everyone in the group, making them able to tread on the ice as if it were packed earth.

With the others gathered near the shore, except Toran who was anchored further back, Erol stepped out onto the ice and cautiously moved forward, wary of any hint of change to the opaque surface. “It seems very solid, very thick,” he called over his shoulder. “I don’t see any indication of water below, even; I think it’s frozen clear to the –”

He was halfway across when he suddenly stopped, in both mid-sentence and mid-stride. After a moment he looked around, then down at the rope tied around his chest, then back at the others. “Why is there a rope around me?” he asked, almost conversationally, as he loosed it and let it drop to his feet. “And who are you folks? It’s certainly very cold, isn’t it?”

“Oh shit,” said Devrik as his friend stepped over the coil of rope and started to wander away. “We can’t pull him back now – I’ll grab him!” He stepped out onto the ice and headed towards Erol. Kowrin also headed out on the ice, but more to get to the other side than to help his companions.

“You idiots, no!” cried Mariala, just a second too late. Devrik, less than halfway to Erol, suddenly stopped and looked around in confusion. Who was the read-headed lady who seemed so upset? What was she so upset about? And why was he standing in the middle of some frozen pond? Come to think on it, who the Void was he, never mind the odd group of people milling about over there?

Korwin, meanwhile strode briskly to the opposite side of the frozen stream and climbed up the short rocky path to the dais that held the giant stone chair. He mightily resisted the temptation to hoist himself up onto it and sit, despite his conviction that he was meant to do so. He’d felt, ever since he’d heard Vulk’s little dream ditty about the High Seat of the Winter King and the treasures of Winter’s Heart, that it was meant for him – the rhyme called to him in a way he’d never experienced before, and he was sure it was his destiny to sit on this throne…

But they’d agreed to go carefully, so he restrained himself, turning back to his companions. Devrik and Erol still stood on the frozen stream, and seemed to be introducing themselves to one another. Trying to, anyway, as neither seemed to know what their name was or who they were. They were distracted by the calls of the others who, with gentle words and promises of answers, gradually lured them back to the “safe” side.

Erol and Devrik approached the strangers warily, hands hovering near their weapons, but they didn’t draw and they didn’t bolt. Mariala tried to explain who they were and what had happened, but it seemed to make little impact on either man. Devrik continued to eye everyone suspiciously and looked dubious as the tale unfolded.

“You’re very pretty,” Erol said suddenly, interrupting Mariala’s monologue. “When we get back to a city or town or whatever, would you like to get a drink?” This stopped Mariala in mid-sentence, her mouth open in surprise. When she didn’t respond immediately, Erol asked if anyone wanted to make a snowman.

“Snap out of it, man!” growled Toran in annoyance, and he slapped the ex-gladiator upside the head, despite their height difference. “Wake up!”

Erol, looking surprised and then annoyed himself, took a swipe at the inexplicable Khundari, who nimbly dodged. He realized he knew what the shorter man was, but not who he was, which seemed odd… his disgruntlement at being slapped vanished when the silver-haired stranger bopped the dwarf on the helmet and told him to stop. As they began to argue he turned with a shrug and began rolling the base of his snowman…

Vulk managed to lead a wary Devrik over to stand near the happily whistling Erol, where he performed the ritual Blessing of Kasira on both men at once. Instantly they froze, their faces suddenly stiff and blank. Then it was obvious that memory and personality were flowing back into them. Erol looked down at the large sphere of snow in his hand, the torso of his snowman, and dropped it in puzzlement.

“Am I making a snowman?” he demanded of Devrik, in some confusion. “If so, why?”

“I have no idea,” Devrik replied. “Anymore than I understand how Korwin got to the other side of the river.”

Vulk, emboldened by Korwin’s safe passage across the ice and his own restoration of his friends’ minds, performed the Blessing of Kasira on himself, then set off across the ice to join the water mage. Safely on the far side with both mind and memory intact, he called across to the others.

“I don’t see any point in risking anyone else at this point. Korwin and I will go up and see what the situation is with this High Seat; the rest of you keep a sharp watch for anything unusual while we’re at it, please.”

The others agreed. No one was anxious to lose their minds just to sit on a no doubt very cold hunk of granite, even if Vulk could probably restore them. As the two men headed up the short path to the dais, they argued about who should sit in the throne first. In the end Korwin deferred to Vulk… right up to the moment when the cantor was pulling himself up onto the seat. Before he could turn and sit Korwin had leaped up beside him, and they sat simultaneously.

To Vulk’s chagrin, he saw nothing, felt nothing – beyond the searing chill of the frozen stone on his ass – even as it was obvious Kowrin was having a different experience. He felt the cold not at all, and as his own ass hit the stone his vision suddenly sharpened – the high seat looked out over the Arnoth Highlands below them, and he could see to the horizon with a clarity, and in such detail, that it took his breath away. The hamlet of Winter’s Forge looked like it was a model just a few feet away… he could actually make out the individual faces of various villagers going about their business…

His attention was wrenched away from this voyeuristic pursuit, however, when a sudden vision appeared in the air before the throne. It was a glowing blue-white orrery of the Ziran system, hovering in translucent three dimensional glory before him. The date glowed in large letters and numbers above the model, and as he reached out to try and touch the beautiful structure he found the planets of the system moved with his motions. As they moved, the date changed, and he quickly realized he could select any date by positioning the planets and moons in their configuration on that date – past or future!

Vulk saw nothing.

Once Korwin had described what he was seeing some debate followed about how the orrery should be manipulated to achieve “the path unlocked.” In the end they found that it was the date of the summer solstice, for any year, that was the key. When the model was set thusly, the vision faded and there was a sudden rumbling beneath their feet. Down the cliff, near the base of the southern slopes, a sudden spray of powdered snow could be seen puffing out and avalanching down into the trees below.

Rejoining the others, the group headed down the slopes to find a massive cave entrance had been revealed by the swinging open of great stone doors disguised as part of the hillside. Cautiously entering, the Hand found a series of large caverns and sinuous, winding passageways leading deeper into the mountain. Great outcroppings of glowing blue crystal grew in patches from walls, floors and ceilings, illuminating everything in a cold, eerie light. A natural stone bridge arched over a chasm where a once rushing stream was frozen far below, and giant steps lead downward.

One level was clearly a living space for a giant of tremendous size… ethereal fires burned still in great hearths in kitchen and hall, giving off no heat, as well as in braziers of bronze and onyx in study and bedroom. An immense bed occupied the center of the latter room, and beyond it a hidden door lead to what appeared to be a treasury. Although the shelves were bare, a massive chest stood at the far end of the long, narrow room, and it drew the party.

Toran quickly determined that the chest, almost as tall as he was, was protected by locks and traps both physical and arcane. While he could defeat the former with his own skill and his magic key, the latter were far beyond his ability to dispel. After the other mages tested their own skills against the magic defenses, Korwin decided to try a more practical tactic. He used his telekinetic hand to unlock the last lock and lift the lid – instantly the chest and everything for two meters around it were encased in ice.

Fortunately no one had been caught in the frigid explosion, but the resultant ice was like steel. Most of the Hand had felt the oppressive weight on their souls increase as they moved deeper in to the Halls of the Winter King, and their own arcane powers waning, especially Devrik. Attempting to summon fire to melt the ice, he found he couldn’t generate so much as a magical spark. Even his psionic pyrokinesis could produce no more than a pale, flickering flame.

Korwin was the only exception, in most regards, to the general malaise. His own powers felt energized and sharper the deeper they went, but at the same time he sensed a malevolence that seemed directed at him in particular. This feeling of jealous rage kept him on edge, and he felt it trying to subdue his powers, even as the sanctum itself (for that’s surely what this was, a natural Avikoran sanctum) boosted them. He was forced to admit that it would take him hours to sublimate the ethereal ice around the chest.

The group decided to leave the chest, for now, and see what they might do once the primary objective was achieved. Moving out of the living quarters they followed more winding, giant stairs down to an even lower level, and so found at last the Great Hall of the Winter King. It was a huge chamber with multiple levels of natural shelves rising from the solid ice floor, and a great dais inset in the southwest wall, upon which was a far more massive and ornate throne than the one outside.

And seated upon that throne was an enormous humanoid figure of solid blue-white, translucent ice, much like the ice hounds in fact. A cold blue light burned in the deep-set eye sockets as it turned its gaze on the intruders, the mere moving of its head sounding like the groaning and calving of glaciers. Massive fists clenched at the arms of the throne, their ice cracking and refreezing as it flexed.

“Who dares disturb the counsels of the Winter King?” a voice both deep and crystalline growled as the Hand stood frozen in their tracks.

“We seek an audience with you, mighty King,” Korwin said, before anyone else could answer. As he stepped forward the figure rose from its seat with the sound of an avalanche and gestured toward the much smaller mage.

“Die, interloper!” it rumbled as a large icy spike flew from the out-flung hand. Korwin’s eyes widened and he tried to dodge, but the freezing spear took him in the thigh and he fell screaming to the floor. His blood froze as it tried to pool around him, and his mind sank into blissful, pain-free darkness.

Erol immediately sent a shaft from his longbow into the left hip of the Winter King, followed almost without pause by a bolt from Toran’s cross-bow, which embedded itself in the giant’s right shoulder. Mariala hurled her dagger at an eye, but the blade was batted aside with ease, sending it skittering across the ice floor.

Haplo pulled his axe free with one hand and gestured with the other, sending a blast of invisible force, in the form of four Mokel’s Karmic Missiles, at the looming enemy. Cracks appeared at the left thigh, both shoulders and the right elbow, but they seemed to heal over almost as quickly as the formed.

The Winter King in turn made a similar gesture, and another spike flew from his hand, piercing Haplo’s right bicep, sending his hand axe and a spray of blood flying and the young mage to his knees, clutching at the wound and attempting to stop the bleeding.

Erol’s extratemporal power kicked in as he tried to cast Burning Shaft on his trident before hurling it at their foe. But the oppressive weight of the Avikoran sanctum caused the spell to sputter out in failure, even as the weapon itself shattered the left shoulder of the giant. The Winter King screamed in crystalline rage, seeming at last to feel something – just as Toran’s next bolt pieced his mouth, blowing out the back of his icy skull in a shower of glittering shards.

The blue fire in his eyes flickered out, and in slow motion the body of the Winter King toppled forward off his dais, to shatter into a million pieces on the floor of the Great Hall. For a moment there was a deep silence, broken only by Haplo’s muttered curses as he tried to staunch the flow of blood from his arm. Then the flood burst as everyone started talking at once.

“That was… surprisingly easy,” Toran said suspiciously.

“Tell that to Korwin,” said Vulk as he knelt by the unconscious man. “And Haplo.” Mariala was kneeling by the silver-haired mage, wrapping an improvised bandage around his arm. “Damn, he’s lost a lot of blood. Go through his scrip, see if you can find the rest of his Baylorium 7s!”

As Toran searched for the precious ceramic bottles, Vulk pulled the chain around Korwin’s neck from beneath his tunic and unstoppered the brass and crystal vial it supported. He slowly poured the dose into his friend’s mouth, making sure he swallowed it and didn’t choke or spit it back up. When Toran handed him the green ceramic bottle which contained a triple dose of the miracle elixir, he poured the entire thing over the gaping wound in Korwin’s thigh.

Almost at once the bleeding slowed, and in less than a minute it had stopped completely. Within five minutes the edges of the wound were visibly beginning to close, the flesh knitting itself back together. Two turns of the glass later, Korwin was back on his feet, if still weak and pale from blood loss, and favoring the wounded leg a bit.

Once satisfied that his friend would live, Vulk moved to check on Haplo. With Mariala’s help he had managed to swallow his own emergency vial of Baylorium 7s, but was more than willing to let the cantor apply the topical version to the wound itself. Nasty as it was, not having nicked an artery it began to heal even more quickly than Korwin’s injury, and by the time the group gathered at the foot of the giant throne he was already flexing his bicep and hefting his recovered hand axe.

“There is no way that this was the actual Winter King,” Vulk began once they’d all gathered. A thorough search of the hall had revealed no sign of the Staff of Summer, and in any case in his visions the Gyantari wizard had been a flesh-and-blood being, not a creature of solid ice.

“I don’t think Hosara-Tar actually turned his enemy into ice… that just feels wrong, somehow. No, I think this was just another animated trap of the actual Winter King, much like those ice zombies and even more like the ice hounds. But I’m not sure what to do next, we seem to have reached the bottom of this fortress…”

“Actually,” said Toran diffidently, “I found a hidden door while searching around for the Staff. I figured if no one else found the thing, I’d suggest we try there. Or even if they did find it, that we might find something worthwhile to loot…”

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

The secret door did, indeed, lead to something worthwhile… after winding down narrow, twisting passages, the Hand came at last down a final set of stairs and out into another large chamber, unlike any they had yet seen. The clumps of crystal there glowed with a pinkish white light, and the floor was made of deeply glowing violet ice. A huge ward was etched into the ice, filling the center of the room, and across from where they stood was a massive throne of amethyst. On that throne sat the true King of Winter, and he was terrible.

His flesh had fallen from his bones at some point, and in its place flickered a cold blue flame. This searingly cold new “flesh” mostly covered his bones, save that his skull shone through the flames wreathing his head. The deep sockets of his eyes glowed with a piercing blue light and a malevolent intelligence. Tattered robes and blackened armor covered him, and in his hand was a black spear of twisted wood, with a black metal point across which pale blue flames flickered.

As the Hand stepped into the room, crowding onto the area of bare stone at the entrance which rose slightly above the glowing violet ice, he rose. He stood almost seven meters tall, and when he spoke his voice was as dead and cold as the void between the stars.

“So, once again the little folk come to challenge my power, the power of Winter. You are fools, and will fare no better than the last witless child to face me.”

“That ‘witless child’ may not have been able to destroy you,” Vulk said, stepping forward to the edge of the ice, inwardly praying to Kasira for strength and wits. “But he certainly succeeded in imprisoning you here for over 13 centuries.”

For a moment the Winter King was silent, and when he spoke it was almost wistful, if only briefly so. “Has it truly been so long? But it is no matter… I may have fallen into that mageling’s trap, my power indeed confined herein – for a time. But for many years since that trap has become my own bastion, its power my power. I have slowly subverted its energies to my own purposes, and am its prisoner no more!

“Whether you come to steal the Staff of Summer or to make sure that the King of Winter is truly dead, you have failed already – for I live! Indeed, I have become immortal; and the Staff of Summer is no more! For behold, it has become the Spear of Winter, and soon it will usher in a never-ending Age of Ice across the globe!” He lifted the spear and slammed its haft down against the ice three times.

While this had been going on, Devrik had been desperately trying to ignite his battlesword with Goraten’s Brand, struggling against the tremendous pressure of not fire that beat against him like an ocean. Five times he tried to empower the spell, and each failure drained a little more energy from him… he could feel the fatigue beginning to sap his physical strength as well as his mental agility, and that last attempt had been almost as draining as the first four combined. Closing out all distractions, he focused his will inward even as he sent out prayers to Kasira and Xydona…

As the echoes of the last tap of the Winter King’s spear reverberated, and before Vulk could respond,  Erol and Toran, almost simultaneously brought up their bows and fired. Erol’s shaft flew true, he could feel it, straight for the monster’s heart – almost contemptuously the giant flicked his hand and the spear knocked the arrow aside like it was standing still. A second flick and Toran’s bolt was also knocked aside before it could pierce the “royal” breast.

“Impressive,” muttered Toran, and Erol echoed the thought with a respectful “Well played!”

As soon as the missiles had flown, Vulk had begun the ritual of Kasira’s Smile, seeking to aid Devrik. He knew his friend would need it in this frigid Avikor sanctum more than any of the others. His own will was oppressed by the cold, dark weight of the sanctum, but even through the darkness he could feel the light and power of the Immortal Lady of Luck. And even if it wasn’t the widest channel he’d ever opened, nonetheless he felt Her power flow through him and into Devrik…

With a roar, Devrik leapt up from where he had been kneeling behind the others, and his sword burst into flame with a roar of its own, its light and heat pushing back the cold and the dark. The fire mage pushed past his friends and rushed the giant, sword high. “Prepare to meet the true King of Summer!”

The Winter King rushed forward to meet the charge, chanting some incantation that caused his spear to burst into blue flames that radiated a deathly cold to match Devrik’s heat. The two met near the center of the chamber, and the giant was slightly faster – he thrust his flaming spear forward with all his considerable strength straight for his smaller opponent’s gut.

Devrik, still feeling the power of Kasira within him, went low and for the counterstrike. The shock of the blow numbed his right arm, but he kept his grip on his sword even as the Spear of Winter went flying from the Winter King’s grasp to clatter onto the ice to the right!

As the giant reeled back in apparent shock and fury, he was hit at almost the same instant by Mariala’s Passion Nerves spell, and Haplo’s four Mokel’s Karmic Missiles. Unfortunately both seemed to do little more than momentarily confuse, and then further enrage, the giant.

Erol went extratemporal with practiced ease, and hurled his net. The Winter King dodged it easily and dove for his Spear. Toran made a grab for the weapon as well – and beat him to it. The dwarf rolled quickly away and the spear’s icy flames flickered out as he tossed it to Vulk.

Vulk, who had been taken aback by the giant’s claim to have corrupted the Staff of Summer, quickly realized it had been a lie. He sensed the power in the spear, but it had no relationship to the Toraz convocation, or indeed to life itself. It was strictly a tool of death and entropy, and he tossed it out of the cave, into the passageway behind them.

Meanwhile, Haplo had kept the Winter King busy with a flurry of attacks with his flashing hand axe. The giant blocked each blow with iron bracers, but it kept him distracted long enough for Erol, still moving at speed, to entangle the giant with his net, causing him to stumble. To the ex-gladiator’s accelerated senses the opening this gave him was wide and long – his trident thrust pierced the necromancer’s armor and blue fire surged out of the wound in the giant’s side, staggering him.

With the Winter King reeling, Korwin cast his Drunken Hand spell, while at the same instant Vulk Cursed him. Seeing their enemy dazed, Devrik attacked again, bringing his fiery sword around for a mighty blow. The Winter King, who had retreated almost back to his throne, grabbed his own battlesword, propped against it, and ignited it with his icy flames even as he made a lightning counterattack. Fast as he was, he was clearly still feeling the effects of Korwin’s spell, and he staggered just a bit as he attacked – and by that was saved as Devrik’s blade missed him by a hair. His own blade cut into Devrik’s right thigh, however, splitting his armor.

Ignoring the pain, Devrik instantly moved in for another attack, and the Winter King muttered an incomprehensible incantation… three balls of crackling blue energy appeared around his upraised hand, and he hurled them at the fire mage. Devrik just managed to dodge the spheres, and could feel the burning cold radiating from them as they passed.

The giant took advantage of Devrik’s momentary distraction and raised his sword to attack – but before the blow could fall, one of Toran’s tabûri bloomed in his forearm, piercing the fiery flesh between the bracer’s straps and causing him to drop his weapon.

Mariala had been preparing to throw her own knife from behind Devrik, but in having to dodge the Blue Balls of Icy Death herself, she fumbled the blade. Cursing silently to herself as the blade clattered to the ice, she dove to retrieve it and hoped no one noticed her ungainly scramble.

Erol, Haplo and Toran kept up a barrage of attacks on the Winter King, keeping him from picking up his fallen sword and able only to block with his armored forearms. Fire continued to flicker from the gash in his armor, but he seemed little effected by the wound.

As he prepared for his next run, a sudden flash of inspiration struck Devrik. He disengaged from the battle with the Winter King, ducking a blow from his massive fist and rolling away toward the center of the room. Coming to his feet over the heart of the warding sigil etched into the ice, he yelled “This is either going to succeed wildly, or fail spectacularly!” as he raised his flaming blade over his head. Everyone in the chamber froze as he drove the burning sword deep into the heart of the mystic symbol.

The was a flash of blinding violet light, a tremendous CRACK like thunder, and everyone was hurled away from Devrik as if lifted by an invisible hand. Cracks propagated outward at terrible speed, and the icy floor of the cavern broke into dozens of fragments floating on a sea of bubbling, steaming mud. Devrik lay stunned on the largest fragment, his sword cold and inert nearby, the Winter King had been thrown back against his crystal throne, and the others were scattered variously across the floor fragments.

As the combatants slowly recovered from the shock of the blast, a low hum began to fill the chamber and all eyes were drawn toward the center. Rising up out of the mud, surrounded by a glowing green nimbus, was a staff of twisted ironwood, its branches forming a sort of basket at the head that encased a glowing ovoid of translucent green resin.

“At last!” cried the Winter King, his deep, crystalline voice sounding truly alive for the first time since the Hand had entered his prison. He leapt from his throne to the nearest segment of floating floor ice, headed for the Staff of Summer. But Devrik was closer by far, and he staggered to his feet, reaching out to seize the artifact – only to be blown back and slammed into the far wall.

Korwin, taking note of his companion’s fate, attempted to grasp the Staff telekinetically. But it proved impossible – the mental sensation his mind generated was like trying to grasp a perfectly frictionless oval, he simply couldn’t get a grip on it. With a curse he gave up and prepared to focus on tripping up the Winter King as he hopped from floe to floe…

But Vulk had started moving as soon as the head of the Staff had broken the surface of the bubbling mud, leaping like a gazelle from ice fragment to ice fragment, never stopping, never losing his forward momentum. With a final leap he snatched the glowing artifact from where it hovered and came down, the Staff firmly clutched in one hand, on the large floor fragment Devrik had first occupied. He whirled to face the Winter King, who now stopped one ice floe away…

In a timeless moment inside his own head, Vulk confronted the intelligence within the Staff of Summer. Two wills clashed, for what seemed hours, until the will within the Staff retreated, submitting to its new wielder. Vulk knew it would take much more time to fully master the powers of the artifact, but for now he was truly in control. His mind snapped back to full awareness, and he realized only seconds had passed.

He raised the Staff, preparing to deliver a stirring monologue before blasting the Winter King into the Void, when the giant burst into a long, deep laugh.

“Thank you, little would-be mageling,” the giant gusted out gleefully. “So easily manipulated, so deeply foolish. Everything you have done since entering my realm has been by my will. Now, by seizing Hasora-Tar’s cursed staff and making it your own, you have broken his spells of binding and restraint, freeing me at last from the bonds I could never have broken from the inside, not in less than another thousand years! No more painfully extending my power meter by creeping meter, year after slow year; now I feel it all rushing back into me at once, like a river! Soon I – I –”

He faltered suddenly in his gloating, and staggered, dropping to one knee. “No! What is– what–” He held one hand up to his face and watched in uncomprehending horror as the blue flame flickered out and the bones beneath, suddenly visible, began to crack and fracture. In seconds his hand was gone in a spray of glittering blue dust. “How?” was the last, anguished word from his lips before his legs crumbled away beneath him and he collapsed all at once into a swirling mass of glittering flecks. Eventually only the scattered pieces of his armor and scraps of cloth remained atop a pile of bluish dust, before dust, armor, and all sank into the bubbling mud.

“What did you do, Vulk?” asked Devrik as he wincingly pulled himself up from where he’d hit the wall. “Did you use the staff to…” He gestured toward where the last of the Winter King was disappearing.

“No, that wasn’t me,” Vulk answered slowly. “Not directly, anyway. I think… the Staff is telling me… it’s hard to explain! But I think the powers of life contained in the Staff of Summer, combined with his own magics, was what was keeping the Winter King “alive.” He’d tapped into somehow, but he never controlled it, and when the spells were withdrawn – when I took control of the Staff – all the centuries caught up with him at once.”

“So, if he wasn’t lying about manipulating us into all this,” Haplo mused, “then he really killed himself. Ha! Great twist, I love it!”

“Well, now that that’s taken care of,” Korwin said once the general chuckles had died down, “and Vulk has his new toy, I suggest we head back to that treasure room and see about that large, promising chest we left encased in ice. I have a feeling that there’s some really nice stuff in there…”