The agonizing aftermath of the Frostfang fight was a brutal testament to Kael's unyielding will. His body, battered and broken, screamed in protest. Ribs ached with every breath, a searing pain that radiated through his chest. His injured leg, already compromised from the earlier fall, throbbed with a fresh, deeper agony, making every movement a deliberate, grueling effort. He lay for a brief, agonizing moment beside the colossal corpse, then pushed himself up.
He had no healers, no magic. Only the raw, desperate drive to survive. He pushed through the pain, forcing his battered limbs to move. He gnawed on the tough, dried meat he had stockpiled, a desperate fuel for his body's agonizing repair. He found a rough, bitter-tasting mountain herb, chewed it, its unpleasant taste dulling the worst of the agony just enough for him to function.
Within hours, driven by a need that transcended his injuries, Kael began the monumental task of butchering the Apex Frostfang. Its unique properties – its internal ice and fire – meant its hide was incredibly valuable, its organs imbued with strange, raw energies. It was slow, excruciating work for his injured body, each cut sending fresh tremors of pain through his frame, but he was driven by the potential earnings. He meticulously stripped the iridescent hide, collected the glowing organs, and severed the massive claws. Every piece was coin. Every piece was Elian's future. He carefully extracted the enormous, unbroken fang Gorok had demanded, cleaning it of blood and tissue.
Finally, nestled in the shattered ice where the Frostfang had been guarding, he uncovered them: two objects that pulsed with an unsettling, ancient energy. One was a sword, its blade dark, almost obsidian, yet it shimmered with a chaotic symphony of subtle colors – blue, orange, green, purple, brown, grey. A raw, elemental power seemed to hum from it, resonating with uncontained forces. The other was an axe, its head forged of pure, crystalline ice, impossibly sharp, yet its edges pulsed with faint, internal blue flames, as if fire burned within its core. Its hilt was wrapped in ancient, intricate silver, cold to the touch but radiating a fierce, untamed energy.
Kael didn't understand their magic. He couldn't connect with such forces. But he felt their immense, ancient power, their raw hum, a resonance of forgotten ages. He recognized them as valuable, uniquely powerful artifacts. He meticulously cleaned them of the beast's blood, wrapped them in thick, oiled furs, and, with agonizing effort, bundled them along with the fang, hide, and organs. It was a monumental burden, but he dragged them all, slowly, painstakingly, back towards the Viking settlement.
He staggered into the camp just as the sun was beginning to touch the highest peaks, casting long, bruised shadows. Kael was a horrific sight: covered in his own blood and the monster's, his furs torn, his face a grim mask of exhaustion and pain, the empty socket of his left eye a stark void. He was barely standing, dragging the massive, blood-soaked hide, the huge fang, and the bundled ancient weapons behind him.
The first Viking to spot him let out a guttural cry. Others turned. Silence fell over the camp, replacing the usual morning chatter. Every eye fixed on the small, battered figure.
Bjorn was among the first. His eyes widened as he saw the enormous Frostfang fang. Then he saw Kael's condition. "By the Ancestors!" he rumbled, rushing forward. Other Vikings, including Chief Orm, quickly gathered. They rushed to Kael, their initial awe replaced by a mixture of shock and immediate concern.
Kael collapsed as they reached him, his body giving out. He hit the snow-dusted ground with a thud, the bundle of spoils spilling around him. Several Vikings immediately moved to tend to his injuries, their rough hands surprisingly gentle as they peeled back his tattered furs.
Chief Orm knelt beside the Frostfang's enormous fang. His stony face, usually impassive, contorted with a mixture of awe and disbelief. "The Apex Frostfang!" he boomed, his voice echoing across the silent camp. "The beast of ancient tales! You slew it, child?!" He looked at Kael, his battered body barely conscious, and a deep respect, laced with fear, bloomed in his eyes.
They carried Kael to the largest longhouse, laying him gently on a thick bed of furs near the central hearth. The Viking women, their faces etched with concern, immediately began to tend to his wounds, applying poultices of bitter herbs and binding his broken ribs. Elian, roused by the commotion, stumbled out, his small face contorted with fear as he saw his "Big Brother" so broken. He clung to Kael's uninjured arm, sobbing softly. Kael's single eye, though blurred with pain, fixated on Elian, a silent promise.
For days, Kael lay on the brink. His fever raged, his small body fighting desperately against the sheer trauma of his injuries. The Viking healers worked tirelessly, impressed by his abnormal tenacity, the way his body simply refused to yield to death. Even in his delirium, his grip on Elian's small hand, when the boy visited, remained fierce.
Finally, the fever broke. Kael's breathing became less ragged. He slowly opened his single eye, pain still a constant companion, but clearer now. He was weak, but alive.
It was on the third day of his recovery that Chief Orm, Bjorn, and the most respected elders gathered in the longhouse. The Frostfang's fang was displayed prominently. And the two ancient weapons, gleaming faintly even wrapped in their furs, lay on a central stone table.
Orm slowly unwrapped them. The dark, multi-elemental sword pulsed with a chaotic symphony of subtle colors. The crystalline axe radiated fierce cold and simmering heat. The air in the longhouse thrummed with a raw, ancient energy.
"These are the Soul-Forged Relics!" Orm declared, his voice filled with a mixture of reverence and awe. "The Lost Weapons of the First Tribe! The very reason our ancestors came to these mountains, seeking their return!"
Bjorn and the elders stared, their jaws slack. The legends were true.
Orm picked up the sword. Its dark blade pulsed. "This is the Weaver's Blade! Forged from the heart of the primal elements! It binds the very essence of nature! It chooses its wielder through spirit, not blood!" He then presented the axe. "And this… the Flamefrost Axe! Born of the mountains' dual fury! It too seeks a spirit it recognizes!"
The Vikings murmured, their eyes wide. They had searched for these for generations.
Elian, having quietly toddled into the longhouse to check on Kael, saw the gleaming weapons. His innocent curiosity overriding all caution, he reached out a small hand. His fingers brushed the hilt of the Weaver's Blade.
A blinding flash of multi-colored light erupted from the sword. It pulsed, resonating with a deep, powerful hum, and then settled into a steady, vibrant glow, its various elemental hues swirling around Elian's small hand. The air in the longhouse thrummed with a pure, controlled elemental energy that made the Vikings gasp and instinctively step back. Elian giggled, delighted by the light, oblivious to the awe-struck faces of the Vikings, who recognized their sacred relic choosing a wielder.
Chief Orm gasped, falling back. Bjorn stared. The Weaver's Blade, a relic dormant for centuries, had chosen a wielder. A child. A child from the ash-lands, whose lineage they knew nothing of.
Kael, weak but alert, watched from his furs. He felt the immense power. He watched the sword respond to Elian, a surge of fierce protection overwhelming his exhaustion. It is Elian's. His single eye, cold and calculating, shifted to the Flamefrost Axe. Its icy head pulsed with internal flames.
His gaze flickered to Freya. She stood apart, her eyes wide with shock and a fierce, unbidden emotion. She was not a brute. She flowed like the wind, a warrior of swift, elemental strikes. The axe, with its fiery ice, its untamed energy, perfectly matched her. He didn't know why he knew this. Only that it was truth. A pragmatic assessment, unclouded by pain.
He slowly reached out a trembling, bandaged hand. Picked up the Flamefrost Axe. It was heavy, cold. He presented it to Freya, his arm still weak. He said nothing. His offering was silent.
Freya, her eyes wide with a mixture of disbelief and fierce anticipation, hesitated. Then, slowly, she reached out. Her small, calloused fingers closed around the axe's hilt.
A searing cold and burning heat erupted from the axe. It pulsed with vibrant blue flames and shimmering ice, a stark, beautiful contrast. It vibrated, resonating with a powerful hum, then settled, its energies seeming to meld with Freya's very spirit. Freya gasped, her face alight with awe and a surge of raw power. She gripped it, her fierce spirit meeting its untamed might.
Chief Orm stared, then boomed with joyous laughter. "By the spirits of the peaks! The Relics are found! And they have chosen! The Weaver's Blade for the child of the ash-lands! And the Flamefrost Axe for Freya, daughter of Bjorn!" His voice thundered with triumph.
The Vikings erupted in a cacophony of cheers and guttural shouts of celebration. The long-lost relics, the very reason their tribe endured in these mountains, were found. And they had chosen their wielders among them.
Kael, battered and still recovering, ignored the cheers. His purpose burned with a cold, steady flame. He had faced the mountain's wrath, earned its grudging respect, and now, he had recovered its greatest treasures for the tribe. He had the fang for Gorok. He had secured Elian's future. And now, Elian and Freya held power, a power Kael would never know, but a power he would protect.
The mountain had forged him. Now, the city awaited. And the debt owed to Carn Malach still pulsed, a cold, unyielding fire in his soul.