Chapter 103: Undead Sword Formation
The endless icy sea stretched before Wade’s eyes as he approached the coastline. The northern coastal areas along the Dragon’s Spine all belonged to this frozen ocean, which would freeze solid every December with ice reaching half a meter thick, only beginning to thaw in March of the following year and completely melting by April or May.
This being the first month of the new year, the ice sea was at its thickest. The frozen expanse before Wade wasn’t smooth – rugged ice blocks spread across the vast sea surface, with distant frozen icebergs looking like petrified waves, the tides and crashing sounds frozen in that single moment.
As the sun set, twilight painted golden light along the edges while the icebergs and distant ice sea were bathed in sunset hues, though the snowfields remained dominated by pure blue tones. White snow and blue ice extended across the frozen plain, outlining an unnamed bay like a pale crescent moon.
The Viking pirates and black-clad men were slaughtering each other across this snowy expanse. Over a dozen bodies already littered the ground from the brutal fighting that occurred before Wade’s arrival.
A wide-eyed Viking warrior lay dead in the snow, his pupils dilated and lifeless – killed by a crossbow bolt through the back that pierced his heart, spraying blood that dyed the blue ice crimson, his thick beard and eyebrows dusted with snowflakes.
Only two or three casualties were Vikings; most corpses belonged to the black-clad men. These men had dark skin and dragon-like tattoos on their heads, their builds generally slimmer than the Viking warriors. Many had been cleaved down in the snow, some decapitated, their headless bodies spraying blood across the ground.
The blood was still warm, the frigid air thick with the scent of iron and gore. The black-clad force had been utterly routed by the Viking raiders – bare-chested warriors wielding sharp axes, wearing animal hide garments, their exposed skin painted with war god totems using beast blood and bone powder.
Before Wade appeared, the Vikings had still been roaring battle cries. But when that bone-drawn sled emerged from the white horizon, both warring factions instinctively turned their attention toward it.
In the twilight, those skeletons seemed like hallucinations. A ghostly sled pulled by undead reindeer and spectral goats advanced toward them, its skeletal passengers armored and equipped identically to the Vikings. These nameless spirits seemed to descend with the falling night.
Humans have feared darkness since ancient times because it conceals the unknown. That ghostly sled was the unknown made manifest.
When one skeleton drew its sword, the seemingly empty sled suddenly became crowded with more skeletal figures – as if they’d always been there, merely invisible to living eyes.
The battle-hardened Vikings didn’t fear ordinary skeletons, knowing such weak undead could be smashed apart with axes and hammers. But these were different – no mindless skeleton could drive sleds or steer bone-beasts across the tundra. Normal undead wouldn’t move with such coordination and discipline.
These were death’s emissaries! Ancient legends from the underworld!
Dread spread through both Viking and black-clad ranks as childhood stories from North Tia surfaced in their minds. Nearly everyone raised in the northern wastes knew these tales.
When the winter solstice comes and blizzards rage, a spectral hunting party rides the storm corridors – crossing Tania’s bays, traversing Thornwick’s black forests, advancing across Iceland’s wastelands. Their coming is heralded by phantom hounds’ howls, storm trumpets, and ghostly steeds striking sparks. They harvest dying souls, slaughtering any living obstacle – even white dragons and frost giants fall before them.
The Wild Hunt’s legend.
Variations exist across northern nations, none knowing the truth. Some claim it’s war god Tyr’s procession; others say vengeful spirits. Scholars dismiss it as fiction given the contradictory versions, suggesting it’s merely a warning against venturing out during winter storms.
None have ever revealed the Hunt’s true nature. Those who see them allegedly die without trace in the living world. Yet this ancient legend remains etched in every northerner’s heart, a childhood fear never forgotten.
The approaching sled was no illusion but terrifying reality. It slowed to a halt at the battlefield’s edge, the bone-beasts standing motionless, their hollow sockets silently observing.
Eight skeletal warriors disembarked. Adonis licked dry lips, gripping his massive two-handed battleaxe. In fifteen years of piracy, he’d never witnessed anything so unnatural.
The skeletons advanced silently, weapons drawn. Adonis exhaled sharply, roaring at them, but they continued their wordless approach. His heartbeat accelerated uncontrollably, rage and dizziness flooding his skull.
As a berserker, he always inhaled a special powder before battle to boil his blood and nullify pain. Clad in winter wolf pelts with a wolf-tooth necklace, he’d long forgotten fear’s taste.
Compulsively, he took the remaining powder from his pouch and smeared it across his face. After momentary dizziness, burning blood surged through him. Roaring like an enraged bear, Adonis charged the skeletons, fear replaced by pure bloodlust. In this state, even allies avoided him as he’d attack anything nearby indiscriminately.
The two-meter-tall berserker was more terrifying than an ice bear when enraged. Yet the skeletons simply drew swords in eerie unison, eight figures stepping back to create space.
Forming a circle, they raised their Viking swords in perfect synchronization, gleaming blades creating a deadly ring. Moving with unnatural grace, they shifted formation instantly – eight undead stepping back simultaneously, adopting the two-horn sword stance with weapons held double-handed.
Adonis’s charge faltered. Before his axe could descend, eight blades pierced his chest simultaneously. Blood flowers bloomed as steel withdrew, and the undefeated berserker collapsed, his great axe thudding into snow like a hammerblow to every witness’ heart.