The wind outside Skaldenhold did not howl. It screamed. It was the Night of the Star Ice, the single longest night of the year when the sun refused to rise over Boreas and the Sky Fire, the aurora, danced so low it kissed the peaks of the glaciers.

Inside the Great Hall of the fortress, carved deep into the living blue ice of the glacier, the air was warm and thick with the smell of roasting elk and pine resin. The Thuld, the gathering of the clans, was in session. Tonight was not for politics. It was for drinking.

Haldor, a young Ironkin warrior of the Wolf Clan, stood at the massive gates hewn from ice, peering out through the viewing slit. He was not drinking. He was on watch.

You are letting the heat out, boy. A gravelly voice rumbled behind him.

Haldor turned. It was Karn Torstein, the Jarl of the Wolf Clan. He held a horn of mead in one hand and a leg of mutton in the other. His beard was braided with silver rings that chimed as he moved.

The storm is worse than the sagas said, Karn. Haldor stepped back from the slit. The snow is moving sideways. I cannot see the marker stones.

It is the Long Night. Torstein laughed and clapped a heavy hand on the shoulder armor Haldor wore. The spirits of the ice are restless. They want their due. Speaking of which. He gestured to a small, heavy sack resting by the door. It is time for the Offering.

Haldor looked at the sack. It contained an ingot of refined steel, a flask of the clan's best fire wine, and a loaf of bread baked with winter berries. Tradition demanded a warrior carry it to the High Stone, a solitary pillar of rock a mile from the gates, to appease the spirits of the deep ice and ensure the sun returned tomorrow.

Usually, it was a ceremonial jog. Tonight, in this blizzard, it was a death sentence.

I will go. Haldor straightened his spine. I volunteered.

Aye, you did. Torstein nodded, his eyes narrowing with respect. Because you are young and you think frostbite is a myth. But listen to me, Haldor. Do not stray from the chain line. If you lose the line, you lose your life. The Sky Fire plays tricks on the mind tonight.

I know the way, Karn. I will be back before the first cask is empty.

Do not be a hero. Torstein grunted and shoved the sack into the chest of the younger man. Just be a postman. Drop it and run back. If you see anything out there, anything that is not a rock or a tree, you do not fight it. You ignore it. The veil is thin tonight.

Torstein glanced up at the shadowed battlements where the wind whipped the heavy cloaks of the watchmen struggling against the gale. The harpoon crews are complaining about the frost on the winches, but I told them to keep the tension high. If the spirits want a fight tonight, we will give them iron.

Haldor secured the sack to his belt, pulled his fur lined helm tight, and signaled the gatekeepers.

Opening the postern. One shouted.

The small door cracked open. The wind hit Haldor like a physical punch, trying to drive him back into the warmth. He leaned into it, gritted his teeth, and stepped out into the white void.

The cold was absolute. It bypassed his furs and bit straight into his marrow. Haldor grabbed the heavy iron chain that ran from the gates to the High Stone. It was a lifeline in the blindness of the storm.

He trudged forward, head down, counting his steps. One. Two. Three.

The world was a swirling chaos of white and grey. Above him, the Sky Fire rippled, casting eerie curtains of green and violet light that illuminated the driving snow.

He had walked for perhaps twenty minutes when the sound reached him.

It was not the wind. It was a rhythmic, chiming sound. Like bells. But deeper. Resonant.

Clang jingle. Clang jingle.

Haldor froze, his hand tightening on the chain. He remembered the warning from Karn. If you see anything, ignore it.

But the sound was ahead of him. Directly on the path to the High Stone.

And then, through the howling gale, he heard a voice. It was not a wail of a spirit. It was a very loud, very angry Dwarven curse.

Blast this cursed runner. Move, you stubborn oversized goats. Mush. Or I will turn you into stew.

Haldor blinked, ice crusting his eyelashes. He released the chain, a violation of the first rule, and took two steps forward, squinting into the gloom.

The aurora flared bright green, revealing a scene that should not exist.

Embedded in a snowbank, tilted at a dangerous angle, was a massive Ice Grunvok, a war sled. But this was not a sleek raiding vessel. It was wide, heavy, and piled high with crates and sacks tied down with glowing rune rope.

Pulling it were four beasts that looked like stags, but they were the size of warhorses. Their antlers were made of translucent, living ice that glowed with the same light as the aurora. Frost Stags.

And standing in the snow, kicking the runner of the stuck sled, was a figure wrapped in red furs so thick he looked as wide as he was tall. He held a staff of twisted weirwood topped with a lantern that burned with blue fire.

Hello? Haldor called out, his hand drifting to the axe at his hip.

The figure spun around. A beard as white as the blizzard itself flowed over his chest, tucked into a belt the size of a shield strap. He wore a hood pulled low, but his eyes glinted like polished star ice.

Finally. The stranger roared. His voice boomed over the wind. A pair of hands. Do not just stand there gaping like a landed cod, boy. Grab the traces. Prancer has gotten his hoof stuck in a drift and Vixen is being dramatic.

Haldor stared. Who are you?

I am Deepseer Yorik. The dwarf bellowed, as if that explained everything. Keeper of the North lists. Deliverer of the Tithe. Now, are you going to ask me my genealogy, or are you going to help me unstick this runner before the Ice Stalkers catch our scent?

Ice Stalkers? Haldor stepped closer, the wind snatching the warmth from his words. You are the Gift Bringer? The one from the sagas told to children?

Sagas do not pull sleds. Yorik snapped. He threw a rope to Haldor. Catch. And I am not a Gift Bringer. I am a Logistical Officer of the Thuld. These are not toys, boy. This is Star Ice. Refined ingots for the outlying clans. If the Wolf Clan wants their forge to burn hot this winter, you will pull.

Haldor caught the rope. He looked at the sled. It was piled with heavy chests bound in iron. The gifts were not dolls. They were ingots of magical fuel and tools crafted by masters, necessary for survival in the brutal north.

You crashed. Haldor stated the obvious.

I did not crash. Yorik huffed, moving to the lead stag, a beast with antlers that spanned six feet. He patted its nose. We experienced a rapid, unscheduled deceleration due to adverse weather and Blitzen tried to kick a harpy mid flight.

The stag snorted, a puff of blue steam shooting from its nostrils.

Mid flight? Haldor looked at the heavy wooden runners. This thing flies?

Only when the Sky Fire is high enough. Yorik grumbled. Right now, it is grounded. And we are sitting ducks. Grab the rear runner. On my count. One two HEAVE.

Haldor threw his shoulder against the cold wood. He pushed. Yorik pulled the lead stag. The Frost Stags dug their massive hooves into the snow, muscles bunching under their white coats.

With a groan of protesting wood, the sled lurched. It slid up and out of the snowbank, landing on the hard packed ice with a heavy thud.

Hah. Yorik cheered, dusting snow from his red furs. Good lad. You have the back of an ox. Useful.

We need to get to Skaldenhold. Haldor yelled over the wind. The gates are close. My chain line is just back there.

Skaldenhold is the last stop. Yorik checked a massive slate tablet hanging from his belt. I have deliveries for the Bear Clan outpost and the Raven Watch first. If I do not drop the fuel rods, their fires go out by mid winter.

You cannot go back out there. Haldor gestured to the swirling dark. The storm is killing everything.

The storm is inconvenient. Yorik corrected. The Ice Stalker trailing me is the problem.

As if summoned by the name, a howl cut through the blizzard.

It was not a wolf. It was deeper, wetter. A gurgling roar that sounded like water rushing through a cave.

The blood in the veins of Haldor ran cold. What was that?

Yorik climbed onto the seat of the driver. He grabbed the reins. His jovial, grumpy demeanor vanished, replaced by the steel eyed glare of a powerful shaman.

That. Yorik said. Is a Glacier Gheist. A big one. It wants the Star Ice, lad. It eats the magic. And it has been hunting me since the jagged peaks.

He looked down at Haldor.

I cannot outrun it on the ground with this load. Not alone. I need a gunner.

Yorik kicked a lever, and a panel on the side of the sled popped open, revealing a heavy, mounted harpoon launcher loaded with a spear tipped in blue crystal.

You know how to shoot, Ironkin?

Haldor looked at his chain line leading back to safety. Then he looked at the old Deepseer, the magical stags, and the cargo that would keep the northern clans alive through the winter.

He thought of the Offering in his pocket. Maybe this was the offering.

Haldor climbed onto the sled.

I never miss. Haldor lied.

Yorik grinned, his gold tooth flashing in the lantern light. Good. Hold on. Vixen. Comet. FLY.

He cracked the reins. The Frost Stags reared, their hooves striking sparks of blue fire against the ice, and the massive war sled surged forward into the blinding white dark.

***

The sensation was not like falling. It was like being punched in the chest by the sky itself.

The Frost Stags leaped. For a heartbeat, gravity fought them, dragging the heavy, iron shod runners of the Ice Grunvok through the deep snow. Then, the Sky Fire above pulsed a brilliant, blinding violet. The light seemed to hook into the translucent antlers of the stags like a tether.

With a crack of displaced air, the sled tore free of the earth.

Haldor was thrown back into the seat of the gunner, his stomach dropping into his boots. He grabbed the iron handles of the harpoon launcher, his knuckles white.

Keep it steady, old man. Haldor roared over the wind. We are listing.

I am fighting a crosswind and a cranky doe. Yorik bellowed back, wrestling the reins as the sled banked hard to the left, skimming barely ten feet above the jagged ice fields. Vixen favors her left side when the aurora flashes green. Do not tell me how to fly, Ironkin. Just shoot the beast.

Haldor swiveled the heavy turret. The mechanism was smooth, oiled with whale fat and runed for precision. He peered through the crystal sight.

Below them, the blizzard was a blur of white noise, but something dark was cutting through it. The Glacier Gheist.

It did not run. It swam. The monster was a mass of semisolid ice and slush, shaped vaguely like a wolf the size of a longhouse. It plowed through snowbanks and shattered ice ridges, moving with a terrifying, fluid speed. Its eyes were hollow pits of blue cold fire, fixed on the glowing cargo of the sled.

It is gaining. Haldor shouted.

Of course it is gaining. It is hungry. Yorik snapped. Drop a flare. Lever on your left.

Haldor yanked a rusted iron lever. A canister dropped from the rear of the sled. It hit the snow and exploded in a burst of magnesium bright red light.

The Gheist shrieked, a sound like a freezing lake cracking in half. It recoiled from the heat, losing momentum as it swerved around the flare.

Hah. Haldor cheered. Take that, you slush pile.

Do not get cocky. Yorik yelled, snapping the reins. We have a schedule. First drop coming up. The Iron Bear Outpost at Crag Hollow.

Haldor looked ahead. Through the swirling snow, a dark, fortified tower jutted from a cliff face. A signal fire burned with a weak light on its roof, a dying ember in the storm.

We are not stopping? Haldor asked, looking at the speed they were traveling.

Stopping is for people who are not being chased by elemental horrors. Yorik retorted. Get the crate marked with the Bear Sigil. It is the heavy one. You have to toss it onto the roof as we pass.

Toss it? It looks like it weighs three hundred pounds.

It is Star Ice fuel rods and tempered steel ingots. Of course it is heavy. Use your back, boy. You are Skaldvin.

Haldor scrambled from the seat of the gunner to the cargo pile. The sled bucked and swayed as they hit a pocket of turbulence. He found the crate, bound in iron and stamped with a roaring bear. He gritted his teeth, braced his legs against the swaying deck, and heaved.

It was heavy enough to make his spine pop, but Haldor was Wolf Clan. He did not drop things. He hauled it to the rail.

Coming in hot. Yorik screamed. Comet, bank right. Cupid, pull. PULL.

The stags swung the sled in a tight arc, skimming close to the cliff face. The roof of the outpost rushed up at them. Haldor saw the faces of the Bear Clan guards. They were bearded, frozen, and staring up with mouths open in shock at the flying war sled.

NOW. Yorik commanded.

Haldor shoved. The crate tumbled through the air, spinning once. It slammed into a snowbank on the flat roof with a heavy thump that shook the tower.

The guards cheered, raising their axes in salute.

Package delivered. Haldor yelled, collapsing back against the cargo. That is one.

Do not get comfortable. Yorik shouted. The Raven Watch is next. And they are in the Spire Trees. We have to go high.

Yorik yanked the reins back. The stags threw their heads up, and the sled pitched vertically. Haldor scrambled to grab a strap as gravity tried to dump him out the back.

They climbed into the heart of the storm. The wind here was vicious, tearing at the tarp covering the cargo.

The Gheist. Haldor warned, looking down.

The monster had not given up. It had changed tactics. Unable to fly, it was climbing the ice spires below them, leaping from peak to peak with impossible agility. It gathered itself on a jagged pinnacle and sprang.

It launched itself into the air, a missile of ice and claws, aiming for the underside of the sled.

Hard to port. Haldor screamed.

Yorik did not argue. He hauled on the reins. The sled rolled, banking ninety degrees.

The Gheist missed the main hull by inches. But its massive, icy claws raked across the right runner.

SCREEEE CRACK.

Wood splintered. The sled shuddered with violence. The beast fell away, plummeting back into the dark, but the damage was done. The sled listed toward the right.

We lost a stabilizer. Yorik cursed, fighting the controls. Blitzen is spooked. He is losing the rhythm.

Can we fly?

We can fall with style. Yorik growled. Get back on the gun. If it jumps again, put a harpoon in its gullet.

Haldor vaulted back into the seat. He swiveled the turret downward. The Gheist had landed on a lower ridge and was already running, pacing them from below, waiting for them to drop.

Here comes the Raven Watch. Yorik yelled.

Ahead, the Spire Trees loomed. They were massive, petrified pines that grew out of the glacier itself, their stone branches serving as watchtowers for the Frost Raven Clan. A series of rope bridges connected them, lit by flickering blue lanterns.

Drop zone is the central platform. Yorik ordered. This one is fragile. It is a chest of Scrying Crystals and Rune Inks. If you break it, the Ravens will not be able to read the omens for a year.

I will be gentle. Haldor grabbed the smaller chest lined with velvet.

Steady. Yorik muttered, guiding the listing sled toward the tree tops. Steady, you antlered idiots.

The sled swooped low over the bridges. Raven sentries scattered, diving for cover as the massive vehicle roared overhead.

Haldor timed it. He waited until they were directly over the widest platform. He dropped the chest.

It landed in a pile of nets.

Bullseye. Haldor shouted.

Watch out. Yorik screamed.

The Gheist had climbed the trunk of the Spire Tree. It burst through the branches right in front of them, roaring a spray of ice shards. It latched onto the front of the sled, its claws digging into the wood near the boots Yorik wore.

The weight dragged the nose of the sled down. The stags panicked, thrashing their hooves against the hide of the monster.

Shoot it. Shoot it. Yorik yelled, kicking at the paws of the monster with his heavy boots.

Haldor spun the turret. He could not shoot. Yorik was in the line of fire.

Move, Deepseer. Haldor roared.

Yorik threw himself backward into the cargo pile.

Haldor slammed the trigger.

THOOM.

The harpoon launched. The blue crystal tip struck the Gheist square in the chest. The spear punched through the ice armor of the creature and detonated.

A blast of magical concussive force blew the monster backward. It flew off the sled, taking a chunk of the front rail with it. It crashed through the branches of the Spire Tree and fell into the darkness below.

The sled bucked, freed from the weight.

We are going down. Yorik yelled, scrambling back to the seat. The harness is snapped on the right. Cupid is loose.

One of the stags had broken free of its trace. The uneven pull sent the sled into a spin.

Brace for impact. Haldor shouted, grabbing the Offering sack at his belt.

They hit the snow hard. The sled bounced, skidded sideways, sheared through a snowbank, and slid for a hundred yards before slamming into a wall of ice.

Silence fell.

Haldor groaned, pushing a crate of dried fish off his chest. Is everyone alive?

I am alive. The voice of Yorik came from beneath a pile of furs. But I am exceedingly grumpy.

The Deepseer emerged, his hat askew, his beard full of snow. He checked the stags. They were shaken, blowing steam from their nostrils, but unhurt. The sled, however, was a mess. The right runner was cracked, and the front rail was gone.

We are grounded. Yorik spat, kicking the broken wood. The Sky Fire connection is broken. The runes on the runners are shattered.

Haldor climbed out, checking his axe. He looked around. They had crashed in a valley of jagged ice pillars, known as the Frost Fang Garden.

How far to Skaldenhold? Haldor asked.

Yorik checked his slate tablet, which was unbroken. Two miles. Maybe three. Across open ice.

We can walk it. Haldor said. We can carry the last shipment.

The last shipment is a barrel of Star Ice Ale for the High Council. Yorik grumbled. It weighs as much as a troll.

Then we drag it. Haldor said and grabbed a rope.

***

A sound echoed off the ice walls. A wet, gurgling roar.

Haldor froze. He looked back the way they had come.

At the top of the ridge, silhouetted against the aurora, a shape pulled itself up. It was battered. It had a hole in its chest where the harpoon had hit. It was missing an arm.

But the Glacier Gheist was reforming. Ice and snow swirled around it, knitting the wound closed, growing a new limb from the frozen air.

It locked its glowing blue eyes on them. It let out a howl that shook the snow from the pillars.

It is not stopping. Haldor whispered. It really wants that magic.

Yorik sighed, a deep, weary sound. He reached into the back of the broken sled and pulled out a long, heavy staff made of pure iron, topped with a chunk of unrefined Star Ice.

It does not want the magic, boy. Yorik said, his voice changing. The grumpy logistics officer was gone. The ancient Deepseer stood in his place. It hates it. It is an agent of the stillness. It wants to put the fire out.

Yorik slammed the iron staff into the snow. Blue light rippled through the ground.

Grab the barrel, Haldor. Yorik commanded. And run. I will hold the rear.

I am not leaving you. Haldor said, drawing his axe. I am an Ironkin. We stand.

You are a postman. Yorik barked. And the mail never stops. If you stop, the suspension settles. The liquid carrier freezes, the Star Ice dust goes inert, and the Thuld will be sober. Keep it moving to keep the reaction hot.

But.

GO. Yorik roared, his eyes glowing with blue power. I am a Deepseer of the North. I have argued with glaciers and won. A walking slush puppy is not going to stop me.

Haldor looked at the old dwarf. He saw the power radiating off him. He nodded once.

He grabbed the rope attached to the heavy barrel sled. He threw it over his shoulder.

I will come back for you. Haldor promised.

Bring reinforcements. Yorik yelled, turning to face the charging monster. And warm mead.

Haldor ran. He dragged the heavy barrel through the snow, his legs burning, his lungs screaming. Behind him, the night exploded with blue fire and the roar of a monster meeting a mage.

Skaldenhold was close. But the Long Night was not over yet.

Haldor ran. He did not run like a scout or a messenger. He ran like an Ironkin carrying a barrel of lead through hip deep snow.

The keg of Star Ice Ale dug into his shoulder, the rough wood biting through his furs. His lungs burned with the cold air of Boreas, each breath feeling like swallowing glass. Behind him, the night was alive with blue fire and the boom of the iron staff striking the ice, each impact a magical detonation that kept the reforming Glacier Gheist at bay.

Do not stop, boy. The voice of Yorik echoed, distorted by the wind. If you stop, the ale freezes. If the ale freezes, the Thuld will be sober. And a sober Thuld is a boring Thuld.

Haldor crested a ridge of jagged ice. Ahead, through the swirling whiteout, he saw it.

Skaldenhold.

The fortress was a mountain of blue ice carved into the shape of a sleeping dragon. Its massive gates were shut tight against the storm, but the watch fires on the battlements burned bright orange, beacons in the void.

It was close. Maybe half a mile.

CRACK BOOM.

A shockwave knocked Haldor flat. He curled around the barrel, shielding it with his body as a shower of ice shards rained down. He looked back.

Yorik was airborne. The Deepseer had been swatted by a massive, regenerated limb of the Gheist. He flew twenty feet and slammed into a snowbank, his iron staff skittering away.

The Glacier Gheist loomed over him. It was fully reformed now, a wolf made of glacier ice, thirty feet tall at the shoulder, its eyes burning with a hungry blue light. It opened its maw, ready to crush the old dwarf.

No. Haldor roared.

He did not think. He did not weigh the mission against the man. He dropped the barrel.

He unslung his heavy war axe. The steel etched with runes hummed in the cold.

Hey. Snow cone. Haldor screamed, banging his axe against his breastplate. Over here.

The Gheist turned its massive head. It saw the lone warrior standing on the ridge. It saw the barrel of Star Ice Ale glowing with magic.

It roared, a sound that shook the snow from the cliffs, and charged.

Haldor braced himself. He was one dwarf against an elemental force of nature. He was going to die. But he was Skaldvin. He would die loud.

Come on then. Haldor bellowed.

The Gheist was ten paces away. Five. Haldor raised his axe.

THWIP. THWIP. THWIP.

Three massive bolts, trailing chains, slammed into the flank of the Gheist. The beast shrieked as the harpoons bit deep into its ice armor. The chains went taut.

The Gheist was jerked sideways, crashing into the snow.

Haldor looked up. On the battlements of Skaldenhold, the great ballistae were manned. And standing on the wall, his beard blowing in the gale, was Jarl Karn Torstein.

Open the gates. The voice of Torstein boomed, amplified by a horn. Sortie. Now.

The massive ice gates groaned open. A wedge of Ironkin warriors poured out, shields locked, axes raised. They did not charge blindly. They marched, a disciplined wall of steel moving into the storm.

Leading them was Torstein himself.

The Gheist thrashed, snapping the chains, but the distraction was enough. Yorik had recovered his staff. The old Deepseer scrambled to his feet, chanting a spell of binding that turned the snow around the legs of the beast into solid rock.

Haldor. Torstein shouted as he reached the ridge. The barrel. Is it safe?

It is safe. Haldor yelled, pointing to the keg half buried in the snow.

Good lad. Torstein laughed, clapping Haldor on the back so hard he nearly fell over. Now, let us finish this pest so we can tap it.

The battle was short and brutal. The Ironkin surrounded the Gheist. They did not try to kill it. You cannot kill ice. They dismantled it. Hammers shattered its legs. Axes hewed off its claws. The magic of Yorik kept it from reforming.

Finally, Torstein leaped onto the back of the creature and drove his own rune sword into the nexus of blue light at the base of its neck.

The Gheist shattered. It exploded into a harmless shower of slush and water, its magic broken.

Silence returned to the valley, save for the panting of the warriors and the howl of the wind.

Yorik limped over, leaning on his staff. His red robes were torn, his beard singed, but he was grinning.

You are late. Torstein said to the Deepseer.

I had traffic. Yorik grumbled. He looked at Haldor. The boy has a good arm. And he did not run.

Torstein looked at Haldor. He looked at the barrel.

He is Wolf Clan. Torstein said with pride. We do not run.

They hauled the barrel onto a shield and carried it back to the fortress in triumph.

The Great Hall of Skaldenhold was a roar of noise.

The fire in the central hearth was roaring, fed by the Star Ice fuel logs Yorik had delivered. The blue flames danced high, casting long shadows on the ice walls.

The Thuld was in full swing. Jarls from the Bear, Raven, and Elk clans raised their horns, their arguments forgotten for the night. Even a few Serpent Clan emissaries sat in the corner, looking sullen but drinking the free ale.

Haldor sat at the Wolf Clan table, nursing a mug of the Star Ice Ale. It was cold, crisp, and tasted of winter starlight. It was the best thing he had ever drunk.

Yorik sat at the High Table with the Jarls, recounting his flight with wild gestures, exaggerating the size of the Gheist with every retelling. Every time he mentioned Haldor, he pointed at the young warrior, and the hall would cheer.

To the Gunner of the Iron Sled. Yorik bellowed, raising his tankard.

To the Gunner. The hall roared back.

Haldor blushed, hiding his face in his mug.

Torstein sat down next to him. The Jarl looked tired, but happy.

You did good, Haldor. Torstein said. You brought the offering. You brought the fire. The sun will rise tomorrow because of this.

Haldor looked at the fire. He looked at the faces of his kin, warm and safe against the Long Night.

I did not get to the High Stone. Haldor admitted. I did not leave the offering for the spirits.

Torstein laughed. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the small sack Haldor had carried, the steel, the wine, the bread.

The offering is not for the spirits of the ice, lad. Torstein said. It is for the spirit of the clan. You protected the Deepseer. You saved the winter fuel. You brought the joy back to the hall. That is the offering.

He placed the sack on the table.

Keep it. Torstein said. You earned it.

Haldor smiled. He broke the bread and shared it with the warrior next to him.

Outside, the wind still screamed, and the cold tried to find a way in. But inside, the fire was hot, the ale was strong, and the Skaldvin were together.

The Long Night would end. The sun would return. But until it did, they would keep the dark at bay with song, steel, and the warmth of the hearth.

The Long Night of the Skaldvin

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