Standing before him was a massive, deformed giant, its hulking frame twisted and grotesque, far more monstrous than the others. It had been slower than the rest, lagging behind, but now it had caught up, looming over him like a dark, towering specter.
What caught Bastian's eye was the weapon. A giant rock, large enough to crush him, lay nearby, evidence of the giant's brutal hunting experience. He had thrown it with lethal intent, narrowly missing Bastian. And then, there was the giant itself.
Bastian's blood ran cold. He recognized the creature, or at least, what it once had been. The gaping knife wound over its right eye, the thick white beard trailing to its waist, those were unmistakable marks.
"You've been dead for over a year..." Bastian whispered, his voice trembling.
This twisted, monstrous giant had once been someone he knew. A proud elder of the North, this frost giant had been buried with honor. The wooden axe hanging from his waist had been carved by his own son, Charles, from the sacred winter oak. Bastian had watched as Charles laid the axe in the tomb, a final farewell to his father. In the North, where resources were scarce, even inferior wooden weapons held immense value. The giant had been laid to rest as tradition dictated.
And now, that same frost giant, twisted and deformed beyond recognition, stood before him; alive, but not truly living. His face, once a symbol of wisdom and strength, was now a grotesque mask of flesh, his right hand bloated and monstrous compared to the left. The white, blind eye stared down at Bastian, empty of reason. His mouth moved, as if trying to speak, but only unintelligible mutterings escaped his lips.
"Woo!"
In that moment, the small wolf statue Bastian wore at his waist began to glow. Without warning, the translucent form of a wolf spirit sprang to life, leaping toward the giant. Bastian had always assumed the soul of his wolf totem could not interact with the physical world, that it was a mere spiritual guide. After all, the dead could not interfere with the realm of the living.
But to his astonishment, the deformed creature, what was left of the frost giant, reacted. The wolf spirit collided with the giant, knocking the massive figure to the ground. Bastian's eyes widened in disbelief.
"How...?" he breathed, watching as the giant, the very thing that had been hunting him, fell beneath the force of the spirit's attack.
Whatever these monsters were, they weren't just mindless abominations. Something darker and far more unnatural was at work here, and Bastian knew it wasn't over yet.
Bastian's eyes gleamed with determination as he swiftly pulled the statue of the eagle spirit from his pouch.
"Quila," he whispered urgently. "Eyes, go for the eyes."
In an instant, the ethereal figure of the eagle spirit materialized, responding to its master's call with fierce intensity. It soared through the frigid air and launched itself at "Grandpa Will," now an imposing giant lying sprawled in the snow. The spirit's wings flared wide, casting shadows over the fallen figure's face, while its razor-sharp talons aimed for the giant's remaining eye.
Sensing the moment of opportunity, Bastian sprang into action. He grasped his nearly burnt sword, its blade still smoldering, and charged at the wounded giant with everything he had. He swung the sword down, the air hissing as it sliced through the cold, aiming for the beast's exposed flesh. But this time, the flames that once licked the blade were weak, barely more than embers. The giant's thick, stone-like skin barely registered the blow, the wound seeming insignificant.
A thunderous crash echoed across the snowy plain as the wolf spirit, Enda, was swatted away by a massive hand. The force of the blow sent the wolf tumbling into a snowdrift, where it vanished into the swirling white. Bastian's heart sank as he watched his companion disappear. He clenched his fists, the cold biting into his skin.
With desperation in his eyes, Bastian reached into his pack and pulled out a small bottle of dark yellow liquid, thick and viscous. His hand trembled as he uncorked it, the cold making even simple movements arduous.
"Let's see how you handle this," he muttered.
With a sharp throw, the bottle shattered against the giant's chest, spilling its contents over the creature. Bastian's gloved hand flickered with a spark, and in the next heartbeat, a roaring flame exploded from his fingertips. This wasn't the simple animal oil he had used before, this was potent alchemical fuel, obtained from the elves after many bartered promises.
The fire leaped higher and higher, its flames reaching over three meters into the darkened sky. The giant, now blinded and burning, stumbled in confusion, its massive frame shaking the earth with each step. For a tense few moments, the creature flailed, helpless against the flames that devoured it. Finally, its movements slowed, and with a final, agonizing groan, it collapsed into a smoldering heap; a charred and blackened corpse.
The battle was over, but Bastian couldn't feel triumph. He stood there, staring at the remains of the once-mighty giant, the stench of burning flesh thick in the cold air. Slowly, he sank to his knees in the snow, exhausted and overwhelmed, his mind a swirl of confusion. The snowflakes began to fall gently again, covering the battlefield in a silent shroud of white.
It was only then that Bastian heard the crunch of footsteps approaching. He turned his head slowly and saw Drax, his friend, standing at the edge of the scene, his eyes wide with a mixture of shock and admiration. Drax glanced at the charred remains of the giant, then back at Bastian, a slow smile spreading across his face.
"Well done," Drax said, his voice filled with a blend of pride and disbelief. "When did you become such a skilled hunter? Ten years ago, you were just a kid playing games with the others. Now look at you... slaying giants like you've been doing it for centuries. You might soon earn the title of an independent hunter."
Drax paused, his face growing more serious. "I came as soon as I saw your signal, but I was delayed… Someone stopped me."
Bastian raised an eyebrow, though he already had a sinking feeling he knew the answer. "Stopped you? By who? Surely not another frost giant?" His voice dripped with sarcasm, though there was a tinge of fear behind it.
Drax hesitated for a moment before answering. "It was an old man... from the tribe. One who has been dead for a long time."
Bastian felt a cold chill run down his spine. He glanced back at the giant's burnt corpse, now barely recognizable. He knew the truth, and it left a bitter taste in his mouth.
"Grandpa Will…" he muttered.
Drax, following Bastian's gaze, finally seemed to notice the eerie expression still lingering on the charred remains. His eyes widened. "We need to get back and speak to the village chief. This is far from over."
The two men turned and began their walk back through the snow, leaving the smoldering battlefield behind. But as they left, something sinister stirred.
Old Will's burnt body lay still, but for a fleeting moment, his mouth twisted into a mocking grin. Snowflakes danced around his corpse, slowly covering it in a white blanket. His massive arms stretched out toward the sky, as though in a final, defiant gesture of scorn.
Far above, the mountains stretched out endlessly, their peaks jagged and unforgiving. If one looked closely, they would see other empty tombs scattered among the cliffs, waiting. More souls without homes. More spirits unbound, waiting to rise again.
"The mutation happened not long ago," Bastian muttered, tracing his fingers over the frost-covered runes on the ancient stone. "Judging by these signs, it's been no more than two months."
Outside, the snow began falling again, its flakes glistening like silver dust in the pale moonlight. Inside the tavern, the warmth from the roaring fire fought off the biting cold of the northern wilderness. The crackling of the flames echoed through the wooden beams of the cabin, where giants; massive, imposing figures, sat gathered, their deep voices carrying tales of the day's strange encounters.
This was the only tavern in the village, a place where the frost giants came together after long days in the wild. They lived in a land of ancient trees that towered into the sky, strong and resilient like the giants themselves. Here, the very wood that would be considered priceless in southern lands was tossed onto the fire as if it were worthless kindling.
Night had fallen, and the tavern was alive with the chatter of giants discussing the eerie happenings that had befallen their village. Each tale was more unsettling than the last. Bastian, still shaken by his own experience, listened closely to the others. It wasn't just him, the entire search party had run into the same troubles. The corpses they'd come across weren't just dead; they moved, unnaturally.
But the giants, with their colossal strength and battle prowess, easily dealt with the creatures. At first, some had felt a strange sense of triumph, thinking they had stumbled upon something valuable, perhaps even the long-lost cargo of the elusive elves. But no, nothing was found. The victory had been hollow, and the elves' goods remained missing.
"Damn necromancers!" bellowed one of the giants, slamming his fist on the wooden table so hard that the mugs rattled. His voice was filled with fury. "Desecrating our sacred grounds, raising the dead from our own tribe!"