“Remember the God of Death,” I said, “when you get to the Sea of Souls. Before that, though, you’re getting me some new skills. Let that thought comfort you while your rod and stones wither.”
Another Frost Giant took a swing at me with his axe. I jumped over it, ran up his arm, and punched him in the nose before he could swat me off. The blow caved in his face and spread gray grave rot across his head, and he smashed to the stone floor. I jumped off him as a cloud of dust billowed around us and waded into the thick of the battle, whipping out my kusarigama again and swinging the chain all around me, drawing on the strength of my skeletons and zombies to pummel the Frost Giants with immensely powerful blows.
Giant after giant fell beneath the mighty swings of my kusarigama chain, and the moment they hit the ground, my undead troops—spiders, barbarians on wolves, Crusaders, skeletons, whichever ones were closest—would swarm all over them, pinning them down and cutting them to pieces with dozens of simultaneous attacks.
The giants screamed as Isu’s death juice boiled their flesh and blinding flashes of light cut the night sky as Elyse summoned her warhammer’s power. Friya was among the giant’s, stabbing with her spear and harrying them while Rami called great whirling tornados to lift Jotunn into the air before slamming them down again. Drok had severed the arm of a giant and was now swinging it around like an oversized flesh-club, cackling madly as battlelust filled his mind.
My zombie spiders sank their fangs into the enemy and filled them with necrotic fluid. Flesh peeled from the bones of giants as undead direwolves savaged them with blackened fangs.
We were winning. Despite the Frost Giants’ best efforts, they couldn’t stop us. There was no need to hold the drawbridge open any more; there were no more Jotunn manning the drawbridge mechanism, since all of them had been drawn into the battle. I commanded my undead Frost Giants to get out of the moat water and join the battle.
This was the finishing blow. Once my hundreds of Frost Giants started wading in, it was all over. They swarmed over the remaining Jotunn, smashing them to pieces, and soon, we had Engroth cornered.
“Come on, you bastards,” he roared, defiant to the end, holding his axe above his head. “Try to finish me!”
“Stand back, everyone!” I shouted. “Let Mur have him!”
My undead troops moved back, making a circle of bodies that acted like a fighting ring, with Engroth at its center. And into it stepped Mur, his face a mask of crimson fury.
“Your foul reign is at an end, scum,” he growled at Engroth. “And now, I will have my revenge for my brothers. And after I’ve killed you, I will stick your head on a spike above the city gates, and I will wear the crown of the Jotunn!”
“Not if I cut your ugly head off first, Mur,” Engroth growled. “Come!”
And they charged. Steel clashed on steel as Engroth and Mur exchanged blow after blow, each fighter ducking and dodging and parrying, hacking and slashing with their huge axes, the steel glowing orange in the firelight. Each time the huge axes crashed into each other, the ground beneath our feet shook. It was an electrifying fight to watch.
Engroth was older, but he was a more experienced fighter and a better strategist than the younger Mur. While I would have put my coin on Engroth under any other circumstances, at this moment, he was drunk, and his reflexes were slow. He was weary from the battle he had just fought, demoralized by the defeat of his forces. Mur, on the other hand, was burning with a fierce desire for revenge and was energized by our victory. His attacks, although less precise than those launched by Engroth, were pushing the older Frost Giant back and forcing him on the defensive.
Finally, Engroth slipped up, allowing a downward hack from Mur’s guard to penetrate his defenses. The axe bit into his chest, smashing through his collar bone and opening up a gaping wound. Engroth gasped and staggered backward, dropping his axe as blood gushed from the gruesome cavity. Mur stepped in calmly, ripped the axe out of the dying king’s hand, then swung a horizontal cut at him. The blade slammed into Engroth’s stomach, the force ripping him off his feet.
Engroth buckled over, intestines spilling out of his disemboweled stomach. He sank slowly to his knees, and his head drooped forward. Mur took this opportunity to pluck the crown off Engroth’s head and place it on his own.
“I am now the King of the Jotunn,” Mur said with unexpected composure, raising his axe high above his head. “And you, Engroth, will die as a nobody. Your head will rot on a spike above the gates, to remind all of us of what happens when a king becomes corrupt.”
With that, he brought his axe down in a vicious swipe, taking Engroth’s head off his shoulders. It hit the ground like a boulder, and blood poured from his neck as his body flopped to the ground after the head awaiting its shaming.
It was done. We had won the battle.
“All hail the new King of the Jotunn—Mur!” I roared.
The Jotunn and my party cheered, and Mur raised his axe above his head.
“Remember our deal, Mur,” I then said to him. “You swore a blood oath to me, and I’ve delivered my end of the bargain.”
He nodded. “And I will deliver mine. The remaining Jotunn will swear allegiance to me, and I guarantee you that none of them will impede the progress of your army. As for the Cloak of Changing, come, you can take it right now. It was a treasure of Engroth’s, but I have no use for it myself.”
“Come with us, Friya,” I said to
