A thick vein bulged across Frost-Elder Kaelor’s temple, pulsing with dark, corrupted frost-qi.
He stared at the three hundred frozen halberdiers standing behind him.
Not a single man twitched.
Their spiked armor was encased in four inches of solid, pale-blue ice that gleamed like diamond in the polar dawn.
“A trick,” Kaelor rasped, his voice scraping like rusted iron against stone. “Some wicked illusion talisman from the western continent.”
He slammed the butt of his nine-foot Glacier-Shattering Spear against the frozen flagstones.
The impact sent a spiderweb of white fractures tearing across the crater floor.
“I am Frost-Elder Kaelor!” he bellowed, his gray beard whipping wildly in the wind. “I have cultivated the ice laws on Frost-Gale Cay for five hundred years!”
