67.- The fortress of Eternal ice

The wind howled like a tormented spirit, tearing across the slopes of the Frosted Mountain with invisible claws that dragged perpetual snow into swirling, deadly white torrents. The storm roared without end, a frigid wail that draped the landscape in a crystalline shroud of death, but at the heart of this icy fury, the Crypt of the Frozen Claw stood as an immortal titan, a monument to the might and sanctity of the Glacial Scale Lizardmen. It was no mere cave, no crude shelter: it was a sacred stronghold, a labyrinthine complex carved into the mountain's core, a network of natural tunnels and hewn chambers that generations of warriors and shamans had forged into an impregnable fortress. Its walls, crafted from black volcanic rock and eternal ice, shimmered with carved glyphs and runes that pulsed with a faint blue glow, symbols of an ancient pact with the ice dragon spirit that, legend held, slumbered in the depths, its frozen breath upholding the mountain itself.

Beyond the crypt, a fortified wall rose like a colossus against the white horizon, a barrier of reinforced ice stretching for leagues, its edges sharp as spears defying the sky. Colossal watchtowers, each as tall as a cliff, loomed every two giant bells apart, their structures etched with the petrified faces of dragons that seemed to glare into the storm with hollow eyes. The bells, forged from a dark blue, frost-kissed metal, hung from chains as thick as tree trunks, their surfaces inscribed with runes that glowed with unearthly intensity. Each was a sonic titan, capable of unleashing a toll that would resound across the entire mountain, a war cry that would rouse every Glacial Scale in an emergency, a sound that could awaken the very spirits sleeping beneath the snow. Between the towers, hundreds of Glacial Guard Warriors marched in flawless formations, their yeti-hide boots and ice-plated armor thudding against the ground in a rhythm that shook the earth, a deep echo reverberating like a war drum. Clad in armor of yeti fur and ice-forged plates, their crystal-tipped spears glinted under the dim light, and as they marched, they chanted an ancestral hymn, their deep, resonant voices cutting through the wind's howl like an icy blade.

"Oh, Frozen Claw, queen of eternal chill,

Your breath defends us, your fury we wield,

In shadows and snow, your might we raise,

With blood and frost, we sing your praise."

The chant, repeated in endless cycles, was more than a melody—it was an oath, a collective roar that vibrated the walls and shuddered through the mountain's core, a declaration that this place was holy, untouchable, a bastion no enemy could profane. Archers with yellow eyes perched atop the ramparts, their curved ice bows strung with arrows imbued with magic that could pierce steel and freeze blood on impact. Frost Mages, draped in white wolfskin robes and wielding staves crowned with icy gems, patrolled the posts, their hands conjuring threads of mist that writhed like living serpents, ready to unleash miniature blizzards on any intruder. Beyond the wall, rivers of ice flowed like living veins, their surfaces cracking and reforming into jagged spikes at the slightest motion, a defense that seemed to breathe with the mountain's will.

Inside the crypt, the grandeur only deepened. The entry tunnels, wide as boulevards, were flanked by colossal statues of Glacial Scale warriors, their forms carved from eternal ice and animated by runes that gave them life, their blue-glowing eyes tracking outsiders with lethal precision, crystal spears poised to strike. Ice golems, larger than three men stacked together, lumbered through the corridors, their bodies creaking with each step, fists capable of shattering stone like glass. In lesser chambers, lesser priests in white-and-blue robes chanted to the Frozen Claw, their voices echoing in harmony with the hymn outside, while altars of pure ice burned with cold flames that never consumed, a blue fire venerating the slumbering dragon and its sacred artifact. Ice wyverns, winged beasts with translucent scales and dagger-like claws, slept chained in niches carved into the walls, their breaths forming clouds of frost that rose like living mist, ready to awaken at any threat with a shriek that could freeze the soul.

At the heart of this sacred maze, the Council Chamber stood as a throne of power and reverence, a vast cavern with walls soaring to a domed ceiling where glyphs danced like frozen constellations. The floor, a polished slab of ice as broad as a lake, was etched with a map of the mountains, its lines glowing with a blue light that seemed to pulse with life. Circular altars ringed the chamber, each guarded by priests chanting in low tones, their hands raising offerings of floating ice crystals that spun in mystic patterns. At the center, a throne of black ice and volcanic rock dominated the space, flanked by two wyvern statues carved with such detail they seemed poised to unfurl their wings. Glacial Guard Warriors, clad in reinforced armor and wielding spears longer than their bodies, formed a protective semicircle around the throne, their white scales gleaming like living armor, while Frost Mages watched from elevated platforms, their staves primed to unleash storms at the slightest hint of danger.

Atop the throne, Kraal, the Crypt's Guardian, surveyed the map with a presence that made the air tremble around him. He was a colossal Lizardman, his grayish-white scales tinged with blue glinting under the light, his muscles rippling beneath armor of yeti hide and ice plates as hard as steel. A glacial chill radiated from him, a halo that crystallized the breath of any who drew too near, and his yellow eyes burned with an intensity that could freeze the soul, as if the mountain's fury were distilled in his gaze. Every motion was precise, lethal, a contained dance of power that spoke of a warrior who had felled woolly mammoths with his bare hands and whose roar had triggered avalanches that buried entire armies. It was said his icy breath could reduce fortresses to ruins of frost, a force capable of shattering a large nation in a single outburst of rage, a living legend the Glacial Scales revered as their shield.

"The omens grow darker, Kraal," came a voice from behind, slicing through the priests' chants like a whisper of icy wind.

Kraal turned, his gaze locking onto Zyth, the Chief Shaman, who emerged from the throne's shadow. She was a stooped elder, her dark, wrinkled scales marked with ritual tattoos that seemed to slither across her skin like rivers of living magic. Her pale green eyes glowed with an otherworldly light, and the staff she held—a dragon's ice fang studded with gems—pulsed with a power that shivered the air. It was whispered she could summon blizzards with a murmur, freeze lakes with a gesture, and commune with the mountain's spirits, her magic as vast as the ice around them. She advanced with slow, steady steps, the echo of her staff against the floor resounding like a deep heartbeat.

"I feel it, Zyth," Kraal replied, his voice a low growl that seemed to rise from the earth's depths, a sound that vibrated the nearby statues. "The tremors, the fiercer blizzards, the beasts stirring on the slopes… something disrupts our home's balance."

"Not just the mountain," Zyth added, raising her staff toward the map, its tip brushing the icy lines marking the Glacial Scales. Her wrinkles deepened, and her voice took on a prophetic weight that hushed the priests' chants for a fleeting moment. "The wind's spirits whisper of distant lands—red skies a century past, seas still roaring in echoes. The Catastrophe from a hundred years ago left wounds that haven't healed, and now something stirs them anew."

Kraal's brow furrowed, his hand gripping the throne's edge until the ice cracked under his claws. "You think these recent tremors are an echo of that?" he asked, his tone laced with a restrained fury that made the nearby guards tighten their grips on their spears.

Zyth nodded, her eyes flaring with a light that seemed to pierce time's veil. "It's possible. Shamans from far clans have felt the same—a burning shadow moving in the distance, a growing power. I don't know what it is, but the spirits are restless, Kraal. They speak of cold and darkness, of something drawing near."

Before Kraal could reply, a tremor shook the chamber, a dull roar that rattled the floor and sent the distant tower bells tolling with a low, ominous clang. The priests raised their chants louder, the cold flames on the altars crackling, and the ice golems swiveled their heads toward the entrance, their blue eyes glowing with alertness. Kraal stepped forward, his armor creaking, and opened his maw, unleashing a deep roar that thundered through the chamber. The sound surged through the tunnels, reached the outer wall, and beyond—where the rivers' icy spikes shot higher and the chained wyverns flapped their wings with piercing shrieks. The tremor stopped, crushed by the force of his voice, and the guards in the semicircle raised their spears in reverence, their scales glinting under the blue light.

"Let it come, whatever it is," Kraal growled, his breath forming crystals in the air before him, "this crypt won't fall while I draw breath."

At that moment, a young warrior with gleaming white scales burst into the chamber, sprinting past the golems with an urgency that cut through the air. "Guardian Kraal!" he shouted, his voice trembling yet firm, bowing before the throne. "An emissary from the court has reached the wall! He demands entry to the Crypt!"

Kraal and Zyth exchanged a glance, their faces hardening with surprise and suspicion. A court visit amid dark omens and tremors couldn't be coincidence. "An emissary?" Kraal asked, his tone as cold as the ice beneath his feet. "From King Thrassk's court?"

"Yes, Guardian," the warrior replied, straightening. "He calls himself Skarr, Royal Emissary. He bears an urgent message from the King."

Kraal growled, a sound that shivered the cold flames on the nearby altars. He disliked interruptions, especially from the court. King Thrassk, young and malleable, lacked the mountain's grit, and his advisors knew little of the Glacial Scales' sacred ways. "Let him pass," he ordered, his fists clenching until his armor's plates creaked, "but alone and unarmed. This crypt tolerates no insolence."

The warrior nodded and dashed off, but the order wouldn't be fully honored. Minutes later, footsteps echoed through the tunnels, and Skarr, the Royal Emissary, strode into the Council Chamber, flanked by four Glacial Guard Warriors and two Frost Mages from the court. The crypt's guards reacted instantly: Kraal's elite raised their spears in a wall of crystal tips, the golems turned with a deafening creak, and a living ice river surged from the floor, blocking the entourage with spikes that gleamed under the blue light. The wyverns in their niches roared, their chains clanking, and the bells beyond the wall tolled a deep note that shuddered through the mountain, an echo that seemed to warn the world itself.

Kraal advanced, his towering frame casting a shadow that darkened Skarr, his yellow eyes blazing with contained fury. "What is this, Emissary?" he growled, his voice a low roar that sent one of Skarr's mages stumbling back a step, his staff quivering in his hands. "I said alone."

Skarr, a lean and elegant Lizardman with silver-gray scales, tried to hold his ground, but a flicker of unease crossed his cunning eyes. He wore a white wolfskin tunic adorned with ice jewels and a medallion bearing the royal emblem—a stylized dragon claw—but against the crypt's titanic scale, he seemed small, almost trivial. "Guardian," he said, his voice smooth yet edged with an arrogance that faltered under the weight of the spears and the distant wyvern roars, "given the circumstances, I deemed it prudent to bring protection. These are my advisors—surely you won't object to an official inspection."

Kraal restrained the urge to crush the insolent fool with a single blow, his icy breath forming a cloud that crystallized the air between them. The crypt was a sacred bastion, guarded by hundreds of warriors and mages whose might could topple armies, and Skarr's audacity was an affront. Yet sparking a diplomatic clash now, with omens darkening, would be unwise. "An exception," he said, his jaw tight, his tone sharp as a blizzard, "but here, my word is law. This crypt isn't a playground for your political games."

Skarr dipped his head slightly, a cold smile tugging at his lips, but his eyes betrayed a nervousness he couldn't fully mask. The guards' march outside thundered on, the war hymn vibrating the walls, and the ice river before him rose higher, its spikes brushing his tunic's edge. "Guardian Kraal," he said, unfurling a sealed parchment with fingers that shook for a moment, "I bring a message from King Thrassk."

"Speak," Kraal commanded, his voice an echo that spurred the priests to double their chants, the cold flames crackling brighter.

Skarr unfolded the parchment, his gaze dodging the spears and golems encircling him. "The King is concerned for the Frozen Claw's safety," he said, struggling to reclaim his arrogance, though a faint waver crept into his tone. "Recent tremors, strange blizzards, creatures sighted on the slopes… the echo of the Catastrophe from a century ago stirs again. The King wishes me to inspect the crypt and assess its defenses."

Kraal growled, a sound that seemed to shiver the wyvern statues. "Does the King doubt my strength?" he asked, his sarcasm cutting like sharpened ice. "This crypt has withstood storms that razed kingdoms, avalanches that buried armies, and the Catastrophe's wrath a hundred years past. My breath has toppled fortresses, my warriors have crushed invaders, and Zyth can summon storms to freeze an ocean. We need no court to guard what's ours."

Skarr swallowed, his smile faltering as a mage beside him flinched under Kraal's glowing gaze. "The King only seeks to ensure the Frozen Claw, our holiest treasure, doesn't fall into the wrong hands," he pressed, his voice weaker beneath the hymn's weight resounding from the wall. "It's my duty to see it with my own eyes."

Zyth stepped forward, her staff striking the floor with an echo that briefly hushed the priests. "The Crypt of the Frozen Claw is impregnable," she said, her voice heavy with wisdom that seemed to rise from the mountain itself, her tattoos flaring with a green glow. "No intruder has touched the Claw, nor ever will. But if the King insists, let your eyes witness what our hands have safeguarded for millennia."

Skarr eyed her, assessing, and though he tried to hold his poise, the power radiating from the elder made him waver. "My duty is to report to the King what I see," he replied, his tone more cautious, "that this crypt is as inviolable as it was in ancient days."

Kraal locked eyes with Zyth, his yellow gaze blazing with pride and mistrust. "Very well, Emissary," he said at last, his voice taut as a glacier on the verge of cracking. "I'll show you the crypt. But I warn you—I'll tolerate no disrespect. This is a sacred place, and here, even you must bow to its might."

Skarr smiled, a cold, calculated expression that barely hid the unease in his hands, which gripped the parchment tighter than needed. "Worry not, Guardian," he said, his voice softer, almost reverent under the overwhelming scale around him. "I'm here only to fulfill my duty and ensure our ancestors' legacy is safe—though these recent tremors gnaw at me more than I'd admit."

And so, Kraal and Skarr, with Zyth beside them, the Glacial Guard Warriors and Frost Mages of the crypt watching every step, ventured deeper into the sacred labyrinth. The golems creaked as they turned, the guards' spears gleamed under the blue light, and the war hymn thundered from the outer wall, a chant that seemed to defy the heavens themselves. As they advanced, Zyth lingered slightly behind, her green eyes fixed on Skarr with a thoughtful intensity. The omens she'd felt—tremors, a burning shadow in the wind—grew sharper with the emissary's arrival, a disturbance she couldn't pinpoint but that thrummed in her bones like an echo of the past.

"The spirits are restless, Kraal," she whispered, drawing near the Guardian as the wyverns roared in the distance. "I sense a shadow approaching, a fire burning beneath the ice."

Kraal's brow furrowed, his hand resting on his armor's edge. "Do you think this emissary's tied to it?" he asked, his voice low but resonant, a growl that made a nearby guard instinctively raise his spear.

Zyth shook her head, her staff pulsing with a faint light. "I don't know. His aura is cold, calculating, but not malicious. Yet his coming is a catalyst—fate weaves a new thread, and this crypt, strong as it is, will feel its weight."

"Let them weave what they will," Kraal growled, his gaze locked on Skarr as the priests' chants filled the air like a sonic shield. "This fortress won't fall. We watch, Zyth—and let any shadow daring to approach taste the fury of my breath."

The war hymn swelled louder from the wall, the bells tolling an echo that shook the mountain, and the Crypt of the Frozen Claw stood firm, a sacred, impregnable bastion, its power thrumming in every corner like a challenge to the world beyond.