Grimjaw Stonehide's Arc

Chapter 2 of 15

Grimjaw woke to a wall of white. Snow had buried the training grounds overnight. The storm still howled, driving flakes sideways into his tent. His new caps held tight in his jaw, but caps meant nothing without practice. His match came in two days. He needed solid ground to drill his grip. Instead he found a field of drifts, waist-deep and soft. He shoved out into the cold and sank to his thighs. Every push he tried, his feet slid. He could not brace. He could not shove. He cursed the sky and searched for firmer footing. A deep voice cut through the wind. "You will drown in that powder, troll." A polarfolk cleric stood on the drift's surface, unsinking. Snow-white fur covered his seven-foot frame. Frosted steel plate gleamed with blue runes across his chest. He held a spear of pale bone tipped with jagged ice. Grimjaw had seen him tend wounded fighters behind the arena, silent and stern. They had never spoken. The cleric's amber eyes measured him now like a healer sizing a break. "I need ground," Grimjaw said. "Packed and hard. My match is in two days." Hjalgrim Frostpaw planted his spear. Blue light crackled along the ice blade. "Then pack it yourself. The mountain does not clear for the impatient." He gestured at the drifts with one heavy paw. "Trample it. Drive it down until it holds your weight. Powder becomes floor if you fight it long enough." Grimjaw stared at the endless snow. His arms already burned. But the cleric did not offer magic or shortcuts. He offered work. So Grimjaw began. He stamped a circle, driving each foot down hard. He knelt and packed the snow with his fists, over and over, until his knuckles cracked and bled. The wind bit his face. Hjalgrim watched without a word, spear humming with cold light. Hours passed. Grimjaw's circle grew firm beneath him. He set his stance and drove forward against the packed wall. His feet held. His tusks felt like weapons again. He shoved and shoved until sweat froze in his fur. For the first time he trained on ground that would not betray him. Then the packed snow gave a low groan. A crack split the surface under his weight. Grimjaw froze. Beneath the trampled crust the drift had hollowed, and a shape rose from it. Spikes bristled along a massive pale back. A dire polar bear heaved up through the snow, roused from its buried den. Its red eyes fixed on him. Grimjaw had beaten the storm and made his floor. He had also dug straight down onto a sleeping predator. Hjalgrim lowered his spear and stepped back. "You wanted solid ground," he said. "You woke what sleeps beneath it." The bear opened its jaws and roared. Grimjaw raised his fists and set his feet on the ground he had earned.