From a distance, Frolick watched his brother pull water from the nearby stream, forming it into frost armor. It looked exactly like one of the heavier suits their father had built for rich noblemen. The armor took on the texture, weight, and strength of actual armor. It even contained the very essence of metal, acting and reacting just the way metal would. Frost is just as skilled as Dad, Frolick thought.

Then Frost engaged the enemy, felling two of them while another fled, calling for reinforcements.

"Fivin' stubborn man," Frolick muttered to himself. "He's going to get himself killed." Frolick shook his head. He'd helped his brother out of difficult scrapes before but never against an entire army. They'd never seen an army this big. The contingent that had occupied their own village hadn't been more than a few hundred strong. Five, there were thousands here. All the way up in the Northern Reach. Who would've thought.

Shaking his head, Frolick surveyed the scene. There had to be something he could do. If Frostilicus had bet his life on a bold play, maybe Frolick could be of some assistance. As idiotic as his brother could be, Frost was very strong. He'd find a way. Hopefully.

Frolick caught sight of the cavalry. Most of the troops were unmounted, but there were at least a thousand horses sitting idle. More interestingly, the Flintlock had conscripted the help of a herd of domesticated muskoxen. The long-haired beasts were strong and well-suited to the northern climate. Their strength had also been extremely handy in lugging supplies, especially cannons, all the way up here.

Frolick stroked his chin. "Hmmmm," he said. "Maybe there is something I can do."

Looking around, Frolick began snapping twigs and branches from the nearby brush. Then he dropped flat on his back. The riverbed looked to have been drained of what must have been a roaring river, and the mud was still quite soft and sticky. He began to roll around in it like a happy toddler. Five, that was fun. Kids were really onto something.

Frolick felt the soft, squishy goo within his hands. Then he lathered himself in it. There was also something quite relaxing about the experience. Becoming one with nature. Soaking in the earth. It was probably good for his skin too.

When he was covered from head to toe in the black gunk, he applied the twigs and branches to his body. They didn't all stick perfectly, but he managed to get enough of them on. When he was done, Frolick looked like a giant walking bush.

Frolick looked himself over gleefully. His lips curled upward. "They'll never know what hit them," he said.

...

Frost slashed his sword at Corporal Shamus, growling as he threw his weight into the maneuver.

The corporal caught the blade with the barrel of his rifle, using it in a defensive pare. His blood-red eyes glowered back at Frost.

What in the Five, Frost thought. If this was the same man who'd almost executed him before, something very wrong had happened since then.

The corporal pushed back on Frost's sword, throwing him onto his back with inhuman power. Even with frost-enhanced strength, Frostilicus was thrown backward, landing on his rear, dropping his sword. He winced as the pain jolted him.

"I'm here to finish what I started," the corporal said. He wore a triangular black hat with gold trim. His uniform was far too small. Whatever had just happened to him had transformed him so that his muscles bulged, ripping the cloth.

The man let out a rictus snarl and charged.

Frost didn't have time to retrieve his sword, so he pulled, water whipping through the air and forming a new one in his hands.

Shamus pointed his rifle at Frost and fired point-blank, the blast hitting him in the gut. His metal clanked and a dome-shaped dent formed in the faux steel. It didn't penetrate the armor, but the dent was noticeable, and it made it hard for Frost to breathe. Moreover, it hurt.

The momentary distraction allowed Shamus to bat away Frost's sword and pin him on the ground, grappling him in place.

Five, the man was strong. And heavy.

Frost was already at a significant disadvantage in a wrestling match, given that he wore thick, medieval armor. Shamus wore nothing but light cotton cloth. So Frost did the only thing he could—he dissolved the plate.

It instantly turned back into water, creating a momentary cold snap. The frost armor suctioned heat out of the air at an instantaneous rate in order to convert back into water. That didn't bother Frost, but it surprised Shamus, who nearly jumped back in surprise.

Frost used that to his advantage, pulling on water and forming a knife in his hand. The knife gave off white mist as it dazzled with patterned stars across its hilt. Frost rammed it into Shamus' side.

Shamus glared back at Frost with eyes angry. Then he leaned into the blade, and grabbed onto Frost's wrist.

Despite Frost's double-strength, he was outmatched by the dire soldier.

"It ends for you here," Shamus said, his voice raspy and guttural. He cupped both hands around Frost's clenched fist, which still held the knife. Then Shamus reversed its direction and plunged it into Frost's heart.

Frostilicus gasped, eyes pulsing blue. His mouth gaped, and his eyes widened. Shamus' lips curled upward in a display of sadistic satisfaction.

Frost's eyes shut, and his breath extinguished, his body falling limp to the ground. His balled hand still held the hilt of the knife near his heart.

Shamus stood up and cracked his back. Then he leaned over to examine his kill. A dozen soldiers surrounded him, ready to give hearty congratulations. One of the men let out a "whoop" and clapped his hands over his head.

Frost smirked, his lips curling to one side. Then he opened his eyes, blue light pulsating. His clasped hand unfurled, releasing the hilt of the knife. It was bladeless, a trickle of water running down his chest.

"He dissolved the knife, Sir," one of the men said, pointing at Frostilicus.

Frost jumped to his feet, pulling on the water around him. A spear formed in his hands.