What in the Five? Frost's eyes widened, and his mouth gaped. While pulling on the water, snaking it toward him through the air, the water transformed, gaining a thickness to it as if something or someone else was using frost magic.

The floating liquid emulsified in mid-air and then caught fire. It coruscated in a bright flash, splashing in all directions with liquid drops of flame, bursting out in a camp-wide conflagration.

Three of the soldiers caught on fire, flammable globules latching onto their cotton uniforms and igniting them like human torches. They screamed in a panic, running for piles of snow to roll around in. But the fire took hold too quickly, leaving their bodies badly scorched and burned. They would need serious medical treatment if they were to live.

Frost didn't have time to figure out what exactly was going on, so he took advantage of the confusion and ran at the nearest soldier, tackling him to the ground. The man was in a state of shock and stupor, also never having seen liquid fire. Before he could pull himself back to reality, Frost knocked him out cold.

Pulling out the man's pistol, Frost aimed it at a second soldier. The soldier had already drawn his own sidearm,

Click, click.

Two shots ran out. Frost's aim was true, dropping the man in his tracks. Fortunately for Frost, his opponent's shot was wide.

Well, that was a bit of beginner's luck, Frost thought to himself. He'd never fired a gun before, but he could get used to it. It was a bit like a crossbow but better somehow. He did have a knack for weapons.

A thin puff of smoke rose from the tip of the piece. It had a nice feel to it. Compact. Efficient. Not like swords or spears.

He made a mental note to study these newfangled contraptions, but for now, he needed to fight.

A third soldier drew his rifle on Frost only to find himself beaten over the head with a club by the woman holding her child. She'd also taken advantage of the confusion to fight back. No one had suspected that a woman holding a baby would be so effective.

Unfortunately, by the time the rest of the camp joined in the fray, the eight remaining guards were fully organized. They operated like a well-trained unit, snapping into formation and loading their rifles. Even in the middle of a fire and an armed revolt, they became highly alert. The guards turned their guns on the prisoners and began dropping them on the spot.

Clack, clack, clack.

Three prisoners dropped dead as bullets burrowed into their heads and chests. The others gasped as they witnessed the carnage. Several let out screams of terror and horror. Smoke rose in the backdrop, ominously portending further deaths and executions.

The burning continued, lighting up deadwood trees surrounding the camp and the makeshift tents the guards slept in. Smoke was filling the ground, and it would soon force the group out of the small camp in the woods.

Maybe that was the plan, Frost thought to himself. Smoke everyone out, and in the confusion, escape. Not a bad idea.

But the guards didn't seem to care about a little smoke, even if it was enough to kill. They had madness in their eyes, a look of ... was that fear? It was as if they knew dire fate awaited those who fled, leaving escaped prisoners behind. Especially frost mages.

Click, click, click.

Five more prisoners dropped dead. The elderly gentleman with the wizened white beard fell to the ground clutching his side as an iron ball impaled itself into his leg.

The leader of the guard, Philip Hargreaves, turned his sights on the woman holding her child, his lips curling to one side as he cocked his gun.

Frost would have none of it.

He ran at a full-sprint, and rage-tackled Hargreaves, an instant before the man's gun went off. It fired deafeningly into the sky as the man hit the ground, his back smacking against the dirt below.

Frost proceeded to punch the man in the face.

The crunch of a broken and bloodied nose left Frost with a certain sense of satisfaction, giving the violent guard his just deserts. Still, Hargreaves was a big man. Much bigger and much heavier than Frost.

As Frost landed a second blow, he felt the smoke permeate his lungs, slowing his oxygen intake and dampening the quickness of his jabs. As he snapped his fist back for a third blow, Hargreaves headbutted him.

The blow whipsawed Frost backward like being hit by a moving caravan. Hargreave's mangled figure rose up like a looming shadow. His broken face rested atop an enormous giant of a body. Hargreaves cracked his knuckles, then pulled out his pistol.

The strange device was death itself. It looked like a small pipe with a wooden handle attached. Hargreaves cocked the gun and smirked, eyes forming slits.

Frost was helpless. No water. No armor. No weapons. Not even the double-strength and agility of his frost magic.

Bam, bam, bam.

The soldiers fired again, felling seven more prisoners. Over half their number had been killed in the last few moments.

And Frost was next.

In an instant, his eyes flitted to one side as he heard a rustle in the bushes. Please be Frolick and Molly, he urgently prayed to the Almighty. Maybe they could pull off a trick like last time and save them all.

Please.

Hargreaves' eyes shifted too, searching out the source of the noise. Whatever it was, it caught the attention of several soldiers.

This might be his one chance.

Frost focused himself, preparing for Molly's entrance. If she ran out fast enough, spraying water from her trunk, he might be able to form armor quickly and put up a fight. With this many guards, he would have a decent chance of fending them off if Hargreaves didn't kill him first.

Bursting out of the smoky woods was the hulking form of an arctic creature with thick brown fur and menacing white horns. It was shaggy and running directly at the soldiers. The beast looked like an enormous hairball?

What the—this wasn't Molly at all, but something smaller and woolier, if that were possible. It also brought friends. More of the strange beasts' heads popped out of the woods, charging full speed at the guards.

And they smelled terrible.