137. The Way Of The Shapeshifter

None of the Morphs expected to get out of the settlement alive. They didn’t need to. The mission’s primary objective was to gather information regarding the Jotun. Interacting with them and infiltrating the camp was already enough. Anything that came afterward was a bonus that El-Prime and Penelope were bound to appreciate.

For the time being, he had the Wolf Morphs prepare for the rough plan he had put together. Success was far from guaranteed, but they were willing to settle for a minor setback. If it resulted in uncovering the secret of the Jotun’s magic or a secret patron, that was good enough for their purposes. Such intelligence without tangible evidence probably wasn’t enough to sway the Gray council or Schwarzberg royal courts, but it would give their operation much-needed direction.

El-Prime and the clones agreed with Penelope’s purpose and appreciated what she was trying to do. However, they also believed that she was grasping at straws and didn’t have enough to work with. El-Prime believed her current tactic of lying low was going to take far too long and not get the results she needed in time. As a result, Morph Prime had more freedom than his fellow clones. He had been instructed not to start a war with the Schwarzberg Kingdom. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t change the target of the Jotun’s rage and hatred.

“Are we honestly going to believe the words of this pathetic cripple?” asked the largest Jotun he had ever seen. Elaborate tattoos covered his bear chest and arms. A bear pelt hung draped over his shoulders like a cape, and he wore the skull like a helmet. “Wasn’t it this Ilgen’s cowardice that got a warchief killed?”

“I saved—”

A female Jotun, seemingly the youngest warchief in the room, smacked the back of Morph Pirme’s head. “You weren’t asked.” Bright white cloth wrappings covered all of her torso except her shoulders. Meanwhile, her shoulders remained bare. Similarly colored tattoos covered every inch of exposed skin that wasn’t on her face. She sniffed at Morph Prime, raising an eyebrow. “I’m with Bjorn. Ilgen’s—”

“I don’t need the support of a whore who slept her way to warchief,” Bjorn said, before spitting at her feet. “Thank Ymir and the Everfrost for your spot in this tent.”

“Bjorn.” The words were soft and lacked malice, but radiated authority that stiffened Morph Prime and made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. “Astrid has earned her position. I’d go as far as to say she’s had more meaningful victories in the past five years.”

“Forgive me, warchief.” Bjorn bowed his head, barely concealing his disdain.

“I appreciate your doubts, but Ilgen is a valued member of the Wildkin Tribe,” continued the slender male Jotun, sitting on a throne made of rune-etched wood. He appeared young, much like Astrid. The chieftain, as Morph Prime assumed, wore no clothes and had no tattoos. His body seemed sculpted from ice and stone, parts appearing almost crystalline. The magic pulsing through his luminous veins felt alien, old, and almost as powerful as Void energy. “He may have suffered failures in recent seasons, but his experience, senses, and survival instincts put our best scouts to shame.”

The chieftain studied Morph Prime and his mount. “Ilgen could’ve ridden the wolf to his clan’s lands, and we would’ve assumed him dead. The fact that he made the effort of coming here, where he’s more likely to be executed than heard, proves his dedication to the tribe.

Ilgen has shown his mettle, riding here injured and barely holding onto his magic. Ilgen has proven his dedication to this war.” The chieftain rose from his throne and wandered around the tent, each step carrying weight and meaning. He looked each of the ten war chiefs in the eye as he passed. “Our survival and return to power rely on reclaiming this fragment of Jotunheim and driving.” The chieftain placed a hand on Morph Prime’s shoulder, and warming magic pulsed from the touch. The intentionally broken bones made to sell the ruse mended themselves. “Hence, I choose to trust Ilgen. Not what he says but what he believes to have seen and sensed.”

The hand on Morph Prime’s shoulder grew heavy; it forced him to his knees. His heart pounded in his chest, and despite the cold, sweat beaded on the back of his neck. “Saga.” The chieftain looked at one of the other two female warchiefs in the room. “Send out your birds. Have them follow Ilgen’s trail. We need evidence of this human party and the claims of dragonfire. If it’s the sorceress you sensed sniffing around, she needs to be eliminated.”

“As you command, warchief,” Saga said, bowing her head.

“I volunteer my axes and berserkers,” Bjorn said, teeth bared. He banged a fist on his left breast, and the surrounding tattoos pulsed crimson. “Her flames will fuel our fury.”

“Frigg’s portalcallers and soulbinders will assist you,” the chieftain declared. The cold radiated from him, clawed through skin, flesh, and scratched at Morph Prime’s bones. He fought the urge to mend the damage with biomass. It would give away his cover?”

“Are you sure this is a good idea, chieftain?” Astrid asked, stepping forward. “This sorceress—”

“You dare contradict the chieftain?!” Saga protested, her volume rising. Her tone betrayed more alarm and fear than rage.

“No. No.” The chieftain held up a hand. “It is why we have these meetings. All of you are more than my generals and subordinates. You’re also mqy advisors, and I appreciate each of your insights and counsel. Go on, Astrid.”

“All of you know that I’m against this war,” Astrid said. “So don’t mistake my interruption as a challenge. I’m not here to assist with any of your grand ambitions and goals. My objective is to minimize the loss of Jotun life, especially that of my clan’s.” She paused, eyes wandering over her fellow warchiefs. Most of them glared at her, their disdain obvious. “We’re going to make an enemy of the kingdom that has claimed this land. That much is inevitable. But survival afterward will depend on our military and trade relationship with their allies and neighbors after the war is over.”

“The girl has spent too much time reading,” one of the male warchief stated, chuckling. “This is what happens when you read heavy books and bed delicate human men. You go soft in the head.”

All but the chieftain and Saga laughed.

Astrid continued undeterred. “My assassins and spiders snuck into the city and looked into this sorceress and her allies.” She glanced at the warchief who had made fun of her. “Your rats’ intelligence was incomplete and lacking. These people are from elsewhere. They represent powerful foreign entities but command far more power than the council and mercenary companies. Making an enemy of them might be a mistake.”

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“What do you propose then?” Saga asked. “We meet with the sorceress? Befriend her?”

“A truce might save thousands of Jotun lives.”

“I respect your insight and candor, Astrid,” the chieftain said, turning his back on her and returning to his throne. Morph Prime fell to his hands and knees, gasping as his lungs regained full functionality. “But my mind isn’t changed. The sorceress and her allies pose too significant a threat. They can’t be allowed to leave the mountains.” He smiled and Morph Prime. “If your intelligence proves true, you shall be rewarded. Title. Land once this war is over.” The warchief grinned for the first time since Morph Prime had seen him. “Perhaps one of Bjorn’s daughters as a wife.”

A couple of the other warchiefs laughed. Bjorn’s growl silenced them.

“Thank you, chieftain,” Morph Prime said, rising to his feet. “You’re most generous. Let me assist. My pack remembers the humans’ scent. I can feel the dragonfire from far.”

“That won’t be necessary,” the chieftain stated. “You must rest and regain your strength. I’ll have a tent prepared. And perhaps someone to warm your bedroll while you’re in my camp.”

Morph Prime bowed while swiftly sending the lesser Morphs messages through the journal.

Morph Prime: You bitches ready?

Wolf Morph One: You mean lady wolves.

Wolf Morph Two: It’s not our fault that all of them were female. We didn’t have a better template to copy.

Wolf Morph Three: I like being a bitch. A bad bitch. I think I’m sexy. Don’t you?

Morph Prime: I’d dispel every single one of you right now if I could. Is it ready or not?

Wolf Morph Four: You’re the only one of us with Spellweaver, Prime. I don’t know if it's any good, but the spell circle is ready.

Wolf Morph Two: Drawn with shadows. Masked with Shadow Illusion. The question is, are you ready?

Wolf Morph One: We felt you during the warbeast fight. You were barely in control.

Morph Prime: I guess there is only one way to find out. Let’s get started.

The chieftain, Astrid, and Saga stiffened when magic pulsed underfoot. Everything vibrated, and shadows swirled, slowly spreading across the floor. As veterans of battle, the warchiefs only remained bewildered for a moment. Tattoos glowed. Magic stirred within some, and the rest tried to draw it from the ground. The large-scale Silencing Shadows spell failed to cut them off completely from the source, only slowing them, but it was enough.

Rakan’s magic stirred within Morph Prime as he called upon the Great Red Dragon’s scale. He didn’t attempt to contain the magic, letting it transform him inside and out. Bjorn roared and charged as Ilgen’s sickly Jotun form swelled, pale blue skin turning darkening and growing crimson scales.

As luck would have it, no one in the chieftain’s tent had a weapon. Bjorn included. Wolf Morph lunged at him, fangs going straight for the neck. The clone failed to penetrate the Jotun’s hide. All of his tattoos glowed with the same color as Morph Prime’s newly sprouted scales; the color had also bled into his eyes. Bjorn wrapped an arm around the wolf’s neck and squeezed. Bones audibly groaned under the hold. If Wolf Prime hadn’t reinforced his body with biomass, he would’ve died instantly. Instead, he released a sonic boom through his maw, directly at Bjorn’s head and neck. The Jotun’s eyes rolled up into his head just as his fellow warchiefs charged.

Only Saga and one other rushed to protect the chieftain who hadn’t yet moved from his seat. It was unclear whether he was inexperienced and in shock, or trusted his subordinates to such an extent that he didn’t think it important enough to move from where he sat. One thing was certain: the magic the Wolf Morphs had at their disposal was far from enough to disable the Jotun’s leader.

Crimson flames burst from Morph Prime’s body, pulsing outwards. They destroyed Wolf Prime and melted through Bjorn’s still stunned body, destroying his left arm and leg, and most of his torso. Two other warchiefs were caught in the blast. One died instantly, while Frigg lost her right arm, right up to the shoulder.

The magic slowly slipped from Morph Prime’s control. He hoped to cause as much damage to the Jotun’s commanders as possible before it took over. Cold air filled his lungs as he inhaled, then the Great Red Dragon’s dragonfire set it ablaze. He aimed his growing snout at the chieftain as he exhaled. Astrid tackled him from the side. Morph Prime lost control of the concentrated beam of flames, running it along the ground and across a group of bunched-up chieftains.

It was impossible to tell who he had hit since the remaining Wolf Morph’s magic continued to spread. Silencing Shadows swelled around the chieftain and Saga, further slowing their connection to the primal magic below them. Solid black spikes also burst from the ground, obscuring vision more than inflicting damage. The Jotuns destroyed the constructs with ease, turning them into black smoke that rapidly defused.

“Aim for the warchiefs, not the chieftain,” Astrid whispered, much to Morph Prime’s surprise. She held him in a choke hold, but he felt no pressure on his neck. Instead, he let her direct his head as he continued to exhale.

The remaining Morphs burst into the tent, having turned themselves into flesh behemoths using the biomass absorbed from the warbeast. They had mimicked its qualities using Animancy, sporting heavy bone plating and dorsal spikes. Giant knuckle claws burning with storm energy slashed at warchiefs and Jotun that followed them in.

“Let me put on a show,” Morph Prime told Astrid. He hoped no one could overhear him over the chaos. Most struggled against the crimson flames more than his fellow clones. It seemed the dragonfire directly countered whatever frost magic ran through their brains. “I won’t hurt your chieftain. I promise.”

“How can I trust you?” Astrid demanded.

“You can’t. But believe me when I say that neither you nor I want this war. The Jotun’s hatred is better directed elsewhere.”

“Where?”

“The Elder Wyrmkin. They’re in your mountains and mines, and they have no plans of coexisting.”

Astrid loosened her grip. “Make it look like you hurt me.”

Morph Prime roared, throwing her off. When he rose, he stood taller than any Jotun. Releasing large quantities of dragonfire had restored his control, but he could feel it slipping again. It seemed Rakan’s influence gradually turned all of his internal energy into dragonfire, and as volume increased, Morph Prime’s mastery over his own body weakened. He exercised Spellweaver, channelling it all into a large halo that hovered behind him, rapidly growing.

“This land doesn’t belong to you, Jotun!” Morph Prime yelled, pointing a thick, clawed finger at the chieftain. The skinny Jotun now stood, growing a dark projectile in his right hand. It was narrow, like the emptiness of space, with stars and nebulae swirling within. “You may strike down this avatar, but remember this land is not yours! The Great Crimson Dragon and his cults will hunt your clan and wipe them from the face of Fracture. This fragment of Jotunhein and—”

The chieftain threw his projectile before the monologue could reach its conclusion. Morph Prime expected as much and had used it as a distraction as he prepared an exit strategy. Initially, he had intended to sacrifice himself, hoping the ploy of making it look like a dragon cult’s plot would work. Now, he had a possible ally, and getting closer to her took priority. The draconic form’s back ripped open along the spine, and he slipped out of the opening, hoping the smoke, dancing shadows, and blinding crimson halo would conceal his exit.

Morph Prime ducked and rolled as he fell. A heartbeat later, and a deafening rip filled his ears. The heavy body he had inhibited seconds ago fell, but the halo remained in the air, melting snow and setting the tent ablaze. Morph Prime crawled to one of the dead chieftains and absorbed his biomass and copied his form. The transformation took seconds. Then, he shaped the shadows out of the way, crawling on his hands and knees, until he spotted Astrid. Morph Prime picked her up.

“You want an ally?” He whispered, using Ilgen’s voice as she struggled. “You’ve got an ally. Let’s get clear until the chaos settles.”

“You’re insane!” Astrid hissed, her eyes wide as she analyzed his face. “Get me to the chieftain. You and I can talk later.”