Chương 12: Frost Cap-Expedition

The northern ravine was a place where living things went to die. It was a massive drop of rocks and ice that bordered the edge of the Frost-Grip estate. The wind whistling through the deep chasm was so fierce and cold that it could freeze a man's fingers in a matter of minutes. No sane person would dare approach the edge during a winter night, let alone try to climb down into the pitch-black depths. But Jack was not sending a person. Jack was in his bedchamber, a thick wool blanket draped over his knees.

He closed his eyes, sinking his mind deep into the grey threads connected to his soul. He bypassed the new recruits clearing the courtyard and focused his entire will on his two most experienced workers: Bones and Dusty. Through their empty eye sockets, Jack looked down into the terrifying, howling abyss of the ravine.

"Alright," Jack commanded mentally.

"Down we go. Find the glowing blue mushrooms." Bones stepped over the edge of the cliff first. If Jack had been in his own human body, his heart would have been hammering with pure terror. But through the skeletons, there was no fear, no adrenaline, and no biting cold. There was only the objective. The skeleton didn't look for a gentle slope or a safe foothold. Bones simply raised his massive right hand and slammed it directly into the sheet of ice covering the cliff face. CRACK.

His bony fingers punched straight through the hard ice, sinking deep into a narrow crack in the stone beneath. Bones lowered his frame, kicking his toes into the ice to secure his footing, and began to descend. Dusty followed right behind him. The descent was a masterclass in undead logistics. Skeletons did not have muscles that cramped from exhaustion. They did not have lungs either.

When a gust of wind slammed against the cliff, it simply howled right through their empty rib-cages, finding no resistance to blow them off the wall. They climbed down slowly for nearly half an hour, descending deeper into the darkest and the coldest part of the chasm where the sunlight never reached. Suddenly, through Dusty's perspective, Jack saw a faint light. Tucked deep inside a narrow, jagged crevasse in the rock wall, a small cluster of pale blue lights was glowing softly in the dark.

"Stop," Jack ordered. Bones anchored himself to the cliff, while Dusty carefully reached his crooked neck into the crevasse. There, growing out of the frozen, mineral-rich stone, were five small mushrooms. Their caps were a brilliant, translucent blue, glowing with a soft, natural magic. These were the Frost-Caps Old Martha had spoken of. Dusty reached out with careful and precise movements.

He plucked the mushrooms from the stone, being careful not to crush the delicate caps, and placed them into a small leather pouch tied around his ribs.

"Got them," Jack whispered in his bedroom, a wave of relief washing over him.

"Climb back up. Slowly." By the time the sun began to rise, casting a pale light across the snow, the leather pouch was already on Jack's writing desk. Later that morning, the village was alive with a strange, new energy. Jack walked down the path, leaning on his cane. As he passed the small timber houses, he could hear the crackle of coal fires from within. The sharp smell of burning coal filled the air. A few villagers were outside, shoveling snow from their walkways.

When they saw Jack, they stopped what they were doing and offered him deep, respectful bows. He was no longer just the sickly boy in the castle. He was the lord who had delivered them life. Jack made his way to the low stone building of the blacksmith's shop. Barnaby's forge was roaring. The heat spilling out of the open doors was intense, melting the snow on the street for several yards around the shop.

"Lord Jack," Barnaby greeted, setting his iron hammer down on the anvil. The blacksmith was covered in sweat and soot, looking exhausted but incredibly happy.

"To what do I owe the visit? If you need those carriage bands, I already have three of them cooling in the trough."

"The bands are excellent, Barnaby, but I need something else today," Jack said, stepping into the warm shop. He pulled a rolled-up piece of parchment from his coat and laid it flat on a wooden workbench. Barnaby walked over, wiping his hands on his leather apron, and looked at the charcoal drawings Jack had sketched the night before.

"These look like iron brackets," Barnaby noted, tracing the right-angled shapes with his soot-stained finger.

"And long, reinforced iron rods. What are you building, My Lord?" Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

"A structure for the inner courtyard," Jack replied smoothly.

"It needs to hold frames of glass and wood. Can you cast these?"

"Easily," Barnaby grunted.

"With this coal you provided, melting the scrap iron for these will be child's play. I can have them done in two days."

"Good," Jack said. He tapped his finger on a second, separate drawing at the bottom of the parchment.

"But I also need this. And I need this done perfectly." Barnaby squinted at the second drawing. He frowned, his eyebrows pulling together in deep confusion. It was a drawing of a helmet. But it wasn't a standard, open-faced guard's helm. It was a massive, fully enclosing cylinder of iron—a bucket helm. The design showed metal plating that would cover the entire head and neck, with only a very narrow, dark slit left open for the eyes.

Next to the helmet was a sketch of a chain mail hauberk, designed to hang all the way down to the knees, complete with leather gloves attached to the sleeves.

"Armor?" Barnaby asked, looking up at Jack.

"My Lord, this is heavy infantry gear. And it's completely sealed. A man wearing this bucket helm would barely be able to see his own feet, let alone breathe properly. If he fights in this, he'll sweat to death in." Jack looked directly into the blacksmith's eyes, his expression entirely flat.

"My men do not sweat, Barnaby." Barnaby stared at him. The blacksmith opened his mouth to ask a question, but then he slowly closed it. He remembered the two sacks of coal that had mysteriously appeared on his porch in the middle of a blizzard. Barnaby was a practical man. He realized that the young lord had his own secrets.

"I have enough scrap iron in the back to make three sets of this armor," Barnaby said quietly, deciding to let the mystery lie.

"But it will be heavy. Only a giant of a man could carry this much iron and still swing a sword."

"Weight is not an issue," Jack assured him.

"I will send a cart down with more coal this evening to pay for the labor."

"I will get to work, Lord Jack," Barnaby said, giving a firm nod. Jack left the forge, feeling a deep sense of satisfaction. The greenhouse would soon have its structural frame, and more importantly, his skeletons would soon have disguises. Once Rusty, Dusty, and Bones were clad head-to-toe in iron and chain mail, they could walk the castle walls in broad daylight. Anyone looking at them would simply see a terrifying, silent mercenary guard force.

By the time Jack returned to the castle courtyard, Old Martha was already waiting for him. Karen had gone down to the village earlier to fetch the hedge-witch, and Martha was currently standing near the front steps, grumbling about the cold as she wrapped her coat tighter around her frail shoulders.

"You called for me, boy-lord?" Martha asked, her dark, cynical eyes narrowing as Jack approached.

"If your lungs are freezing shut again, my paste won't save you a second time."

"My lungs are completely fine, Martha," Jack said, leading her into the warm Great Hall. Jack stopped near a table. He reached into his coat, pulled out the small leather pouch, and carefully emptied its contents onto the wood. Five pale, translucent blue mushrooms rolled onto the table, glowing faintly in the shadows of the hall. Old Martha stopped breathing. She took a slow, trembling step forward. Her weathered hands reached out, hovering just an inch above the glowing fungi.

She looked at the mushrooms, then looked up at Jack, her jaw completely slack with utter disbelief.

"Frost-Caps," Martha whispered, her voice cracking.

"Fresh ones. Still pulsing with earth magic." She looked Jack up and down. She saw his frail arms, his dependence on his cane, and the fact that a strong gust of wind could likely knock him over.

"No human could climb down the northern ravine to get these," Martha said, her eyes wide with suspicion and awe.

"The ice is sheer and the wind cuts like a razor. How… how did you get these?"

"The Frost-Grips have many old friends in the mountains," Jack lied, keeping his voice smooth and authoritative.

"Will this be enough to cure my lungs?" Martha stared at him for a long moment. Much like Barnaby, she realized she was standing in the presence of something far older and darker than a simple, sickly noble. But she was a healer, and the rare ingredients sitting before her were the prize of a lifetime.

"Yes," Martha finally said, quickly scooping the mushrooms back into the pouch as if she feared they might vanish.

"Yes, this is more than enough. Bring me a clean bowl and some boiling water. I will brew the elixir right now." Karen rushed to the kitchens to fetch the supplies. Within twenty minutes, Martha was grinding the glowing blue mushrooms mixing them with hot water and a few drops of tree resin. The mixture quickly turned into a thick, shimmering silver liquid that smelled sharply of mint and cold winter air.

"Drink it all," Martha ordered, sliding the stone bowl across the table to Jack.

"Do not stop until it is empty." Jack picked up the bowl. He didn't hesitate. He brought it to his lips and swallowed the silver liquid in three large gulps. The reaction was instantaneous. It didn't burn like the foul paste from before. Instead, it felt as though Jack had inhaled a lungful of pure mountain air. The liquid coated the inside of his throat and flooded into his chest. Jack gasped, dropping the bowl. He gripped the edge of the table, his eyes squeezing shut.

Deep inside his chest, the heavily scarred and frozen tissue of his lungs began to mend. The Frost-Cap mushrooms were incredibly potent vessels of raw elemental cold. They acted as a perfect, soothing bridge between Jack's physical human organs and the swirling death mana of his Grey Core. The agonizing pressure that had lived in his chest for years completely evaporated. The rattling in his breath ceased. Jack slowly opened his eyes. He took a slow, deep breath. It was perfect. There was no pain.

No tickle of blood. His lungs expanded fully, strong and clear. The cure felt permanent.

"Thank you, Martha," Jack said, his voice ringing with a new, clear resonance that hadn't been there before.

"You have saved my life. You will be well compensated for this." But Martha didn't smile. The old hedge-witch wiped her hands on her apron, her dark eyes looking nervously toward the doors of the Great Hall.

"Keep your coin, Lord Jack. The chance to brew a Frost-Cap elixir is payment enough for an old woman," Martha said quietly. She stepped closer to the table, her voice dropping to a low, grim whisper.

"But you need to listen to me carefully. Having clear lungs won't save you from a sword." Jack frowned, his posture straightening.

"What do you mean?"

"Giles's hunters were out checking the rabbit snares near the southern timber woods this morning," Martha said, her tone dead serious.

"They found tracks in the snow. A lot of tracks. And they aren't from wolves." Karen gasped softly from the corner of the room, her hands flying to her mouth.

"Bandits?" Jack asked, his eyes narrowing.

"Desperate ones," Martha confirmed with a grim nod.

"Men driven mad by starvation and the winter freeze. The mountain pass is blocked, which means they are trapped in this valley just like we are. And unfortunately, Merchant Gary has a very loud mouth." Jack's blood ran cold. Gary. The merchant had been furious when he left the castle.

"Gary's caravan passed right through the southern woods on their way out," Martha explained.

"The bandits likely saw them. And they likely know that Gary just unloaded entire mule-loads of imperial grain into the cellars of a ruined castle defended by a sickly boy." Martha slung her canvas bag over her shoulder, her face pale.