I summoned the Rat Pack to help round up corpses, then we set to work pilfering what we could while the night pressed down on us.

  Each of the Yetis had a host of powerful Relics that would sell for a premium back at the store.

  Whiteout Haymaker was an apocalyptically strong unarmed attack that boosted unarmed damage by 100% and caused frost to spread across the victim’s body, slowing them by 25% for two minutes. It worked great with Avalanche Body Slam, another Stamina-based ability that amplified the user’s total mass by 50%, allowing them to hit like a freight train. A particularly nasty Rare-grade Relic called Yellow Snowball—Hint: It ain’t lemon—let the user hurl a piss-soaked snowball the size of my head, which exploded on contact for 50 points of frost damage and another 10 points of corrosive damage per minute.

  Several also carried a Rare-grade called Jacked Frost, which was a berserker ability that increased Attack Speed, Melee Attack Damage, and Movement Speed by 30% for five minutes. It also made the caster 75% Resistant to slows, stuns, and knockback effects. Unlike many Relics, the effect stacked with skills like Whiteout Haymaker and Avalanche Body Slam, transforming the user into a true juggernaut of close-quarters combat.

  Perfect for Timmy and Drumbo, or a tank like Jakob.

  The real prizes, though—at least for me—came courtesy of the Snow Maw Hag.

  She had three different Relics, all Uncommon or Rare-Grade that ranged from okay to awesome.

  Icicle Barrage let the user hurl spears of razor-sharp ice that dealt 35 points of burst damage on contact and numbed affected areas, slowing the target for five minutes. Like my own StainSlayer Maelstrom Relic, Golf Ball Riot was an AoE spell that conjured a torrential downpour of hailstones that dealt bludgeoning damage to all enemies inside a 10-meter radius. But the best of the lot was definitely Frost Construct.

  Rare Relic – Level 1

  Range: Self or Touch

  Cost: 35 Mana

  Duration: 2 Minutes

  Cooldown: 90 Seconds

  Why settle for store-bought gear when you can literally sculpt your own armor from the tears of your enemies? Frost Construct allows the user to manipulate any nearby moisture—airborne, environmental, or inconveniently sweat-based—and flash-freeze it into glacial-grade armor, spiked shields, jagged swords, or whatever else your frosty little heart desires.

  That’s right, you’re now the proud owner of an on-demand Armory Ice Sculpting Kit.

  Need full-body armor? Done. Ice knuckles with more edge than your ex’s poetry blog? No problem. A shortsword shaped like a dolphin for some reason? Go nuts. This spell also works great for creating terrain blockades and defensive structures to take cover behind—just pray your enemy isn’t wielding a military-grade flame thrower. Frost Construct is limited only by your imagination and a disturbing willingness to wield razor-sharp ice in a combat zone.

  This Relic enables Mana Usage.

  It was a powerful spell all on its own, but if I used it with Fluid Dynamics and Psychic Sovereignty, the possibilities were nearly endless. Instead of a handful of tools, I could all too easily envision an arsenal of frost-conjured weapons cutting down my enemies while I nuked ’em from orbit with a hundred different lances of Hydro Fracking Blast. The only problem was my Spatial Core restriction.

  Fact was, I had too many Relics and not enough slots for ’em all. Yet another reminder of why I need to get to work crafting Emblems. But that was a problem for later. For now, I just sighed and added the Relics to storage.

  As for the Hag’s staff, that also turned out to be a great find.

  It was a Rare-grade Artifact that offered two abilities to the wielder. The first, Blessing of the White Hunt, was an active team buff that increased Athleticism and Toughness by 20% and amplified all frost-based attacks by 15% for two minutes. The second ability, Cooldown Crash Out, was a passive aura that reduced the casting cooldown for all allies in range by 50%. The candy-cane staff wouldn’t do much for me, but I was pretty sure Harper could put something like that to good use.

  It took us thirty minutes to loot the bodies and send the corpses back to the store for “future use”—a phrase that somehow sounded worse the more I repeated it in my head.

  We’d just finished clearing the Yetis when the sound of a brassy, mournful hunting horn cut through the gloom. Torchlight flickered on the far edge of the clearing.

  “Gütiger Himmel,” Jakob grumbled. “What now?”

  “Not sure,” I replied, mostly to myself.

  I turned toward the north side of the meadow, where the treeline gave way to a squat, craggy mountain. I hadn’t paid it much attention during the fight, but now I saw there was a yawning fissure near the base. At first, I thought it was just a surface split in the rock.

  I was wrong.

  It was a cave.

  And from that cave poured a hunting party.

  Two sleighs shot out of the darkness, their runners skimming the snow like blades through silk. Each sleigh was pulled by a team of wolves easily the size of draft horses. There were five riders per sled, bundled in furs and armor. They were still too far away to get a clear read with my Codex, but they looked human. Or human-ish, at least. When I glanced at my map, I saw their triangles were white, not red. Neutral. Not friends, but not enemies either.

  Not yet.

  That gave me a small flicker of hope. Aspirants always showed up red.

  That didn’t mean they weren’t a threat, though, and somehow I doubted they were just out here for shits and giggles. The sleighs were moving toward us with speed and purpose, cutting a clean, arcing path through the snow. We had maybe two minutes before they were on us, and there was no guarantee that they were here for a friendly chat.

  We were bruised, battered, low on essential supplies, and badly outnumbered. If this came to a fight, I doubted we would win.

  That left us with two options.

  I could summon a Doorway Sentinal, and we could retreat back to the store. It was the safest call—cut and run, live to fight another day.

  Or… we could gamble. Stay here and see what they wanted.

  Sure, it was the riskier option, but if we wanted to expand the store, we needed friends. Or at least people who didn’t immediately want us dead. Still, we had to play this smart. I was currently the most wanted man in the Backrooms. And I wasn’t exactly hard to pick out in a lineup, what with my bright red bathrobe and the talking blue dog.

  There was an easy way to fix that—though it pained me to do it.

  I quickly stripped the robe and yanked off my crown, stuffing both into Spatial Storage with a wince. It felt like cutting off a piece of my soul and jamming it in a sock drawer. All the more so because I lost the added buffs from the crown and the nearly endless mana reservoir I gained from proccing Wild Surge. It was temporary, though, and the price for discretion was worth it.

  “Croc,” I said, turning to the mimic. “I need you to hide.”

  The dog looked momentarily wounded. “I’ve never needed to hide before. Are you ashamed of me, Dan?”

  “What? Ashamed? No,” I said. “But not everyone has the same enlightened views about mimics that we do. This is just to make sure you’re safe until we can figure out what these dingle-dicks are after, okay?”

  The mimic immediately perked up with a mischievous wag of its tail. “Oh, that makes sense. And I’ve got the perfect disguise!”

  Its body burbled and shifted, shrinking inward until a bulky leather backpack sat where the dog had been a moment before. “Is this good enough?” the mimic-turned-backpack asked, the top flap serving as a mouth.

  “Perfect,” I said, slinging the shapeshifter onto my back. Croc was a lot heavier than it looked, but my Athleticism stat was high enough to make it tolerable.

  The horn blared again, closer now. Echoing off stone, sharp and clarion clear.

  “Lo, Travelers!” a voice called out in the distance. “Don’t worry, we mean you no harm!”

  “I’ve heard that before,” Temperance growled under her breath, watching as they moved ever closer. “Usually right before someone attempts to stab me in the kidney.”

  Stolen novel; please report.

  “Do you think they’re friendly?” Croc asked from my back, sounding concerned.

  “I think we’re going to find out soon enough,” I replied. “And shhh. Backpacks don’t talk.”

  The sleighs slid to a stop sixty feet out, snow kicking up in twin plumes. One of the riders stood and hopped down. He was a bear of a man with a tangled beard, clad from head to toe in thick furs, arctic weather gear, and leather armor emblazoned with snarling wolves. Despite his size, he was clearly human and though he didn’t carry any weapons, he clutched a heavy brass horn in one hand.

  Delver #03V - 04 - B0871G3T15 – Human, Variant [Level 48]

  I raised a hand and waved, offering him my best please-don’t-stab me smile. I needed to offset Temperance, who was scowling at the newcomers like they owed her money.

  “We saw you up above,” the man said, his voice gruff but with an accent not so different than Jakob’s. “Fighting with the Grippledips and the Polaris Vora. Watched your sleigh go down and figured you’d be neck deep with Yetis.” He glanced around at the clearing, covered and blood and gore but devoid of bodies. Bushy eyebrows rose in evident surprise and begrudging approval. “Apparently, we were wrong.”

  “That’s what happens when others attempt to get the better of us,” Temp said with a scowl. “They end up dead.”

  He chuckled. “She is tiny but fierce. Like all of the women of Kringlegard. You’ll fit right in, I think.”

  That name hit like a brick to the face.

  Kringlegard.

  Pinewhisker had specifically told us to avoid that particular location. But Pinewhisker was also a manipulative, backstabbing murder gnome who would happily kill us all if he had the chance. Not the most trustworthy source and certainly not reliable enough for me to nuke a potential alliance.

  Still, it was a red flag worth noting.

  “Kringlegard?” Jakob asked, feigning ignorance. “What is that?”

  The man’s eyes lit up. “Is that a Deutch accent I detect?”

  “Allerdings,” Jakob replied with a nod. “I’m from Berlin. And you?”

  “Nuremberg,” the man said, grinning. “Small world. As for Kringlegard, it is a Safe Harbor. As safe as anywhere in this God forsaken place, anyway.” He stepped forward and extended a massive hand. “I’m Jez, but everyone calls me Wulfgar.”

  “I wonder why,” Temp said, glancing at the wolves on his armor, then to the giant canines watching us like we were chew toys.

  “Because of all the wolves I can summon,” Wulfgar said proudly, completely missing the sarcasm.

  “Dan,” I replied, stashing my hammer and shaking his hand. His grip was like forged steel. His gaze flicked to my limp arm.

  “Snowmaw Hag?” he asked.

  I nodded grimly.

  He grimaced. “Hate to see it. Afraid to say, but you’re going to lose the hand.”

  “Not if I can help it,” Harper said, stepping forward.

  Wulfgar shook his head. “I’m sorry, but there’s no fixing that. The Hag’s magic is nasty stuff. Once the Black Rot sets in, there’s no saving the limb. Not even a Greater Healing Elixir will touch it. It’ll spread until you cut it off.” He made a chopping motion with his free hand.

  “There’s got to be another way,” Harper insisted.

  “There isn’t,” Wulfgar replied flatly. The tone of finality unmistakable. “We’ve tried everything. Sometimes the blade is the only cure.” He clapped me on the shoulder. “But that is a problem for later, once you’re safe and warm. Kringlegard is just a few miles off and we’re happy to take you. We’ve got hot food and warm beds, and the Yetis leave us be. It’s not paradise, but better than bleeding out in the snow.” He hesitated then added, “I know it’s hard to trust strangers in the Backrooms, but we really do mean you no harm.”

  “Can you give us a second to talk?” I asked.

  His bearded face broke into a toothy grin. “Of course, Freund. Take all the time you need.” He turned and tromped back to the lead sled and the rest of the waiting Delvers.

  “I don’t like it,” Temperance said immediately, eyes locked on his retreating back like she was already picturing how to stab it.

  “You don’t like anything,” Jakob said. “Other than murder,” he amended. “But I’m not sure that’s any reason to not trust them. There are ten of them and if they are all as strong as Wulfgar, they could kill us if they wanted to. Especially considering the shape we’re in.”

  “Could be a chance to make some new friends,” Croc said hopefully.

  “Or we could be walking into a trap,” I replied. “But it’s not like we’re swimming in better options.”

  “You could summon a Doorway Sentinel and take us back to the store,” Temperance offered.

  I shook my head. “If we do that, we tip our hand,” I said. “And we lose the opportunity to scout the area—and maybe gain new customers.”

  Temperance grumbled and folded her arms, weighing our choices. “Fine,” she finally said. “But the moment they do anything questionable, I’m cutting off Wulfgar’s head and mounting it on a pike.”

  “Sounds reasonable,” I replied.

  A few minutes later, decision made, we approached the newcomers and Wulfgar greeted us with a nod, clearly pleased we’d chosen to accept the invitation.

  The sleighs were massive, more like winterized longboats on skids than anything else—high sides, reinforced runners, and enough room to fit a small squad of armed and armored warriors. Initially, Wulfgar tried to split us up—Temperance and Jakob in one sleigh, Harper and me in the other—but I crushed that idea in an instant.

  “Yeah, no,” I said firmly. “We stick together. Splitting the party is how people end up screaming, alone, and missing limbs in a snowbank.”

  Wulfgar took it in stride. “Suit yourself.”

  Soon the four of us were settled into one sleigh alongside Wulfgar and two of his companions—both level 45—while the rest of the Delvers piled into the second sled behind us.

  With a barked command, the dire wolves surged forward, their paws barely sinking into the snow as they pulled us into the dark.

  No one spoke while we rode.

  The only sounds were the rhythmic panting of the wolves, the whisper of runners on packed snow, the howl of the air, and the occasional creak of the sleigh’s heavy wooden frame. The silence gave me a chance to size-up our new companions.

  The first was a woman who looked like she’d walked straight out of a Norse myth—tall, wiry, wrapped in Yeti pelts and carrying a rune-covered battle axe that practically screamed “come at me.” Her platinum hair was braided tight, and her eyes never stopped moving, scanning the trees as if expecting an ambush at any second.

  The other Delver was a squat man with a bulging gut, a beard even thicker than Wulfgar’s, and what appeared to be an enchanted M16 slung across his back. Unlike his counterpart, he wore tactical armor beneath a fur cloak, and I noticed there was also a sigil-scribed Glock riding his hip. The guy looked like he could spit bullets if he had half a mind too.

  They weren’t exactly chatty, but they didn’t seem hostile either. Just wary. Guarded. Like people who’d seen enough betrayal to sleep with one eye open.

  The sleigh slipped through the fissure in the mountain wall and the tunnel beyond swallowed us in shadow. The path twisted and narrowed, the ceiling so low at points I could’ve reached up and scraped frost from the stone. Then, suddenly, the rocky passageway opened up and we dashed into another pine forest strewn with brightly shining lights and dangling Christmas ornaments.

  Wulfgar seemed to instinctively know his way and guided us onto a wide snow-covered path that snaked through the woods. Hostile markers pinged on my mini-map now and then, lurking just beyond the treeline, but nothing came close. Whatever was out there knew better than to mess with a sled full of heavily-armed, Viking-themed murder hobos.

  Every so often, we passed a sad little graveyard of discarded holiday decorations: half-deflated Santas, busted snow globes, and those plastic light-up reindeer missing heads or legs. Somewhere out there, a suburban dad was weeping over his lost yard display.

  After twenty minutes of hard riding, a settlement pulled into view, perched on a snow-blanketed bluff overlooking a dense thicket of forest. Bigger than Howler’s Hold. Bigger than my store. Hard to get a full read through the trees and fog, but what I could see was impressive. We climbed a step rise and came to a stop in front of an enormous gate.

  A massive wall—twenty feet tall—circled the town, built from pine logs sharpened into spikes along the top. Watchtowers poked up at intervals, manned by fur-clad sentries who tracked our approach with the lazy confidence of people who’d survived much worse.

  The wolves slowed as we approached a steep rise, then stopped altogether in front of an enormous wooden gate banded with steel and inscribed with glowing runes. Twin guards stood out front, breath steaming in the frigid air, their spears tipped with crystal points that hummed faintly in the dark.

  The door to a nearby guardhouse creaked open and out limped a middle-aged woman with wind-burned skin and deeply recessed eyes that had seen some shit. She moved with a hitch, clearly favoring her right leg. The reason quickly became obvious—her left was gone below the knee, replaced with a sleek, high-tech prosthetic. Judging by the grimace on her face, it still gave her hell.

  “Lo, Rebecka,” Wulfgar said as he climbed down, nodding with real respect.

  “Lo, Wulf,” she said, her eyes hard as flint, her thin lips an unsmiling slash across her face. “Looks like you found ’em then.” She stole a look at me and the others, still crowded into the sleigh. “The Yetis give you much trouble?”

  He guffawed and waved away the question with a thick-fingered hand. “The Yetis are nasty creatures, but they aren’t dumb enough to tangle with us. Though”—he paused, stroking his beard thoughtfully—“I’m not sure this lot needed our help, truth be told. They even managed to kill a Snowmaw Hag.”

  “That so?” Rebecka’s eyes narrowed as she looked at us again, this time with something like grudging respect. “Might be, you’ve found a couple of wolves instead of hapless sheep,” she mused. “Nikoli is going to want to talk with them.”

  Wulfgar nodded. “Aye, figured as much. He in his workshop?”

  She snorted. “When isn’t he in there? No doubt coming up with some new scheme to get his old workshop back.”

  She waved for the other two guards to open the gates before turning her hard gaze back on us. “Welcome to Kringlegard,” she said formerly. “As of now, you’re our guests. We take hospitality very seriously here. You have my word as a woman of war that no harm will befall you inside our gates. But hear me now—you bring trouble, and I’ll personally see to it that you are bound, gaged, and dumped in woods as an offering for the Yule Cat.”

  “Charming,” Harper muttered.

  Wulfgar waved for us to dismounted then ushered us toward the opening gates.

  “Come on,” he said, “stick close to me. I’ll show you to Nikoli.”

  “Who’s Nikoli?” I asked, hoping down and hiking the Croc-backpack higher on my shoulders.

  Wulfgar grinned. “The Jaral of this Safe Harbor, of course.” The man tapped the side of his nose. “Sniffs out trouble like a bloodhound. You want to stay, you’ll need his blessing first.”

  “I like this even less than before,” Temperance whispered as we followed the man.

  Together, we trudged through the gates and stepped into Kringlegard proper.

  The streets were cobblestone, but years of accumulated frost and snow had buried most of the stone beneath a layer of powder and packed ice. The air smelled like pine, smoke, and gingerbread. Strings of Christmas lights blinked overhead in frantic reds, greens, and blues, their erratic patterns casting weird shadows on the snow-covered buildings lining the street.

  The homes and shops looked to be Viking inspired, long and low, the frames crafted from rough-hewn timber, though the walls between the beams were constructed from panels of gingerbread, thick as stone. Frosting mortar filled the seams, piped in neat lines of confectionary masonry, and the shingles were all squares of overlapping peppermint bark. Smoke curled upward from a legion of brick chimneys, thick and sweet, like the people inside were all roasting chestnuts and burning pine logs soaked in cinnamon Schnapps.

  Of all the things I’d expected to find, gingerbread Vikings wasn’t on my bingo card—though I should’ve known better. Nothing here was ever normal here.

  The townsfolk—at least the ones out and about—were bundled in thick coats and heavy boots, their faces mostly hidden behind scarves, googles, and fur-lined hoods. Some wore helmets with antlers while others had visors and wrist comms strapped over knitted mittens.

  Despite the festive look of the Safe Harbor, the shops lining the streets weren’t selling toys or ornaments—there were bakeries, alchemists, and electronic repair stores. We passed by a butcher shop with Reindeer corpses hanging from hooks in the windows, a weaponsmith hard at work under a string of blinking icicle lights, and a tattoo parlor with a candy-striped awning and a glowing green sign that read Naughty and Nice Ink.

  It looked ridiculous.

  It also looked real. Lived in.

  This wasn’t a theme park. It was a settlement—another little bastion of sanity in a world gone absolutely off the rails. A place where people scraped out a life however they could. Like Howler’s Hold. Like our store.

  And if we wanted in, we were going to have to play nice with the man who ran it.

  Nikoli.

  Whoever the hell that turned out to be.