L. R. Carver

“Goldswain!” the soldier roared, his crunching footsteps increasing to a charge.

Nico slammed the hat onto his sloppy snowman a moment before his escort grabbed his shoulder, spun him around, and punched him in the jaw.

His split lip burst open and he coughed blood onto the snow as he stumbled back, his face throbbing. He kept his feet, though, and raised his arms to block the next punch before it landed. With pain bright in his jaw and his heart thundering and fear like lightning tearing through his body, his reflexes took over. When his escort moved in to strike again, Nico caught his arm, dragged him closer and slammed the heel of his palm into the underside of his chin, snapping his head back. The soldier recoiled and tripped over the foot that Nico had crossed behind him. He landed on his back in the snow and Nico jumped away, blanching at the realization of what he’d just done.

The soldier rolled onto hands and knees and surged up to his feet. He spat a bloody gob and laughed. “Now I can do whatever I want to you, Goldswain. I don’t know what you thought you were doing, but we’re alone and you laid your filthy barbarian hand on me.” He slid his gladius from its sheath. “I’m going to put out your eyes, break all your fucking teeth, cut off your hands, your feet, and your dick, and then drag you back and nail you to a tree.”

Nico backed away.

“You going to run?” With his free hand, the soldier pulled his pistol from the bandolier across his chest. “Please try to run.” He grinned. “This is what will happen to you.” His pistol swung out to aim at Nico’s snowman.

And he stopped, lips parted in surprise, when his pistol pointed at nothing.

“Where is it?”

A thin, scraggly branch crept up his cuirass from behind and another looped around his neck. The snowman’s blank smile appeared over his shoulder. “Let’s play,” it said cheerfully.

The soldier glanced back and screamed a short, startled yelp. He tried to lunge away, but Frost’s thin arms were stronger than they should have been and the soldier’s boots merely slipped around in the snow. He flailed behind him with his gladius, but his blade slid harmlessly through Frost’s body. He dropped the sword and pistol and clawed at the branches, gurgling as they tightened.

“You threatened something that belongs to me,” Frost continued. The rocks of his mouth rolled into a frown. “So I don’t think you’re going to like this game.” Snow crept down his arms, covering the wood. When it reached his hands, his fingers and icy talons formed. He wiggled them in front of the soldier’s face. “But I like it very much,” he finished as he slid his claws home into the soldier’s eyes.