136. Army Of Morphs

Morph Prime loved the wind blowing through his long, white hair. It danced wildly as he rode a giant grey wolf across the landscape. His pale blue-grey skin almost perfectly blended in with the snow and sky. The clone had gained significant height but stayed disproportionately tall like the tall dead Jotun whose form he had copied. Its biomass had also fuelled the transformation. Morph Prime kept the excess in reserve for emergencies. Ideally, he would’ve preferred more, but needed to leave some for the lesser Morphs.

“When I spoke of being ridden, this isn’t what I had in mind,” Wolf-Morph grumbled, leaping off a snow dune and up several boulders in quick succession. He scaled a cliff that would’ve taken at least an hour in a matter of seconds. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

“Wolves don’t talk,” Morph Prime reprimanded. “They howl.”

“But—”

“I said howl, bitch!” He dug his heels into Wolf-Morph’s flanks, grinding them with significantly more strength than was reasonable.

A reflexive whine rose from the Wolf-Morph before he broke into a howl. Several more sounded from behind the titanic pine trees that surrounded them. “That was three, right?” Morph-Prime asked, raising his ear to the grey sky. He grinned, only getting a growl in response. He caught sight of the three other Wolf-Morphs through the trees. They had stayed close and in formation as discussed.

Gathering biomass for all of them had proven a challenge, taking almost half a day. The Morphs had spread and cast a wide net. They had encountered local fauna, but their combat styles didn’t allow for silent assaults. The Shadowsteel constructs were effective but lacked the power to penetrate their natural defences. All worthy enhancements born of storm energy created far too much noise.

Fortunes turned in their favor when one Morph picked the scent of blood. His senses told him it was something big, and he used the journal to assemble the others. The five of them were surprised to find the dead Jotun sitting in a saddle on the back of an injured warbeast. A pack of giant wolves nipped at its limbs and a weeping stump. They, too, appeared injured but in a significantly better state. It seemed the warbeast had initially put up a fight, but had long lost its strength and will.

The five Morphs descended on them in unison, unleashing Shadowsteel projectiles or slashing at them with rapidly grown extra arms. The second tier of Biomancy’s mid-tier ability had allowed him to permanently absorb sources for Animancy. It significantly improved transformation options and allowed reserving the three slots exclusively for copying appearances. One Morph turned his extra yeti arms into mantis scythes. Another created a launcher for firing bonespikes made of biomass.

Morph Prime alone used the red dragon’s scale, transforming cardiovascular organs, airways, and face. His skin darkened, and ruby-like crimson scales grew over it. He took a deep breath in, rushing the titanic warbeast’s head. The clone dug his feet into the icy ground, bent his knees, braced himself, and exhaled, channelling a significant chunk of his magic into the act. El-Prime had forbidden him from using the Great Red Dragon’s magic since it almost always wrestled for control. Things were different now. As a super clone, Morph Prime had Spellweaver.

Instead of releasing a tongue of dark orange flames that diffused the further it travelled, he released a pair of concentrated beams that twisted around each other like tightly wound rope. The soft roar echoed through the landscape, but in the moment, he prioritised finishing the warveast as soon as possible. Morph Prime was also dying to feel the rush of power and had a long list of prepared justifications for the move.

The dragonfire melted through the thick bony armour around the giant chimaera's face and turned the hide underneath into charcoal. Morph Prime cut the attack short before destroying all the valuable mass. When he was done, the warbeast’s head, neck, and left forelimb were no more. The lesser Morphs had also finished off the giant wolves and absorbed them. Biomancy, almost at tier three, didn't just consume all the flesh and bone, but also drew out most of the blood that had seeped into the snow.

Collectively, the five of them also absorbed the bulk of the warbeast. They buried the little that remained, mostly the denser parts of the skeleton, using snow. It was a rush job since Morph Prime’s breath attack might've alerted passing Jotun patrols.

The lesser Morphs transformed into giant wolves following their leader’s instructions while he became the Jotun, using his exact copied appearance. The upgraded mid-tier ability once again proved invaluable as fragments of the deceased’s memories flooded his mind. Now, Morph wasn’t just limited to copying or creating new appearances, but also had the power to steal identities. El-Prime had also forbidden them from using the ability in the Gray since a small misstep could have dire consequences. There were no such limitations outside of the city.

Absorbed memories told Morph Prime that the dead Jotun was a beast master of sorts. His magic involved dominating the minds of beasts and turning them into little more than thralls that followed his will. The warbeast was one such creature under its control. It seemed the Jotun had attempted to pour bits of his consciousness into the giant beast before he perished.

During her many jobs around the Grey and larger Schwartzberg kingdom, Penelope had closely observed and studied the Jotun. Their magic, though powerful, appeared limited, revolving around frost, stone, an unknown otherworldly dark energy, body enhancement, and commanding monsters.

The dead Jotun’s magic didn’t seem as powerful as that of the first of his kind they had encountered. The mage had almost a dozen warbeasts under her command, but that was best for Morph’s purposes. He found it much easier to blend in as an unknown small fry.

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“I’m having second thoughts,” the wolf under Morph said. “This feels far too risky. Are you sure this will work?”

“You’re worried about the journal’s translation powers, aren’t you?” Morph Prime asked.

Wolf Morph released an overly dramatic, intentional woof. The journal translated languages with such ease that El-Prime and the clones almost never noticed that they were speaking, hearing, reading, or even writing something new or alien. None of them could grasp how any of it, especially the writing, worked. However, there were a handful of languages that didn’t react to its magic. The Void scripts found in Ephram’s basement and most things related to the Abyss Engine were the primary example. El-Prime had only encountered the Jotun once and had failed to understand most of the words they spoke to one another.

“I think absorbing the Jotun’s memories made a difference,” Morph Prime answered. “But we won’t know until we do.” His fingers drifted to a thin white scar running across his throat. “If we’re lucky, this man is a mute, and I won’t have to speak at all.”

Flashes from the Jotun's memory gave Morph Prime a rough idea of where to go. As a result, he and the pack didn't have to go far to find their target: a Jotun encampment of twenty, or so, tents. A rough wall of thick icicles surrounded it. There was no gate. Instead, a pair of Jotun wearing thick armour that seemed carved for rock and ice, stood guard at the entrance. Their pole arms stood taller than they did, the blades appearing carefully carved from glass. They seemed thin and delicate with luminous runes carved across them.

The larger of the pair stepped in front of the gate, tightly gripping his weapon. The other’s attention drifted up to the roughly assembled watch tower.

“Prepare to evade and flee,” Morph Prime whispered, his thighs tightening around his mount’s flanks. He only got a soft growl in response. Biomass shifted under Wolf Morph’s hide as it thickened.

Both clones relaxed when a horn blew from the watchtower. The Jotun lowered his weapon, but didn't step out of the way. They had no choice but to slow down.

“You lost your warbeast,” the smaller Jotun said.

“How does one lose an entire blighted warbeast?” His larger companion sneered. Morph Prime disliked him straight away. He came across as a bully.

Can I get away with killing him? I bet it would be satisfying.

“So?” The smaller of the pair placed his hands on his hips. He seemed younger but radiated more power. It wouldn’t surprise Morph Prime if he ranked higher. “Did you lose your tongue along with your charge?”

They know him. But can this man speak, or are they testing me?

Morph Prime made the executive decision to make his voice hoarse and grating, like the copied Jotun’s vocal cords had suffered significant damage and never healed quite right. “Rocs,” he rasped. “Thunderbird in the flock.”

“Weak.” The larger Jotun spat a globule of spit at Wolf Morph’s left forelimb and got a growl in response. “And you survived a thunderbird? I don’t believe it. He—”

“That’s enough, Gnar,” the smaller Jotun said, cutting off his companion. “We’re glad you survived.” His eyes scanned the wolves. “At least you’re not empty-handed. The pack will be an asset. You were commanded to join the warband, Ilgen. Only chieftains and commanders were summoned to the command camp. Why are you here?”

Morph Prime racked his brain for an answer. He didn’t expect to find the command camp of all places. Whatever reason he came up with needed to be good. An asset like a warbeast belonged with the warband. Ilgen, the Jotun he had copied, was either a coward, like Gnar claimed, or had a genuinely good reason for straying from the task. It was unlikely the wolves alone had killed Ilgen and damaged the armored warbeast to such an extent. It was time for a gamble.

“Humans,” Morph Prime replied. “The wolves picked up their scent.” He made a show of how difficult it was to speak, straining himself on certain words. “They were heading to the old camp.”

“That’s troll shit! He’s—”

“Are you sure they weren’t our rats?” The smaller Jotun asked, once again cutting off Gnar.

Morph Prime shook his head. “Different. Powerful.” The Jotun who commanded the warbeasts seemed to have a keen sense when it came to magical beasts. Ilgen’s memories claimed that he had sensed a powerful arcane presence before his death and had been terrified. Morph Prime struggled to discern what had killed him, but the panicked Jotun was trying to create distance when he died. So, he took another risk. “Dragonfire.”

The smaller Jotun frowned, eyes drifting between Morph Prime and the female specimen in the watchtower above. “How is your control over the pack?”

“Strong. They’re fast. Sharp.”

“Maybe sticking you with a warbeast was a mistake. You’re better suited as a scout and messenger.” The smaller Jotun threw up a hand signal. Gnar stood aside, and the lookout in the watchtower blew her horn again. “Report to the chieftain’s tent. The warchiefs have assembled and will want to hear what you have to say.”

“Leave the wolves,” Gnar commanded, his words little more than a growl. “They stay outside.”

“My leg is broken,” Morph Prime lied. “I need healing and food.” He stroked the back of Wolf Prime’s head. “Or my bond my will break.” He bared his teeth when Gnar opened his mouth to speak again. “My wolves. I tamed them. My pack!”

“Fine.” Gnar shook his head. “Report first.” He whistled, waving at a Jotun as tall as El-Prime. It looked like a child. “I’ll have food, new clothes, and a healer arranged.” Gnar snorted. “Maybe you’re not as big a coward as I thought.”

Flags and stacked stones marked the chieftain’s tent. It was the largest and most grandly decorated structure in the settlement. Giant mountain goats stood tied to posts outside of it. The creatures were much larger than the breed utilized by the residents of the Gray and Schwartzberg Kingdom.

Morph Prime directed the other three Wolf Morphs to surround the tent, using the journal to send his message. The other Jotun working around the camp shot them curious glances. Many seemed concerned when the passing canines made their goats stiffen or stir nervously. Two of the Wolf Morphs ignored them all and sought out tubs of water that somehow hadn’t frozen. The third approached a pack of caged giant mountain dogs. They cowered, whining. Only one stood tall but stiff and growled at him.

Meanwhile, Morph Prime made a show of wincing as he dismounted. He leaned heavily on Wolf Prime as he limped, keeping his right leg in the air. One of the Jotun standing guard looked him up and down, grunted, then lifted the tent flap and waved him in.

Let’s put on a show.