Ever Ice – A Fantasy Short Story

No one knows how Efferheim came to be. Except one man. He was the descendant of the builders, and the extraordinary tale of Efferheim had been carefully curated and passed down from generation to generation and it goes like this.

Many tribes had inhabited and dominated the Fourth Peninsula of Hruður. The land was almost entirely gobbled up by six different tribes, each of them similar in size. Except one. The tribe was called the Effi, and it was made up of barely three families. The Effi inhabited the southern forest of the Peninsula but were eventually forced out by the domineering tribes, herded like animals over the peninsula and up into the foot hills of the Western Mountain Range.
A decade after the Effi left their native homeland, the largest of the tribes, the Niosh, made their final attempt to wipe out the tiny tribe. They marched on the foot hills, forcing the Effi deep into the mountains. The Niosh were skilled in navigating the mountains and pursued their weak adversaries to the Great Ocean. It was winter. And the ice was frozen over. Having nowhere to run, the Effi skidded out onto the ice, looking back at their satisfied pursuers who were beginning to set up camp on the coast.

The Effi lived off the ice. They became hunters, feasting off the fat walruses that popped up from the ice as well as their hunger for revenge against the tribes that had hunted them to near extinction. After generations, their fiercest leader, Fostbold Iron Hand arose to the reigns with revenge on his mind.
It was seven days after Fostbold took the mantle of Chief of the tribe when he began organizing the slim warriors of the Effi for battle. As a child he had dreamed of seeing the homeland he hadn’t ever seen. He dreamed of one day retaking it.
No one had dared make a move over the watchful Niosh who haunted the coast in years. That was the thought on all of the warriors minds as they trudged over the ice from their hiding on the tiny island that had been their home during the summers.
Fostbold waited for midnight then attacked the unsuspecting Niosh. It was pure chaos as the Niosh warriors fled for the mountains. But Fostbold did not follow. His warriors plundered the camp, then hid in the hills, waiting for a party of fresh enemies to come and inspect the camp. When finally they did, the Effi once again attacked, over powering the small force.

Over the next months, Fostbold and his men ravaged the hill and mountain settlements of the Niosh. The Effi grew in size and power under Fostbold Iron Hand, planting themselves as the leading power of the Western Range. Years of war passed and a new leader arose in the Niosh. He was called Drabbi the Peace Maker. The young leader sent emissaries to the war hungry Fostbold, asking for a meeting with the now grey haired man. Fostbold agreed.
They day of the meeting came and Fostbold showed up on the top of Mount Gracious with his entire army and arsenal, intending to scare the young prince of the Niosh. Yet the young man came out of his tent unfazed and ready to meet the fierce man called Iron Hand.
Hours of talk and bargaining passed then finally the two men stood and shook hands. There was no longer war in the Western Range. Fostbold agreed to end the destruction of the Niosh settlements in exchange for a portion of the ancient homelands of the Effi in the forest and mountains in the south.
Soon, the whole of the Effi tribe had relocated to their home. Many were overjoyed to be back where they belonged, but for many, including Fostbold, the thought of the great frozen ocean still held a place in their hearts.
It was not long til homesickness fully set in. Many of the Effi grew restless and finally decided to leave the rest of the tribe behind. Leaving the remainder of the Effi under the leadership of Igor, Fostbold’s younger brother, Fostbold and the “icers” as the rest of the Effi called them, set off for their small island in the frozen ocean.
The journey was once again difficult, meeting many of the Niosh they had ravaged just months earlier. Only when they saw the vast expanse of ice in front of them did the icers feel like they were almost home.
Only, the Effi couldn’t find their island oasis. It was gone. And it was almost summer. Which meant the ice would soon melt.
Fostbold was getting old and slow, and many of the Effi were exhausted from their trek over the ice so very few of them would be able to even make it back to land in time for the great melt. Then one day a stranger showed up. The Effi welcomed him with open arms, following their old custom to give sojourners part of their meals. In turn the stranger offered his advice after hearing of their conundrum one evening.
“I know a little magic,” he said. “I could make some of the ice here unmelting.”
The Effi glared at him as if it was a rude joke. “Prove it,” said Fostbold, chucking a chunk of ice at the man.
The man nodded and dropped the ice into the fire, then reached in himself with a stick and kicked the ice out. It was solid. Unmelted.

Fostbold and the Effi were careful to pick out the perfect locations for their new settlement. They picked out a dozen large mounds of ice and had their new friend make them unmelting.
Summer came and with it the test of the magic ice. It didn’t melt. Even to the end of the summer as the ices once again began to freeze.
Fostbold and the Effi were overjoyed with their new home and welcomed Piotr Iron Ice into their small settlement.
Over the centuries leaders came and went, buildings rose and fell, but the ice stayed the same with the exception of a few additions of new bergs. Not many know the tale of Fostbold Iron Hand, the Effi, and Piotr Iron Ice. But now you do. Hold these secrets forever and pass them to your offspring. May the ice under your feet be unmelting. Until next time.