The dead stranger entered a room with whitewashed stone walls that were hung with strange devices of many brilliant colors. He was wearing trousers as his forefathers had. But his breeches were slim and fitted tightly. Instead of a tunic, he had on a garment heavily patterned with vines and ropes. It strained across his broad shoulders and thick arms, but did not rip. Had he survived his plunge into Bradur? Or was this the past?
Loki had to be telling her that the rock climber had been a dragon. And just as surely a warrior. And very likely a powerful sorcerer surrounded by the fruits of his magic. Had his power and his ability to become a dragon saved him from the mountain’s wrath?
He was blond. As butter-haired as Elsa, and just possibly one of her sister’s descendants. For long ago Freya had seen in the pool, how slim, yellow-haired Elsa grew round, and many times had held a baby to her breast. Until one day, her sister’s supple back grew bent and her braids turned white, and her clever fingers made fists that would not open.
Then the pirate who had taken her buried her with her butter churn at her feet, her spindle whorl on her breast, and a gold slave-collar around her withered neck. Or maybe it was his son. Or hers. Or theirs, who buried her and sent her to Valhalla.
Hilde and Gerta too had grown old and died. Only Freya and her twin brothers never aged. It was part of the curse laid upon them by that thwarted dragon. They were doomed to remain forever young. Forever on this island. Until a dragon claimed her and won her heart, and she his.
Nothing could be more unlikely. A thousand years of hate had baked into her bones. Woven into their marrow. Rancor kept her young. She did not, could not, love a dragon. But the lad she was watching was truly beautiful. Loose-limbed. Broad-chested. Strong. Handsome. He had a kind face. And cherry lips. He made her heart thud. Loki was teasing her barren womb.
Distrusting the feelings the boy aroused, Freya pulled back from the pool and in her haste disturbed the ground around it. Tiny pebbles rolled into the water and the image of the youth vanished into ripples. Once again she begged Loki’s pardon and made another offering.
When the pool was again still, she saw the grassy mounds where her sisters slept. Sheep grazed where Hilde sailed forever in a boat painted blue and white. Children played over Gerta’s bones, and laughed as she had laughed all those years ago when they were girls. Elsa’s grave on the hill above the farm where she had grown old, still looked toward the ice-bound sea and the island of Balder.
Suddenly weary, Freya wished with all her heart that all the ill-will and bitterness of the long centuries would vanish as if they had never been. Thunder rolled again. And this time lighting flashed bright. It struck far out to sea where the pink horizon warned that the sun was setting. Like a dreamer she awoke.
Where had the long summer day gone? Fortunately, she had brought a lantern to see her home. When she arrived, her brothers would have readied the evening meal she had prepared before her pilgrimage. She bowed to the pool before beginning her journey. All the way down the mountain, the image of the golden youth remained in her mind. And the plea that she had quite unwittingly made.
CHAPTER TWO
Reiko Island, Iceland
March
Darius~
The air was so clear and the sun so bright, that had it not been for the frigid breeze and the chunks of ice still floating in the bay, he could have believed it to be July. Darius Lindorm admired the cloudless blue of the sky. This was a perfect day to climb the ice cliff on Balder.
What was keeping Oswain? This glorious day would not last forever. Even in March the days were not long. They had to get to the top of Mount Bradur and down again while there was still daylight in which to sail back to the island. They had no time to dawdle.
The ropes were all coiled neatly. The D-rings were still sound. His ice ax fit his hand as if it had been made for it, as indeed it had. Both his sets of crampons were completely intact and their spikes sharp. His pack contained water, spare socks, thermal blankets, and emergency rations. His duffel had a change of clothes.
The sailboat was in good order. But Darius checked and rechecked sails, anchor, rudder, GPS, and the tiny outboard motor. You could never be too careful when you sailed the North Atlantic in the winter. Or at any time. He had just begun a third check when his cousin came pelting down the path to the dock.
“It’s about time you got here,” Darius reproached Oswain.
“Lord Arnor caught me just as I was leaving. Lord Gunther has orders. I can’t come with you today, cousin. I have duties.” There was no apology in Oswain Lindorm’s deep voice, none on his face. He offered no explanation.
Looking at his cousin’s chiseled features was almost like looking into a mirror. They had the same high cheekbones, the same sharp-bladed nose, the same blue eyes fringed with the same dark lashes. The same golden-blond hair. He was a little taller than Oswain, and his shoulders a shade broader, but there wasn’t much to choose between them or any other dragons of their House. The Lindorms bred true.
Darius knew better than to ask about Oswain’s assignment. They had been dispatched by their uncle, the Thane of Lindorm, the Eldest of their House, to serve as Lord Reiko’s sword bearers. Their time belonged to Lord Gunther and was not their own. It was intriguing and a little ominous that Oswain’s leave had been canceled, but not unusual.
Gunther Guntherson, the Lord of the Icelandic Island of Reiko, was neither capricious nor arbitrary. If he had commanded Oswain’s attendance after he had been granted leave to spend the day ice climbing, something was up. But it would be a serious breach of discipline and security for Darius to ask why. If Darius needed to know, he would be told.
Darius clapped Oswain’s shoulder. “It’s a pity. This is the finest day we’ve had this month. I’ll see you in Hall for dinner.” He stepped into the sailboat and began to haul in the anchor and get ready to cast off.
“Do you mean to go by yourself?” Oswain demanded uneasily.
“Certainly. It wouldn’t be the first time. I’ll miss your company, cousin, but I’m tired of twiddling my thumbs on Reiko. And next week, this bay could be full of ice floes and we could be digging out from yet another storm.”
“Be careful, Darius. They say the island of Balder is malevolent. And that the mountain hates dragons.”
Darius laughed. “I’m not superstitious, myself. If the mountain throws me down, I’ll just fly home.”
“I suppose you could. Enjoy yourself.” Oswain hurried back up to the entrance of the subterranean palace that was the home of the Lords of Reiko.
Darius didn’t watch to see his cousin enter the thick, iron-strapped oak door. He cast off and steered his little vessel out into the channel towards the spiky peaks of the volcanic island of Balder which he imagined he could just see. Even in his human form, his dragon eyes could see far. The sun beat down and he peeled off his parka and sailed in his heavy woolen sweater.
By the time Darius had anchored in the deep bay that lay at the foot of Mount Bradur, the wind was gusting and the blue horizon graying. He came ashore wearing his parka, and carrying his equipment and pack. A stunted pine grew in the snow-covered lava rock that made up the shoreline. Ice rimmed the rocky beach. As he tied up his vessel to the pine tree, he spared thanks for the snow which covered what was almost certainly razor-sharp volcanic glass.
He consulted the map he carried in his mind. He followed the sloping base of the mountain as far as he could. Which wasn’t far. He was surprised at how impenetrable the bushes and trees were. And how close to the shore they grew. Usually, this far north, trees struggled to grow in the short summers and fierce winds. But the plants on this island were lush and thick, if dwarfish.
Eventually he spotted the path that Lord Gunther had marked on his map. Millennia of volcanic action had left the slopes of the mountain steep and broken. Winter storms had added a layer of snow and ice to what was almost a sheer cliff. Darius looked at the vertical ice wall with approval. This was going to be fun. An advent
ure to soothe his restlessness.
He strapped on his crampons and tightened the latches. He checked his ice ax and his hatchet once again. Refreshed himself from his water bottle. Pulled his hat over his ears and tied his hood lest he have no hands to do it later.
It was time. With gleeful zest he tackled the glittering wall of ice. Every time his boots kicked a foothold, he felt anew the thrill of testing himself. He hammered spikes in as he went, past the ice into the rock, so he would have handholds and footholds to descend. The object was to get to the peak of Mount Bradur and then to descend without having to take dragon.
Not that there would be any shame if he had to. Lord Gunther had told him that no dragon had made it there and back in mortal form. His lord had never made the attempt himself. But his brother Lord Arnor had made three tries and each time had been forced to return to dragon and fly back to his vessel. Darius had prepared against failure by bringing a complete change of clothes, although he had left them in the sailboat.
The Kittiwake was the property of his lord, and he was required to return it. A twenty-four-foot-long dragon would be unable to sit in the little two-man sailboat, let alone sail it. Even if flying openly during the day was not most strictly forbidden by the laws of Reiko and the customs of Dragonry. But if he could dress warmly once he was again a man, there would be little difficulty in returning to home base.
He made good progress, although the blue skies and friendly sunshine of the morning had turned into ominous gray clouds and gusting winds before he was halfway up. He was warm enough – dragons seldom felt the cold unless it was extreme – but he was thirsty. He made a promise to himself that at the first ledge he would take a break and have a drink.
As if to mock his pledge, the wind blew him into the ice-covered rock face. The spike he had driven in held him fast to the ropes to which he was secured by a harness. But he was flung in a dizzying spiral at its end. When he stopped spinning, his left cheekbone took the full force of the ice. Blood trickled down his cheek and froze.
“Shift,” he muttered.
Undeterred, he extended his arm and whacked his pick into the ice wall. It took another half hour of progress with an increasingly vicious wind pummeling him at every advance, before he reached anything that could be called a ledge. He wedged himself into a little fissure and squirmed around until he could remove his water bottle from the outside of his pack. The water was icy cold but refreshing. And in any event he had no means of heating it and it was imperative that he drink.
From this perch he could see clear out over the sea. The calm of the morning had entirely vanished. Whitecaps taller than a man raced across between the sandbars. The gulls and terns had vanished, ceding the gray skies to the wind and the approaching storm.
For the first time, Darius felt discouraged. It was not part of his duty to be careless of his safety. Challenging his strength of arm and will was one thing, behaving suicidally was a breach of discipline. He would have to turn back after his break, and trust to his seamanship to return Lord Reiko’s sailboat undamaged to harbor.
He laughed at himself. Perhaps it was true that the mountain loathed dragons. Or perhaps March was a season where storms were to be expected. There would be other opportunities.
He was planning his descent when the ledge he was sitting on and the fissure at his back yawned wide. The mountain groaned as if it were tumbling down, filling the air with a noise so loud he felt deafened. Before he registered what was happening, he was falling.
He waited for his ropes to break his fall. But with a shriek like a dozen vengeful harpies, his foot-long spikes wrenched out of the ice and rock and his descent continued unchecked.
Was it possible to take dragon here? Or would he merely get stuck between the sides of the expanding fissure? He put his arms out and touched the wall. The rock ripped shreds from his gloves as he hurtled by. If he couldn’t fully extend his arms, there was no room here for his dragon body, let alone his wings.
Gusts of warm, damp air fought with the cold air that was at his back. And then he was enveloped in steaming hot water. It was salty. Bubbling madly. He was soaking wet. His pack dragged at his shoulders and pulled him backward under the surface. There was space enough in this salty lake for him to take dragon. But when he lifted his head from the water he was uncertain what to do.
Being a dragon shifter meant that he could see far better than any human. But here in the belly of the mountain, it was pitch black. Far above him he could dimly see a glimmer. But he could not see his hands, let alone an escape route. If he took dragon would it even be possible for him to fly out? Or for him to swim out?
He could not breathe underwater. And he did not know how deep this hot lake was. If he climbed out in human form and attempted an ascent of the newly created crevasse, he would risk hypothermia. Yet it seemed that was his best option. Better not to discard his equipment and his pack. Thank goodness his pick was tethered to his wrist.
His satellite phone was probably unharmed by its dunking. It was supposedly waterproof. But he doubted if so far underground there would be any signal. After a long and ungainly struggle, he managed to extract it. As he had expected, he had no signal. Although the flashlight still worked. He flicked it off to conserve the battery.
The hot water would keep him alive for a long time – if he could find any fresh to drink. Was it his imagination or was the bubbling water beginning to roil faster? Without warning, a whirlpool sucked him down. The deeper it pulled him, the hotter it became. His lungs were burning now. He was going to drown. Shift on a stick.
He was almost unconscious when the volcano shot him skyward on a geyser and tossed him upward. Instinct alone made him take dragon. The wind howled and his water-covered scales and wings instantly hardened with ice. He plunged down, down, down.
He attempted to extend his feet for a landing. But blinded by steam and battered by the gale, he plummeted belly first into the snow. Hot water continued to shower onto his unmoving form. The wind shrieked with laughter and piled snow over his torn wings, and writhing tail.
Read the rest of Dragon Bewitched in the Shifters in Love boxset Hot Shifter Nights
About the Author
Isadora writes feel-good PNR stories about heroic shifters and the sexy, sassy BBWs who are their fated mates. She is the author of over 30 books. Join her for some rousing adventures and some spicy loving.
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Dragon Ensnared: A Viking Dragon Fairy Tale (Lords of the Dragon Islands Book 7) Page 16