by Tara West
Curse of the Ice Dragon
Keepers of the Stones, Book One
Tara West
Copyright © 2012 by Tara West
Published by Shifting Sands Publishing
Second edition, published April, 2018
All rights reserved.
This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogue are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
Artwork by Bob Kehl at www.bobkehl.com
Edited by Vickie Johnstone @ http://vickiejohnstone.blogspot.co.uk/
Special thanks to my beta readers, Janet Michelson and Shéa
MacLeod for catching those last minute oopsies.
Table of Contents
Copyright Page
Curse of the Ice Dragon
Dedications
Foreword
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
The Beginning of Time
Books by Tara West
GLOSSARY
Curse of the Ice Dragon
Born with mark of the Mighty Hunter, Markus saves his village from the brink of starvation-for whenever he releases an arrow, his aim is true. But despite his skill and strength, Markus is unable to confront his tyrannical father. Shamed by his cowardice, he distracts himself by needlessly shooting the forest creatures.
When Markus takes no heed of the village prophet's warning that his actions will attract The Hunter's Curse—for every animal Markus kills, his loved ones will suffer the same fate—the Sky Goddess unleashes her ice dragon.
Now, Markus must flee the dragon without killing it ... or his beloved brother will be the next to die.
Dedications
This book is dedicated to my nephews, Mark and Alex, for inspiring the characters in my story.
I’d like to offer special thanks to my husband for his archery expertise and for his unwavering faith in my writing career.
Bob, I’m probably biased, but this is the best fantasy art ever!
And finally, thanks to all of my readers who’ve enabled me to become a full-time writer.
Foreword
A thick mist coated the night sky with an unforgiving chill that stretched across the horizon for miles. The soft blanket of snow had turned to ice, leaving the ground barren, cold and unforgiving. All was quiet beneath the frosted pines. Even the glaciers surrounding the cragged peak of Tehra’s Ice Mountain seemed immobile. No soft winds carried the sounds of animals on the breeze. The only sign of life resided in a small log hut, nestled in a deep valley beneath the mountain. A fire kindled within, but life there was stagnant. Breaths were stilled as faces resembled stone masks of worry.
A babe’s cry broke the silence.
The mother, having used the last of her strength for the final push, slumped against the sweat-drenched furs and fell into a deep slumber. Cradling the infant in a worn, but thick pelt, the midwife placed the bundle in the gnarled hands of the old prophet.
The child’s cherubic face, crimson-flushed from crying, was almost perfect in form and proportions. The only mar on his features was a scar, tracing from the corner of a tiny ear to the tip of his brow. It resembled the shape of a half-moon or a hunter’s bow waiting to be drawn.
“The boy has the hunter’s mark.”
The many lines surrounding Dafuar’s pale stone eyes belied his age. The ancient healer and prophet was older than any of the villagers, and perhaps even older than the village itself. For his longevity alone, people sought his knowledge, but they also feared him, for many of his dark prophecies had come true. After he’d predicted the great famine, the villagers avoided him, fearing he’d not only prognosticated, but precipitated starvation and death.
To some, Dafuar was a bad omen.
But Rowlen refused to cower to foolish fears. He was a man, strong and brave. He’d brought Dafuar to his hut this night, hoping the prophet would bless the birth and cast a spell to ward off the sickness that had plagued his firstborn son.
A smile cracked the hardened shell that coated the grim lines around Rowlen’s face. “Then the village shall celebrate, for my son will keep them well fed.”
Dafuar shook his head. “He must be taught humility or he will wield his power with destruction.”
Rowlen laughed, his booming voice shaking the stagnant air. “My son will be a great man, a fierce hunter.”
“A hunter need not be fierce to feed his people. His skills must be tempered with kindness and compassion.” Dafuar’s eyes softened, saddened, before he closed them altogether.
Rowlen knew Dafuar was lost in distant memories; knew he would soon conjure up the old tale about the cursed hunter who was killed by the breath of the beast. The prophet had served him well this night, but he had no time for the old man’s foolish fairy tales.
“Compassion is for the weak, old man. I have no use for weak words — or weak sons.” He shot a menacing glare at a small child crouching in the corner of the room.
The child blinked once, and then did not stir. He would have been invisible to the naked eye, so small and quiet was he, were it not for the blinding tufts of pale blond hair that curled around his nightcap and wide, watery eyes that shone with both longing and fear.
Scowling, Rowlen turned his back on his eldest son.
Only then did the boy resume the ragged rise and fall of his chest. Struggling for each breath, he silently coughed into his palm, having learned to conceal any sign of his infirmity.
The boy whispered his thanks to the Goddess that this night he had been given a brother. In his short lifespan, he’d been blessed with neither strength nor skill, but he had been gifted with a wisdom and compassion beyond his four years. He prayed his brother would be compassionate, too.
He’d give his last dying breath to make certain the babe did not grow up to become a monster.
Chapter One
The Bond of Brothers
“WAIT UP! YOU KNOW I cannot run as fast as you!”
“We must hurry before Father whips us for delaying his supper!”
Markus threw a glance behind him, before coming to a halt. Alec had once again slowed their progress. Tossing his sling and the rabbit carcasses to the ground, Markus went to help him. Although the onset of spring had thawed most of the perilous icy freeze, his brother's condition appeared to worsen with each melting snow cap.
Alec clutched one hand to his chest, using the other to steady his slender frame against a pine tree. “We both know I will be the one whipped, not you.”
“Even more reason to make haste.” Markus grimaced, knowing his brother’s words were true, but he could not understand why Alec was always the victim of their father’s heavy hand. Father had only struck Markus once, and that had been long ago.
Mayhap Father knew that if he beat Markus, he’d risk injuring his drawback arm and then there would be no more venison stew for s
upper.
Even so, he hated seeing his brother abused. The red and purple splotches on Alec’s pale arms and back were daily reminders that Markus was the favorite child. He should have been grateful that it was Alec who attracted their father’s wrath, but watching his brother degraded and hurt unleashed strange emotions inside him. Anger welled up in his heart every day he witnessed Alec’s torment.
Anger at their father.
Anger at himself.
Was it not Markus’s destiny to be a mighty hunter and a fearless leader? Hadn’t he already been providing the village with most of the meat for their tables? Yet, when it came to his father, why hadn’t he the courage to stand up to him and defend his brother?
Although Alec was almost twenty winters, and by all accounts old enough to be a man, he had the physique of a juvenile boy and was not strong enough to live on his own. Thus he was forced to endure their father’s wrath in exchange for a warm bed and food.
Hardly a life worth living.
Markus promised himself that when he came of age, he would make it up to his brother. They’d live in a hut of their own and he would hunt for Alec, giving him all the choice meats. Alec would grow stronger then and recover from his sickness.
Until then...
“Do you wish me to carry you?” Markus asked. Standing over a head taller, he looked down as Alec coughed and wheezed through the rattle in his chest.
Alec looked up, glaring. “Carry me? Don’t be foolish. You cannot carry me and your kill.”
But carrying Alec would be easy work. By his thirteenth birthday, Markus had been blessed with the strength and size of a full-grown man. Now, almost three years later, he could toss his brother’s hollow bones over his shoulder in one sweep.
“I’ve carried stags heavier than you,” Markus laughed.
Pale orbs beneath Alec’s sunken sockets darkened. “I just need a moment to catch my breath.”
Sometimes Markus marveled how Alec had lived so long as to reach his nineteenth birthday. Each night, Markus had sent a silent thanks to the Goddess for his brother’s fortitude, for he truly did not know how he could go on living without Alec by his side.
Leaning against the pine tree, Markus’s voice softened. “One moment, then we must go. It is nearly time to eat, and I’ve not skinned the rabbits.”
A wolfish grin spread across Alec’s face. “Had you not stopped to spy, we would not be delayed now.”
Markus felt a rush of heat burst forth from his chest and inflame his face. Dianna was his one weakness, and he silently cursed his brother for alluding to her. “I was not spying.”
Alec burst out laughing before he was forced to give into a fit of coughs. Once his coughing had subsided, he looked at Markus with a hint of mischief in his pale eyes. “What would you call it then?”
Folding his arms across his chest, Markus exhaled a breath of frustration. What was it about that girl that confounded him so? Despite all of his efforts to help her, she refused, paying him no more heed than the mold growing beneath her boot. Out of all the villagers, she should have desired his hunting skills the most. Her parents had been killed in an avalanche the previous winter, leaving Dianna and her brother to fend for themselves.
“She is stubborn. I was just making sure she and her brother do not starve.”
Alec shook his pale head. “I saw the skin of a doe hanging from a nearby tree.”
“A small doe.”
Alec shrugged. “’Tis all they need.”
“I could have killed a bear for her!” A surge of anger infused Markus’s skull. Pushing away from the tree, he picked up the rabbits and marched toward home.
Girls were so foolish. Why did men see any use for them?
“They’ve no need for that much meat,” called his brother from the distance, while coughing through his words.
Storming through the darkened forest, Markus easily dodged the perilous, winding roots that snuck up from the ground, threatening to trip the hapless wanderer. But he'd traveled this path since he was old enough to draw back a bow. He knew he should slow his pace, but anger fueled his movements, and he was in no mood to be ribbed by his brother. It was not in Alec’s nature to tease him, unless the topic strayed to Dianna.
“She wastes her time on the hunt when all she needs is to ask me,” he growled, trudging heavily along the well-worn path to their hut.
“Mayhap she likes the hunt.”
Markus whipped around to face his brother, who had remarkably kept up with his fast stride. “She’s a girl,” he spat. “Girls do not like hunting!”
Alec leveled him with a smug smile. “Is that so?”
Markus wasn’t sure he liked his brother’s cocky attitude. Alec was the more intelligent of the two, for sure, and he didn’t want to be reminded of his superior wit. “What do you know about girls?”
Markus wished the venomous words back as soon as they’d slipped off his tongue. Despite Alec’s every effort, girls refused to pay him any heed. Maidens wanted strong husbands who could keep their family well fed. That’s why Markus had no shortage of admiring females. They practically flung themselves at his feet—well, all except Dianna.
“More than you, it would seem.” Alec snickered, ignoring his brother’s attempts to silence him.
“You should’ve let me kill that stag,” Markus grumbled, as he spied the clearing through the trees. “I would’ve left it at her door.”
“It is a good thing Father does let me go on your hunts, otherwise you’d have killed the whole forest by now! Do not waste the lives of our woodland creatures.”
Markus rolled his eyes at the change in his brother’s tone. Sometimes he acted more like a parent than a sibling. “I do not need another lecture from you on the preservation of species.”
“Where are those damn boys?!”
The familiar roar sliced through the frigid air, sending shards of ice-cold fear to the marrow of Markus’s bones.
Why did his father affect him that way?
Why did he allow his father to affect him that way?
“We’re here, Father,” he called back, regretting the crack of fear that broke through his strained voice.
Trudging through a new growth of snake moss, he led the way toward their small hut. A fire kindled through the smoke hole, and freshly washed shirts and trews dangled from a weathered rope. A small patch of newly plowed soil graced one side of the hut. Beneath the majestic backdrop of the snowcapped mountain peak, all would have seemed perfect on this tiny plot of land.
Save for him.
Almost as wide as a great snow bear (though not as tall, for a snow bear was easily twice Markus’s height) and twice as mean, Rowlen had no patience for anything save brewing his many pots of ale. His mouth was draped with a permanent scowl and an acerbic bite of condescension seemed to linger at the end of every word that dripped off his venomous tongue. Eyes darker than stone reflected the contents of his heart—cold and impenetrable. The only things harder than his heart were his meaty fists when they pummeled Alec—almost a daily occurrence.
When he was little, Markus learned to recognize the loathing gleam in his father’s eyes just before he was about to strike; knew the exact time to run. When there was no place to hide, Alec would shield Markus’s body with his own. Though it didn’t matter; Rowlen was only after Alec’s blood.
As he grew older, Markus became more aware of rumors circulating about him. He’d been born with the mark of the great hunter. He would free their people from starvation. Over the past few winters rumor had turned to reality. As if by a miracle, the more he honed his skills, the more the animals flocked to the forest.
At first their father was proud, boasting to the whole village how his son had saved them from famine. And for a short while, Rowlen was happy. With their father’s lighter mood, Alec was spared his cruelty. But his mild temper was short-lived and the abuse would begin again.
Markus blamed himself—he thought mayhap Father wasn’t pleased with his h
unt. Mayhap if he harvested more animals, Father would spare Alec. But now it seemed that with each fresh kill, Rowlen used Markus’s success against Alec, chiding his oldest son for his incompetence.
Dropping an axe on top of a pile of wood, Father strode over to them in long, heavy steps, never tearing his fiery glare from Alec’s feeble frame. “Do you purposely mean to make me wait for my supper?”
“’Tis my fault, Father,” Alec said, coughing into his hand. “I had to stop for breath.”
Markus’s limbs turned to ice and his eyes darted to his father, bracing himself for his angry reaction. Great Goddess! Why had his foolish brother taken the blame upon himself?
Rubbing one thick hand through his scraggly, graying beard, Rowlen eyed Alec with a sneer. “I do not know why I allow such a weakling to attend my son on the hunt.”
“Do you forget I am your son, too?”
Markus felt the anger in Alec’s shaky voice and could only stare at him in awe.
“How dare you speak to me that way!” Rowlen raised his hand to strike.
“Father, wait!” Markus jumped between the two men, surprised at his own act of courage. “I need Alec to help me skin the rabbits.”
Growling under his breath, Rowlen lowered his arm. “Put him to work, son. He is of no use to me.”
Markus turned, and with a shaky hand he grabbed his brother by the elbow and led him to the skinning shack. Still puzzled at how he was able to stand up to Father, his elation was short-lived. This meager defiance meant nothing when so much damage had already been done. When so much violence was still to come.
What would he have done if Father had pushed him aside and struck Alec? Would he have defended his brother? Probably not. His quivering innards reminded him that he was a coward.
After they had reached the shack and lit the oil lamp, Markus turned to his brother and grumbled, “Why do you lie for me?”
Had Alec not lied, Markus would not have been forced to defend him. For that he was angry, but most of all, he was angry with himself for his cowardice when it came to standing up to their father.