Curse of the Ice Dragon

by Tara West

  After beating ice crystals off his satchel and shield, Markus gnawed on his lower lip, contemplating how best to mount the shield. Sliding his arms into his satchel, he decided the best action was to lean back into the disk and push off with his hands. It appeared simple enough.

  His bottom had just touched the smooth surface of the shield's inner wall when the ground slipped from beneath him. It was so spontaneous, he barely had time to lift his legs and clutch the sides of the shield.

  He was off!

  A gasp of shock ripped from his chest as he barreled down the winding serpent of ice. The disk flew down the gully, catching the air as it struck odd bumps along the ground. Markus would land each time with a sharp thud, and then spin twice or thrice before resuming his wild, rapid descent.

  Despite the threat of avalanche, Markus could not control his screams of terror, fueled by the rush of adrenaline that pumped through his chest. Whips of wind sliced into his cracked lips and burned his forehead and cheekbones. From clutching the disk so tightly, his whitened knuckles mirrored his snowy fortress.

  Sliding, slipping, spinning, Markus barreled toward the rocky bottom of the frozen river. Sucking in a huge gasp of air, he braced himself for the inevitable crash. The slick surface ended suddenly, and he was hurled onto the rocky terrain, bouncing and jarring in the shield until he came to an abrupt stop.

  Markus had expected a violent ending — to be flipped and have his body ripped open when he was tossed against the jagged rocks. Laughter bubbled from his chest as he sat in his disk for a long moment, too stunned to move. He laughed until his sides hurt and tears streamed from his eyes. He knew not why his present fate was so funny, but it felt good to enjoy a moment of mirth before reality set in.

  And it did, all too soon.

  Some of the clouds surrounding the base of the mountain had dispersed. Craning his neck, Markus was able to see a great distance upward. He could not possibly survive such a climb.

  With a heavy heart, he crawled out of his metal shell, rising to his shaky legs. Then he noticed his clothes were soaked through, his body chilled. He would have to find shelter to shield himself from the night air or he would surely freeze to death.

  As if by a miracle, a crude hut appeared in the distance. Slinging his shield across his back, Markus limped toward the shelter. Hopefully, he would be able to build a fire inside for he would need dry clothes for tomorrow’s climb.

  MARKUS WHISPERED THANKS to Madhea after settling down in the shelter. He must have done something well this day to please her, for this hut seemed made for him. Then he remembered that Father had brought him here before they ascended the mountain.

  “It was built especially for the fools who tried to scale Ice Mountain,” Father had said.

  The warm, dry hut was already supplied with a small bundle of firewood. He remembered that it had been stocked with wood the last time, and the following morning Father had sent him out to get more to leave behind when they left.

  Even though he knew he must make haste, Markus would have to stock the hut with more wood before he left in the morning. He would not want another cold, wet climber to find a barren shelter. Wrapped in the fur that Zier had given him, Markus sat on a log inside the hut, stripped of all his clothes, and hung them above the fire. Hopefully, they'd be dry by morning. Another surprise awaited him inside the hut; one he knew must have been a gift from fate. Someone had left behind a rope. Though old and caked in dirt, it was solid and thick.

  As Markus gnawed on strips of meat and drank from a small pot of water, he contemplated the day's events. Although he was trying his best to cast out the heavy gloom that had settled in his heart, he could not block out the painful memory of his mother's death. She had paid bitterly for Markus’s foolish actions.

  Perhaps the Goddess had taken pity on him. Had she saved him from the avalanche and crashing his shield? Mayhap she even provided the rope. Markus could only pray that through his relentless fight for survival, he had somehow won her favor. He would need her guidance if he was to survive the climb to the peak.

  Chapter Seven

  Under the mystic glow of pale lights, Madhea sat on her ornate ice throne, looking down into the swirling mists. Try as she might, she could not summon forth an image of her dragon. Lydra was lost for now, trapped under the crush of heavy snow. The foolish beast had failed her.

  Cursing, she slapped the vortex of spinning vapor, scattering wisps of clouds across the stones. Madhea was tired this night and her magic was draining, but she needed to know what had become of the boy. With one final attempt, she spun her hand around the circle of stones beneath her, calling forth her vision spell until a faint image of the boy hunter appeared.

  He looked too much like his father, with coarse midnight hair and a thick, square jaw. Her wingtips twitched and hummed as her mind conjured up images of the one night she’d spent in the cradle of Rowlen’s strong arms.

  Rowlen, why did you leave me?

  “Lydra is trapped, My Deity.” Her servant, Jae, a beautiful girl with long coppery curls that fell just below her waist, stood at the threshold of the throne room, her feet obscured by a soft fog rising from the floor.

  “Yes, I know about the dragon,” Madhea answered flatly, as her wings drooped at her sides. Unable to mask her annoyance, Madhea waved away the servant with a flick of her wrist.

  Jae stood grounded to the spot while she leveled Madhea with the direct gaze of her tapered amber eyes. The girl was bold. Her insolence would have to be dealt with—soon.

  Madhea knew it was her beauty that made the servant so. She too had been that way once, when the allure of her ivory hair and vivid green eyes were matched by no woman. Madhea had been a youth then, though it seemed only a few winters ago. But, once her heart had been shattered into a thousand splintering ice crystals, her beauty died with it. Her death from within, from the plague that ate at her soul, crept outward, gnawing at her flesh until naught was left but the wrinkled skin of an old woman.

  But Madhea had had her revenge—the curse she put upon Rowlen’s heart before he descended. His young bride and sickly son did not know he would return a monster. Now that he was dead, the last remnants of Madhea’s heart had withered to dust. But she would mourn silently. The Elementals need not gain another reason to doubt her powers.

  “Do you wish me to release the pixies?” asked Jae, waving a hand toward the dark, deep void in the wall behind Madhea's throne. Upon hearing their names, an eruption of squeals began. Thousands of pixies, each no bigger than a child's fist, screamed from behind an iron grate for their release.

  “No, girl.” Madhea leered at her servant from beneath pale lashes and silenced the pixies with a wave of her hand.

  Jae's eyes bulged. “My Goddess, please do not tell me you will waste your magic.”

  “Do you dare tell me what to do?” Rising, Madhea slammed her fists against the stones.

  The girl worried for nothing, brainwashed by the Elementals of the ice coven. Madhea knew her magic was not waning. The ice was not melting. Her towering pillars of frozen crystallites had withstood over ten thousand winters and they would protect them for thousands more to come.

  “Forgive me, My Goddess.” Casting her gaze downward, Jae bit her lower lip.

  Sighing, Madhea sank into the furs lining her throne. She was tired and needed rest. By morning, her magic would be revived. “Why should I release the pixies or use my magic?”

  Narrowing her eyes, she looked down at the circle of stones as the boy's image faded away. “I give him no more than another day. The boy hunter will not survive my mountain.”

  “USELESS GLOVES!” MARKUS cursed as he tossed the soft doeskin leathers off the ledge, watching as they disappeared through the clouds and into the abyss. He had once admired them for their supple, smooth texture, and they had taken him nearly a fortnight to make. He remembered fondly how he sewed each stitch with care; something not easily done with large, clumsy fingers. But they were no good to hi
m now.

  The gloves had nearly cost him his life. The slick leather gave him no purchase when he was pulling himself up on an equally slick rope. Had it not been for the knot he'd tied at the end of it, he would’ve slid right off. Luckily, he’d been able to lower himself onto a ledge below, only banging his shin twice in the process.

  The rope dangled now just above Markus’s head. He would pull himself back up once he'd caught his breath. His body was already numbing to the pain inflicted on him by the mountain.

  Cuts and bruises mattered little to him now. He had barely flinched when he'd crushed his knuckles with the blunt end of his ax. That had been just another foolish, clumsy mistake.

  Markus had only started the climb this morn, so he knew he'd make many more errors of judgment. Exactly how far he'd scaled he knew not, for a low mist had settled on the mountain, blocking out the mid-day sun and obscuring his vision past an arm's length, making the climb more treacherous than before.

  But he had to continue. Stopping only gave him time to think. His thoughts were turning much darker, much more dangerous than the climb. How easy it would be to jump over the ledge and end his life. No more curse, no more dragon, no more memories of Father. Besides, he wasn't man enough to scale a mountain. He would slip up again. Mayhap next time he wouldn't have a ledge to save him. How many more mistakes would he make before he lost his life?

  Why not end it swiftly now?

  How foolish he’d been to think he could ever reach Madhea. Biting back a sardonic laugh, his father's words reverberated through his skull: Only fools scale mountains.

  This was what Father had told him three winters ago when he'd first asked for climbing lessons. Markus had wanted to learn, not for the glory and thrill of the climb, but because Mother had once told Alec that climbing had been Father's passion. Foolishly, Markus had thought if Father climbed again, it would lighten his mood and he would no longer beat Alec.

  They'd spent the first day waiting out a blizzard, cramped in a crude shelter they'd dug in the snow. On the second day they made little headway, as Markus was barely a juvenile and had hardly enough strength to pound a pick through thick ice.

  By the third day, they had been stalled by another blizzard. Father had drained the last of his brew, so it was time to descend. They'd made it home on the fifth day.

  Alec had been spared Father's cruel beatings for five days. But, the monster more than made up for it later by taking his frustration with the mountain out on Alec. Markus then hated himself for suggesting the climb. Never again had he asked Father for lessons.

  Now Markus was stuck on the side of a mountain with little skill and only crude essentials for climbing. A cold, relentless wind slapped his face, gnawing into his flesh like a wolf with a bone. Soon it would be nightfall and he would need to find a ledge wide enough to sleep on. Would the fur that Zier provided him be thick enough to ward off the night's chill?

  A thought struck him that mayhap he had needed those gloves if for no other purpose than for added warmth while he slept.

  Damn! What else could go wrong this day?

  As if the mountain was answering his thoughts, Markus heard a sharp crack and his body shook. He was nearly thrown off his perch by the sudden tremor below him. The ledge was unstable.

  Looking above his head to where the rope had been hanging, Markus cried out in desperation. It was now more than an arm's length away. The ledge was sliding!

  Instinctively, he lunged for the side of the mountain, grabbing cracks in the ice without the aid of a pick or rope, or any lifeline. The brittle ice sliced through his bare hands as he clawed against the surface, trying desperately to pull himself toward the rope while the ledge crumbled beneath him.

  ’Twas no use.

  The ice was too slick. Blood gushed from his fingers, spilling onto the wall as he slid awkwardly down the face. ’Twas only a matter of time before the ice purged him from the mountain. How far he would have to slide before landing he was uncertain, for he'd no idea of the distance he'd traveled. But he knew the drop would be far enough to crush his bones.

  Then, as if stuck in a waking dream, Markus lost hold of the mountain, and he slipped into oblivion. He reached out, grasping at emptiness before the image of his brother's pale face flashed through his memory. With Alec's name on his lips, he cried out as the agony of his loss shot daggers of pain through his extremities. Death was certain.

  Closing his eyes to the horror, he jarred against a hard surface and a sickening crack ricocheted through his skull. Then his world darkened.

  DESYRN’S LIMBS TREMBLED as he watched the older boy’s chest rise and fall in erratic waves. The only sounds in the cabin were the fluid rattle of the boy’s strained breathing and the heavy beating of Desyrn’s own heart. He still couldn’t believe they were inside the monster’s home, beside the darkened hearth of their sworn enemy, Rowlen Jägerrson, father of the boy hunter who brought on Madhea’s curse.

  Desryn, known simply as Des to his friends, and his sister had already found cruel Rowlen’s corpse, lying face down in the dirt. Spotting the giant winged dragon flying over the forest, breaking trees apart with its massive talons as if they were mere twigs, they had suspected the boy hunter to have been killed as well.

  When the two siblings came across a fresh gravesite with a wreath of flowers, they realized the mother had been killed by the curse, leaving the sick boy alone. It had been Des’s idea to go inside and look for the boy, and after much pleading, his sister reluctantly agreed.

  “Does he breathe?” Des whispered over his sister’s cloaked shoulder, as he gawked at the boy’s bloody and swollen arm.

  Dianna placed a slender hand on the side of the injured boy’s neck. “Aye, Des, but barely. I doubt he will survive the night.”

  “Unless you save him,” Des begged. “We could bring him back to our hut while he recovers.”

  Though he could not make out his sister’s features beneath her hood, Des could tell by the sudden stiffness in her shoulders that she was displeased with his idea.

  “And when his arm is miraculously healed and he is no longer plagued with sickness, then what? I will be marked as a witch,” she replied with a barely audible hiss.

  “They will not know it was you.”

  Dianna turned to face Des and pulled down her cloak, revealing vivid, emerald eyes that shone even in the darkness, as if a fire blazed beneath their depths. She reached out and clasped his hands within her own. Even in the cool night air, Dianna’s palms were always warm, as if she were impervious to the Elements.

  Squeezing her brother’s hands until warmth flooded his body, she replied, “I cannot take that risk. What if the villagers sacrifice me to Madhea? Who will look after you then?”

  Des shook his head. “Almost everyone thinks the boy got sick because of his father’s beatings. They will think his father’s death is the reason why the boy healed.”

  Dianna chewed on her lip before casting an anxious glance at her brother. “But what if this boy betrays me? What if he says I used magic to heal him?”

  Des’s heart hammered in his chest at the thought. What would he do if the villagers sacrificed Dianna to the Goddess? They had worked so hard to conceal her secret. Would their act of kindness be met with betrayal and cruelty? No, he refused to believe this sick boy was anything less than kind. He had witnessed the compassion that the boy had bestowed upon his undeserving younger brother, the cruel hunter who butchered animals. Des knew in his heart that this boy would show himself and Dianna the same understanding.

  Des turned up his chin and met his sister’s direct gaze. “He will not betray you.”

  She arched a brow before casting Des another wary glance. “How can you be sure?”

  “I just know, Dianna. Please, you cannot let him die.”

  Chapter Eight

  People of the Ice

  MARKUS AWOKE TO A CHILL that filled his lungs with each shallow intake of breath. Like a stale wind tickling his skin, the co
ld air encompassed him. Yet he was somehow comforted by an unfamiliar heat that had settled in the marrow of his bones, warming the empty ache in his chest and the hollow of his stomach. It was unlike any feeling he’d known before. Then he realized he must be dead.

  Opening his eyes slowly, Markus’s blurred vision could just make out the faint, warm glow of candlelight. A soft silhouette brushed past him. He struggled to raise himself on one elbow and follow the direction of the shadow. A girl had her back to him, and through his clouded gaze he could see she was stirring a pot of steaming liquid.

  As the room came into focus, he thought that if he wasn’t dead, he certainly must be dreaming. The girl’s smooth arms, tinted a soft shade of blue, seemed to glow. Her hair fell in a shimmery cascade down her back, resembling a curtain of ice reflecting the light of the moon. Turning abruptly, her pale gaze found his.

  Markus knew by the wild beating of his heart that he was not dead, for her beauty awakened him. The girl drifted toward him as though she was carried on the wind. Though her eyes were the shade of a clouded sky, a soft smile belied her kindness.

  Markus felt no reason to fear this girl, but he could not overcome his shock. Her hair! He had thought his eyes were playing tricks on him, but now he was almost certain that it was in fact ice. Never before had he seen hair so pale as to be translucent.

  Markus tried to sit up, but his head shook with a sudden wave of dizziness. Closing his eyes, his hand flew to his throbbing head and he winced at the pain. Feeling bandages there, he realized he must have been injured, and then he noticed another sensation. Why he had not noticed it before, he did not know, but his left arm throbbed. A dull, deep ache trailed from his wrist up to his shoulder. He tried to move it, to no avail. It was as if someone had placed a heavy weight upon him. But why?