Curse of the Ice Dragon Read online

  Markus threw his arms wide. “He pelted me with rocks!”

  The child cried louder.

  Judging by the mar on Dianna's brow and her deepening scowl, Markus knew he would not win against the child's false tantrum. He heaved a frustrated groan.

  Clutching the child to her chest, Dianna's face reddened, her eyes shining with the gloss of unshed tears. “You should be ashamed!”

  Markus hung his head, not knowing how to answer her retributions. Though he was not sorry for teaching the boy a lesson, he'd never intended to make Dianna cry. His heart had been broken enough times whenever he’d found his mother sobbing over Alec. He hated Father for making Mother cry, and now he hated himself.

  “It is you who should be ashamed, foolish female, trolloping about the woods in men’s trews!”

  Markus cringed at the familiar, garbled slur of his father's baritone when in a drunken rage. Cursing, he turned to find that a mob of villagers had gathered around them, his father at the head, still clutching a tankard of ale as if it was his lifeline. The rowdy looking bunch reminded him of a pack of marauders, with a monster for the henchman.

  Ice-cold fear pricked the hairs at the back of Markus’s neck and threatened to splinter his brain. Swallowing the lump of granite that had formed at the bottom of his throat, he found the nerve to speak. “Father, please, this is my battle.” He did not want Dianna to be the victim of his father's wrath.

  Heedless of Markus’s plea, Rowlen stepped past him, bridging the gap between Markus and Dianna. “This night is to honor my son and I'll not have you ruin it for him,” he bellowed.

  Many among the crowd voiced their agreement.

  Markus stepped to the side of his father, so he could better view Dianna, mayhap defend her if needed. But what could he do against his father? He felt as helpless as a pebble trying to crush a glacier.

  Dianna cupped her brother's chin and their gazes held for an eternal moment. The boy nodded, and they both rose, Dianna in front. Stance wide, arms crossed, she stood her ground in the most beautiful act of defiance Markus had ever witnessed.

  Tilting her chin, malice shone in her eyes as she leveled her stare at Rowlen. “What care I for honoring your son? He has done nothing for me. I feed my own family.”

  “It is time you learned your place and left the hunting to the real men.” Father ended on a deep, sinister chuckle.

  Glancing toward Markus, he winked, before turning to the crowd and raising his tankard.

  The men cheered. The women whistled.

  Markus wanted to scream.

  “Tell me then, do real men beat their afflicted children?” Though she spoke through clenched teeth, her strong voice carried far.

  The townspeople behind him gasped and murmured amongst themselves.

  Father choked on his drink, purging out a great deal through a roar. Markus’s mind hollowed and he could not think clearly. He only knew that Dianna put herself in great peril by goading his father so.

  She merely smiled, tilting her chin higher. “I know how you treat your eldest son. You, sir, are a monster, not a real man. And I will not honor 'The Mighty Hunter' who will grow to be just like you.”

  Her words came out on a hiss, searing the distance between them like arrows of fire, burning straight into his heart.

  Though she spoke to Rowlen, her venom was meant for Markus. Did she truly think he would become like his father?

  “You lying little shrew! I should tan your hide!” Father clutched his ale until his knuckles turned white. The veins on his neck swelled like raging rivers after the winter's thaw.

  Shaking her head, Dianna laughed, clearly unaffected by his growing rage. “Perhaps you should, and save Alec from some of your cruelty.”

  Pointing into the crowd, Dianna moved forward, whipping past Rowlen before he could react. “See him there, cowering behind his mother. Ask him to pull down his cloak and then see if I'm lying.”

  “He will not.” Father's voice cracked and rose in pitch. “He is unwell and needs his cloak to shield him from the night air.”

  She spun on her heel, shouting at Rowlen with clenched fists. “It would not hurt him to show his face, and well you know it!” In an instant, she'd turned back to the crowd, her spine rigid as she marched toward Mother and Alec.

  He knew not how his feet propelled him, but Markus raced after her into the parting sea of spectators. Whatever she was trying to do, he had to stop her. No good would come to her if she exposed his father.

  Mother, with Alec behind her, had both reacted as one, backing up several paces as Dianna advanced, but they were no match for her quick strides. Mother made a strangling, garbled cry, and turned to shield Alec in her arms.

  “You must not do this,” Markus pleaded, regretting the harsh tone in his voice, but he had to make Dianna understand the danger in crossing his father.

  Behind him, Markus heard a bellow of rage, sounding like a warrior descending into battle. He turned to see several large men attempting to restrain Rowlen. A chill swept up Markus’s spine at the demonic gleam in his father's eyes. The monster would have Dianna's blood for this.

  Dianna's lips narrowed into a grim line, her eyes glowing with determination. With a firm, but gentle tug, she pulled Alec free of his mother's embrace. At the same time, his hood fell away for all to see. An eerie stillness fell about the place. For a moment, even Rowlen had gone quiet.

  Silent tears streamed down Markus’s face at the sight of his brother. Never before had Father beaten him so badly.

  One dark, swollen eyelid would not open—sealed shut by some invisible, binding force. He wondered if his brother would ever see out of that eye again, such a massive bloody mess it was. The other eye was only partially visible, and Markus suspected it must be a burden for Alec to keep it open as a cut ran deep through his eyebrow and mid-way to his forehead.

  How had Alec been able to attend the festival at all with such an injury?

  Below Alec’s eyes, his nose was encrusted in a hard coating of dark blood and one side of his lip was swollen to three times its normal size. Many black and purple splotches coated his pale face, making him look as if he'd been beaten by the plague.

  As those around him gawked at his injuries, Alec hung his head. He did not speak and no emotion could be read in his grotesque features. Only a single tear swept down his nose and shattered in the hard grass at his feet.

  Holding Alec’s hand, Mother wept by his side. Markus stepped up to Alec, and with the gentleness of swaddling a new-born babe, he lifted the hood back over his brother’s head, shrouding his features once again in darkness.

  Soon the people began to whisper while some men grumbled, and many women gave way to tears.

  Dianna did not cry. Fists planted at her sides and her stance wide, her icy gaze was on Rowlen.

  Three men still held him, though he had stopped fighting to break free. Rowlen’s eyes belied the vehemence of a thousand whipping ice storms. These men held him now, but they would not hold him always. What then? How long before Dianna suffered the monster's revenge? What could Markus do to prevent it?

  After a long, tense moment, Dianna turned to the people, clearing her throat to speak. “I happened upon them at Danae Creek one eve while I was stalking a lone elk. This monster pounded into his sickly son while the poor boy begged for mercy. All the while 'The Mighty Hunter' cowered behind a tree like a frightened mouse.”

  Markus’s heart plummeted. No wonder she scorned him. She knew him for a coward.

  “You filthy bitch!” Father roared, his rage-infused face taking on the hue of an overripe apple. Markus thought he saw the branches of the lyme shake from the tremors of Father's fury.

  Dianna dismissed his words with a flick of her wrist. “Needless to say, they spooked my prey.” Turning her cold gaze back to Rowlen, she tilted her mouth in an impish grin. “You are lucky to be alive this night. I almost turned my arrow upon you.”

  What kind of foolish female was she? Had she a
wish to join her parents in the afterlife?

  “She lies!” But Father's words were said with less conviction.

  The villagers shook their heads, their faces draped in heavy scowls. They were not convinced of Rowlen’s innocence, either.

  “My brother was with me and can bear witness.” Dianna motioned to Desryn, who had come up through the crowd. He had managed to crawl between the villagers' legs to reach his sister while his mutt trailed behind him.

  Stepping up beside her, Desryn inflated his chest and wagged a finger at Rowlen. “I saw it. I saw the whole thing.”

  “My son is sick,” Father cried out beneath his sweat-drenched brow. “These bruises are part of his ailment. This shrew thinks to be a mighty huntress. She is merely jealous and wants to steal Markus’s glory.”

  “Is that so?” Dianna turned her focus upon Markus. “Tell me, Mighty Hunter, do I seek to steal your glory this eve or is your father really a monster?”

  Markus thought his legs would buckle under the weight of her stare. She was asking him to bring Father's wrath upon his head as well.

  She was asking him to be brave.

  The eyes of the village were upon him. What would they expect The Mighty Hunter to say? Did they want the truth? Did they want to know that the hero who had saved them from starvation had cowered behind a tree while his brother was brutally beaten?

  What would Father do if Markus told the truth? Would he turn his heavy fists upon him now? Markus’s throat went bone dry, and then constricted until his breath came in shallow gasps. His limbs, which had once felt as heavy as stone, now shook like the feeble branches of a fig tree. For the first time, he realized how his prey must have felt during that fatal second when they saw his arrow tunneling swiftly upon them.

  All the while, the townspeople anxiously awaited his answer, their eyes wide.

  “Tell them, son,” the monster bellowed as he resumed his struggle against his captors. “Tell them I am a good father.”

  “You are no father to me!” Markus cried, before he barreled through the crowd and into the overgrowth of trees behind them.

  He was not mighty. He was not brave. He was humiliated. He was terrified. But most of all, he was angry. Angry at Dianna for exposing him, angry at Father for hurting his brother, and angry at himself for the feeble coward he'd become.

  Chapter Three

  A small campfire kindled beneath the heavy overhang of several towering pines. A lone hunter sat near the blaze, warming his fingers as the chill from the darkening sky seeped into his bones. Although he was far from his family's hut, this was where Markus felt most at home. The forest was his salvation; the place he could go to escape his father's dark moods. The quiet moments he spent by the fire after a successful hunt were his most cherished times. He could recount the day's hunt, remembering the adrenaline pumping through his veins just before he released his arrow, always striking true.

  That night's hunt had been fruitful: an elk, a hawk and one pesky squirrel. The elk carcass hung on a nearby tree, blood dripping from the hollow cavity. Markus planned to harvest the choicest meats for his family. The hawk had been stripped, his breast roasted on a spit above the fire. The squirrel, however, served only to amuse Markus as he desired a guest to accompany him this dark night. The bushy-tailed animal sat across from him, his body propped up by a few small rocks, so he looked as if he was resting his bones beside the fire. Dried spatters of blood had emptied out of a hole in his chest.

  Though he did not always eat the entire carcasses of the animals he harvested, Markus would usually make use of the parts he needed for the hunt – sinews to fasten a broadhead to the shaft of an arrow and for stringing his bow, feathers for fletching the veins upon his arrows, and leather to protect his fingers when releasing the string.

  Markus liked to sit by the campfire and work with his tools. Tonight he was engrossed in flint-knapping stone, carving broadheads out of mere rocks. Sharp broadheads and a perfect aim were what made his arrows so deadly. He'd pour all of his energy into crafting one tip well into the dawn. To focus on this simple act of carving stone took all of his concentration, leaving no time for dark thoughts of his father.

  He was particularly determined to drive any dispiriting thoughts from his mind, knowing that when he returned home at dawn he'd have to face Alec's pain, Mother's scorn, and Father's wrath. Mayhap it was because he was so engrossed in driving away his demons that Markus did not hear the footfall until the man was already behind him.

  At the snapping of a twig, Markus leapt up from his log, knife in hand. He was met by the familiar, weathered eyes of the healer. Markus lowered his guard and sheathed his knife, having been used to visits from the old man on the many occasions that Alec was unable to rise from his bed.

  Looking into the smiling face of Dafuar, Markus was reminded of a weathered map, as many tributaries were etched in his leathered features. Markus wondered the age of the healer whom some called a prophet. His father had told Markus that Dafuar had been there at his birth and foretold he would be a mighty hunter. Though none knew Dafuar's age, he was rumored to be as old as Ice Mountain. As a boy, Markus had always thought each line on Dafuar's face represented a year, but the healer would never sit long enough for him to count them all.

  Now the white-haired man had come to him this night. Markus hoped Dafuar would sit with him by the fire and mayhap recount stories of old that would chase away the gnawing fear welling in his heart.

  Dafuar's soft eyes held Markus’s for a long moment before his gaze dropped to the fire, the sharp edges of his face cutting into a deep frown. Without waiting for an offer, the healer took a seat beside the squirrel, pulling up the hem of his robe and stretching his bony legs beside the fire. “This squirrel's offenses must have been great.”

  Markus gave pause, reflecting on the healer's words and actions. Simply being ancient did not give the healer the authority to judge Markus.

  “I am a hunter. It is my job to kill animals,” replied Markus, settling on a log opposite the old man.

  Dafuar turned to the sitting squirrel with a grimace. “Do hunters not skin animals as well?”

  Waving away the healer's words with a flick of the wrist, Markus could not shake his growing annoyance at the condescending tone in the old man's voice. “I am not in the mood for squirrel tonight.”

  The healer's bushy brows rose and he rubbed his pointed chin with a gnarled hand. “A hunter takes a life to feed himself and his people. If you do not eat what you kill, you are no hunter.”

  “I am the greatest hunter in all the land,” Markus barked. “I have killed up to ten animals in one hunt.”

  Had Dafuar come to seek companionship or pass judgment? Markus had had enough aggravation for one day.

  “I have not heard of so many deaths since the last plague.” The dark stony depths of the healer’s eyes seemed to pool over with the reflection of distant memories. “Perhaps that is what you are, a sickness of some kind.”

  Markus bit back a curse, his patience growing as taut as a newly strung bow. “I am no sickness, but I am growing ever sick of you, old man. Do you seek my fire for warmth or for foolish jests?”

  Dafuar's eyes grew darker still, the lines around his mouth drawing into a grim line. Bending his crooked frame toward the fire, shades of the burning embers cast an eerie glow upon his face. “I seek your fire tonight to warn you.”

  Markus’s heartbeat stilled as he choked out the question. “Warn me?”

  “Aye.” The healer nodded. “Of Madhea's great ice dragon.”

  Shaking his head, Markus considered the prophet's words. Ice dragon? Was the old man daft? Had his mind finally withered to dust? He thought mayhap Dafuar had sought to warn him of some new evil deed by his father, rather than feed him some silly tale of a mythical dragon. He had heard stories of an ice dragon from his brother. Alec had told Markus that Madhea imprisoned the dragon beneath an impenetrable tomb of ice. The last time Madhea released her monster was hundreds
of years ago, when it destroyed an entire village for blaspheming the Goddess.

  With widened eyes, Dafuar sat upright; his face seemed transfixed by a spell. “The dragon is called Lydra—a monster so fierce and foul, few men have seen her and lived to tell.”

  “Is that so?” Crossing his legs at the ankles, Markus folded his arms across his chest. “Tell me more of this Lydra.”

  The healer threw his arms wide. “More than twice the girth of a snow bear, she stands five men in height.”

  Chuckling beneath his breath, Markus could not contain a smile. Though the old man was irritating, he was amusing. “And does she breathe fire like a dragon?”

  Dafuar’s stare became blank, expressionless. “Not fire, ice, colder than the darkest winter storm.” He raised a bony finger to the deep lines that cut channels into his left eye. “The fire is in here.”

  Markus’s smirk widened. “Her eyes?”

  “Aye, red and glowing like the molten depths of hell.” The healer almost hissed the words, as though he was actually recalling the memory of a real ice dragon.

  “I see.” Markus decided to humor the healer and go along with the jest. “So, do you wish me to fell Lydra with my bow?”

  Dafuar shook his head. “I'm afraid you cannot.”

  “You are mistaken,” said Markus. Jutting out his chin, he thumped his chest with a fist. “There is no fowl or beast I cannot kill.”

  The healer cast his gaze heavenward before fixing Markus with a penetrating glare. “I am sure you are able to kill her, but you cannot kill her.”

  Shifting in his seat, his rising irritation infused his skull. This so-called prophet was too odd for his liking.

  “Do not speak to me in riddles,” Markus growled. “Speak plainly or warm your bones elsewhere.”

  Dafuar reacted by closing his eyes, mumbling what sounded like an incantation.

  Was this some strange spell? Or had the healer come to him tonight to play tricks on him? Either way, Markus had had enough. Rising to his feet, he was going to make Dafuar leave by force.