Serpent in the Ice

There were not always dragons in the valley. The chronicles told stories of conquests, full of the boasting of long-dead kings who had seen to it that any dragon entering the slopes about the river Hjallron, was grounded. Pushed back into the icy northlands, the huge creatures had been hunted aggressively, and it was the Rimebreaker kings who had taken this, the greatest valley for the dominion of men. For forty years that security had held.

Ashwren was breathing hard with his back pressed against one of the ancient sculptures that filled this area of the valley floor. The stone was somehow blue and black at once beneath the layer of frost, but it had been smashed into rubble for the most part. He had taken shelter behind what still remained of one, and done his best to ignore the clawed hand that seemed to reach for him so desperately. The young boy’s breath misted in front of him as he stared downriver, the way they had come before the disaster.

It can’t really be dragons.

The beasts wouldn’t dare strike there.

Even a dragon can’t breach the Great Ward.

There was no sound of marching feet or bellowed orders anymore. The fools who had thought dragons would never return to their valley, lay broken and still along the length of the old riverway. Ashwren had noted a few small movements, a faint voice or two on the air, but all of that had ceased by now. He clutched chilled fingers about the dark sword he had stolen, and reluctantly glanced down one last time.

Magriss stared back at him with glazed eyes, and a jaw open gently in amazement. It must have been surprising after dismissing all the old stories as fabrications, to see a dragon not only fly overhead, but to volley a fire-spell back at him like it was no more than a ball in a game. Ashwren’s morbid curiosity drew his eyes to the singed hole in the mage’s stomach, and he leaned over to spit bile into the snowy ground. Not even Magriss deserved that.

There was blood on Ashwren’s hands from dragging the dying man to shelter, but little on his sword. He had wounded a few of the barbarians, but lacked the courage to return and deal the final blows. His own sword had been ripped away from him by a large brute with many feathers on his headdress. The brute had been larger and better seasoned, but fear had made Ashwren fight like a cornered badger. One kill to his name, and even then half of it was owed to Magriss and the timely intervention of a skinning knife. So much for giving his life for a dragon-mage; dereliction of duty warranted a public execution. The young boy wiped his palms down his trousers and tried to pretend it was just that nervous sweat that had plagued him since leaving Wintercearig. He was more than nervous now though: bloody and adrift.

The ground shook and the unmistakable sound of ballistae smashed to kindling filled the space between the two sheer walls. Even siege artillery alone could not shoot down a dragon. It was merely a harrying device, like the ground troops were. Ballistae and harriers would command the enemy’s attention, the mages would draw in and deal their ferocious blows, while the wardens killed anything that threatened their charge. But now, with most of the other wardens and mages lying dead in the snow, the creaking wooden structures were blatant targets. They would not hold for long.

Would the dragons ever say, ‘there had not always been men in the valley’?

Ashwren shook his head violently to knock away the silly idea. Staying still was allowing the chill to take a grip on him, and was muddling his mind. He needed to make a decision. He could stay hidden and perish slowly of exposure, or leave the shadow of whatever monster this statue had once been, and run upriver to die in the midst of the dragon’s onslaught. A part of him sorely wanted to simply wait and scramble back to the holding in defeat with what few others survived. He was a poor warden, that much had been proven today, and he would surely not kill anything else. The young boy ran a hand over the large gem stud embedded in the centre of his chest. He could feel the ridges of it through his gambeson. A warden returning without his mage – they would sentence him to death without question, since he was supposed to have died in Magriss’s place and that needed to be set to rights. Or worse, they would bind him to a new mage and set him up on another suicide charge. Ashwren licked at his lips, cracked from the icy wind. There was no scenario in which he did not wind up dying in the frozen tundra, even an escape attempt would leave him wandering aimlessly until wolves claimed him.

Perhaps it was the gem compelling him, or perhaps it was simply the dire certainty of knowing his fate, but suddenly Ashwren straightened up. He held up the stolen sword and looked into its dark metal. Barbarians favoured shorter swords than the weighty things his army used, and he liked the easy balance of this one better. There was a plate of silver attached to the flat of the blade near the guard, and symbols etched into it. Ashwren smiled wryly despite being unable to read them. “I hope that’s good enough for an epitaph,” he said to himself. He looked down at Magriss as he took a first, shaky step. The mage continued to stare in open astonishment that his warden was leaving his side, but Ashwren could hardly save a corpse from a fatal blow. The wind stirred the fallen man’s hood and the material brushed at the gem melded to his forehead. Ashwren stared and felt something cause him to reach out a hand to that sparkling red stone. Nothing happened when his gloved finger tapped at it, but he knew better than to try removing it. Instead, the young man whipped the hooded cloak away in its entirety, apologising in a whisper as he did so. He fastened it, wrapped himself tightly until only his eyes were exposed, then hesitated. Surely prudence did not matter when he was walking into death.

“I’m sorry about this too, brother,” he said as he leaned down and pried the dead man’s fingers open. The crystalline wand snapped free of his frozen glove with some effort, and Ashwren held it up to the light. Maybe it would give him a fighting chance – he would be less scared of dying if he could at least accomplish something before he succumbed. Sniffing for the cold on the wind and for the less than proper abandonment of his mage, Ashwren whirled around and, in a flash of the red cloak, bounded away along the ancient river’s trail.

Snowflake-laden wind burned in his chest, but Ashwren kept moving in a simple rhythm. He leaned into the wind, stared ahead, and pumped his legs. The slope was cruel and he passed several other statues of strange draconic shapes, all of which were bludgeoned in some manner as if the men of the coast had thought they might spring to life left alone. That was not entirely out of the question, and Ashwren gave the ancient statues a wide berth regardless of whether they were whole or ruined. He ran close to the old riverbed, rationalising that it was better to invite a quick blow from above and die without noticing, than to risk the ancient stones of this place proving to be magically animated sentinels. The Kathkrin needed no more foul surprises today.

As he climbed the slope, as his white puffs of breath came faster and harder, Ashwren realised that his former assessment had been wrong. He had thought the valley to be silent, and all the remains of his army destroyed or fled. But no, ahead of him, he could hear voices raised in the dire chorus of battle: the screams of the dying, the bellowing of those leading a fresh charge. He looked up towards the crest of the cliffs on the eastern side of the valley. He counted one ballista broken on the ledges down the rock face, one crushed to a pile of jagged splinters, and one that was unmanned but splattered with dark blood. Ahead of this, two remained working, and the whole team of operators milled about it like ants. Flaming arrows arced into the air from their supporting archers, and Ashwren’s eyes were drawn upwards to the swooping shape blotting out the dusky sky.

Wind screamed as the dragon wheeled overhead and made a rush towards one of the remaining ballistae. It swept over the weapon, the bolt grazing at its ankle as its clawed limbs trailed just slightly. The monstrous beast let out a roar of pain, and the spray of ice that had been visiting ruination on the ballistae crew, now swerved off course and belched across the valley floor. As the huge creature lost height and fell towards him, Ashwren threw himself headlong to the ground. He could feel the impossible monster move through the air above him, and terror was the only response. Had it landed, it would have stood easily twice the height of a fully grown man, and just one dragon could outweigh both the horses and carriage used in the king’s retinue. Ashwren nearly choked as flurries of snow leaped down his throat, but he dared not move.

A crash from no more than ten feet away, made the young man leap to his feet like a snow hare, and he was in motion before he realised that the sound had been the same dragon impacting the opposite wall of the ancient canyon. He saw its serpentine body glittering in shades of white and lavender like an ice sheet in the moonlight. The creature slid to the ground and its huge head swung to regard the tiny, red-swathed man, its teeth glittering blood-red and each as long as his forearm. The beast roared, but Ashwren was already frozen even before it unleashed its devastating ice breath.

His hand quaked as he fought to draw the wand he had stolen. Its beautiful, purple-veined crystal seemed dull in comparison to the behemoth he was facing down. Ashwren shook it, pointing it at the dragon with all the force he could muster into his sluggish muscles. He screamed in frustration when the thing remained completely inert, mocking him. Angry, as much at his own foolishness as at the wand, Ashwren tossed it aside, and raised the stolen sword instead. He was no match for those teeth, but it was better than nothing. The sword winked darkly in the fading light, and the dragon paused almost imperceptibly. Its mighty jaws closed with no puff of frost escaping, and it recoiled its waggling head as if unsure of something.

In the next moment, a lot happened very quickly.

From his right side where Ashwren had thrown the wand, there came a sudden blast of fire. The spell was far from the usual devastating fare of Kathkrin mages, but it struck the dragon squarely in the face. The scaled head jolted upwards, one eye blackened and shut. Ashwren glanced sideways and spotted another man, sunk to one knee but clothed in the same ornamental cloak and hood that he had stolen. The man grinned at him and shouted something that the wind stole away.

Then came a sharp shove against Ashwren’s back and he went sprawling again. In the tangle of snow and limbs he felt the blade torn from his grip, and indignance had him rolling onto his stomach quickly. He spotted the culprit instantly: a woman, a barbarian. She was running from him to the dragon, the black sword now in her hands but not aimed at the roaring beast. She did not mean to kill it; a barbarian would not dare.

The sound of a crank releasing and a sharp whistle – a huge bolt spat out from the ballista and pierced the dragon’s shoulder. It burrowed deep and sent a spray of blood into the air, and the dragon waved its thick neck more urgently. There was a cheer from the crew up on the lip, and a second bolt would surely follow. By rights, Ashwren should have stayed with the fellow nearby – obviously another mage, and injured at that. He should have reclaimed his role as warden to let the learned man bring down the titan.

Two gigantic wings unfurled like war banners and Ashwren was in motion before he even knew why. He could hear the injured mage shout for him to stop, or perhaps to demand what he was doing, but the young man had no answers to give. He saw the woman had not stopped running, but had pushed herself harder when the ballista landed its shot. She was running to help the dragon, he somehow knew. Between that and her stealing the sword, the petty indignance he felt had morphed into a moment of bravery. Unarmed, Ashwren ran in the woman’s wake, and towards the screaming dragon.

The woman leaped from the creature’s claws, to shoulder, to up on its back as easily as if she had done this all her life. The shouting behind him redoubled, but Ashwren was focused and gave his body no time to second guess itself. He reached out a hand to grab at the beast’s foreleg, hoping he could scramble if not vault his way up to a better spot. But by some virtue of the woman’s presence, the dragon launched into motion before Ashwren made contact. Its forepaws rose from the ground, catching the former warden before he anticipated they would. Reflexively, he clamped both arms around the knuckles, and hoisted himself so that he was on top of the reptilian hand. Then the dragon leapt into the sky, its monstrous wings beating and the ground rapidly shrinking away.

It was a miracle Ashwren did not vomit.

He did scream, however, when that promised second bolt smashed into the dragon’s chest only a short distance above his head. The beast trumpeted and for a tiny moment, Ashwren could clearly sense the agony it felt. That mage must have done something as the dragon took flight. There were no tricks of flame, frost or fume that Ashwren could think of that would break the monster’s armour that way, but there was simply no feasible chance that unadulterated iron had struck a lethal blow.

There was no time spared to delve into the mystery as the mighty animal began to lose height rapidly. Its wings stopped beating and became limp sails in the wind. The dragon’s head lolled on its neck, but every sound it tried to make was muffled by weakness and blood. It did not seem to even know that Ashwren was clinging to its paw, as it did not turn to him, and he realised the crusted burns about its once-glittering eye. It was blind, and struggling to breathe. Ashwren gulped as he looked at the barb protruding from the creature’s chest – it was exactly where the heart would be on a human, where his gem stud had been placed. The youth could only imagine how painful that was. Yet still the beast struggled onwards; every minute it was losing height, unable to lift its wings. For as far as it glided forward, it fought to keep its head lifted and feet tucked in.

A trail of black dragon blood pattered the ground like a light spring rain, and marked the trail that it used to make its ill-fated escape. Ashwren felt his stomach tighten as he glanced down and found the ground sailing by less than one hundred feet away. The black glittered wetly against the snow, and sapped any beauty that remained in this unspoiled section of the valley. Here the walls that the river had carved grew higher, but the dragon had flown between them. It was either unable to escape the corridor of rock, or had chosen not to, perhaps both. It dropped steadily, its legs uncurling and claws ploughing the deep snow. Its body rocked as the wings clipped against the rock walls and jagged edges sliced into the feathery skin. Ashwren realised what was happening, but had to clamp his eyes shut to do what he knew was necessary. He let go.

Even snow could only cushion a fall so much, and Ashwin owed his survival to the low flight of his unwitting carrier. He thudded into a snow drift and the landing forced all air out of his lungs in a wet gasp. Not five seconds later he heard the roar of a beast giving up, and the earth shook about him as the dragon slammed into the riverbed with a sound like the heavens themselves were falling. The silence that followed was terrifying.

Ashwren forced himself to dig a way out of the snowdrift and to stand properly. His stupid impulse had landed him in a predicament, and he needed to take a reading of his new situation. The boy staggered out of the disturbed snow, and looked around in puzzlement to find that the dragon had landed a mere dozen yards from the wellspring that had fed the once proud Hjallron. Was that what all this fuss was about? A holy site stolen years before this woman was even born?

The woman! Ashwren span to the dragon just in time to see the mysterious barbarian woman lunge for him. He had not seen her climb down from the dragon, or even heard her approach through the carpet of snow, but he had no time to worry about this. She made several sharp jabs with the black sword that she had stolen, and she was evidently very skilled. It was all Ashwren could do to back-peddle from the slicing blade. He had no time to stop and worry about what the woman was shouting – she seemed very upset at him for some reason, despite how he had not been the one to slay her precious friend.

At the very moment he thought this, as if she somehow sensed the thought, the woman paused her assault and looked over to the dragon, which was huffing its last few precious breaths. Ashwren followed her gaze and saw the thing kick ineffectually at the ice with one foot, and one wing slowly fold over its body like a collapsing tent. The neck twisted as if the beast meant to bite free the barb that had lodged in the top of its shoulder, but before it could reach its target, it fell limp. The head rolled slightly to one side and blood-flecked froth marked its motion. Ashwren heard himself let out a small noise. Not even a dragon deserved that.

Even so, he could not let that emotion paralyse him. Neither could he afford to let empathy or disgust take root in him – a Kathkrin soldier must do whatever is necessary when battling impossible foes. He turned on his heel and took off running as fast as his tired legs could carry him. He could not run downriver as the woman with the stolen sword was blocking his path, so he went the other way, following the dragon’s intended flight path. He had no plan, certainly not one that ended in him escaping with his life. He wondered whether he could kill this woman and have that be his departing act. Certainly it would be difficult given her obvious skill with a sword, but what was the alternative? If she was so upset over this dragon dying, even if it had been a senseless and painful demise, then what hope was there for Ashwren to communicate a surrender to her?

Ashwren climbed up to the pool that marked where the wellspring had once been. It was still full of water, somehow, and had iced over. This meant that the edge of carved stones delicately placed, was cloaked in frozen draperies that sparkled. It was an odd yet beautiful coincidence to improve the work of the ancient builders who had anointed the spot. Less beautiful was the inside, where there was a drop nearly the full height of a man, and then the murky white barrier of the ice guarding the depths. There had not been a river flowing in the valley for years, not since the dragons had been driven away.

That knowledge made Ashwren pause in his precarious place as he stared down at the winking ice. It felt significant, but in a way that he could not grasp. Magriss would have known, but he was only a warden – he was not trusted with secret knowledge of the magical universe, only the sword to protect a better man. And even in that, he had failed.

Like a deity’s chiding, a blow connected roughly with the back of Ashwren’s head and his feet staggered on the lip of the icy pool. He clutched at his burning skull and tried to turn and see his assailant. Movement caused him to lose his footing and he tumbled backwards, but in a cruel irony that saved him from being run through by the black sword. There she was staring down at him in utter rage – the strange barbarian woman. Ashwren heaved himself to his feet on the ice sheet, and glanced to either side with a prayer for it to hold firm. The ice underfoot groaned like it was waking from slumber, and against all better knowledge, Ashwren sprinted for the edge to climb back out.

Predictably, his gloved fingers slipped on the snowy outcrops, his panic and the snow combining to render his flailing quite useless. As an added torment, the woman continued to swing the sword at him from her high vantage point. She did not quite reach his grasping fingers, but that did not lessen the impact of the act itself. Still she shouted at him, angry and desperate over something he could scarcely comprehend when her speech was so different to his own. He tried to shout back to her out of desperation to not fall here, but it did not avail him.

In a pause between their combined shouting, Ashwren heard a new sound that oddly, made his blood run as cold as any winter stream. It was the sound of many, many other voices, as the remains of the Kathkrin army drew nearer along that bloody trail to find their foe. He should have been happy: the army would take the dragon’s death as a sign of victory, someone would lift him out of this awful frozen pool, and everything would return to the way it was. He should have rejoiced as his fellows made one last charge upriver to find him.

The woman’s slashing let up for just a moment as she too, turned to look in the direction of the noise. Something in her face tightened, as she clearly held no love for the Kathkrin. Ashwren shouted again for her to help him out, but he was ignored. The woman did not even make an attempt to escape the inevitable the way he had done back in the statuary passage. She leaned over the lip of the pool as if preparing to jump down and join him, and one hand drew from a concealed pocket some object she had been hiding this whole time. In her hand was clutched the most beautiful wand that Ashwren had ever seen. While he could not get a detailed look at it, he saw that it was capped at either end with a perfectly clear crystal, its core was midnight blue, and it was studded with other smaller gems of aquamarine and similar beautiful shades of blue. Some force that Ashwren could not name came alive in his stomach and he snapped his hand out towards the strange wand. If she was going to take his sword, then he would take this in spite!

His motion was swift and unexpected, so it caught the barbarian woman off-guard. Ashwren latched his fingers about the wand and pulled with all his strength. His sudden greed was inexplicable, but much about that night had been. He did not question it, and did not stop to ponder the consequences of his actions.

As a result, he not only pulled the woman off balance, but himself. While she did not have the time to adjust her footing, and did not drop the sword to use her other hand for grip, Ashwren’s twisting motion had caused him to lose the one hand hold he hand managed to gain. In one instant, in one singular stupid decision, the two of them had been undone. Together they went falling towards the ice-covered pool.

Crunch went ice and bone as the pair struck the surface, and punched clean through. The world became a whirl of white, silver and black as Ashwren felt freezing water clamp around his head and stifle his senses. He felt the stark lines of the crystal wand dig into his flesh as he refused to let go, even in this moment. He felt the water around him eddy as the woman thrashed, and his chest began to burn. She must want the surface, but he did not know where that was anymore. All about him was only silver ice and black water. And the wand would be no help – he was no mage. But at least he was dying in line with his warder duty.

Unwittingly, Ashwren opened his mouth and gasped. Ice water clawed into him and dragged him down. He had thought he would feel regret, and he did, but for the woman sinking with him rather than for himself. Primarily he felt relief – he had never wanted to be a warden, and at least now no one could claim he had not done precisely what was expected of him.

Then, those feelings changed. What he felt was warmth rather than any emotion. His blindness turned from a crushing darkness to a blinding light, and the fire in his lungs redoubled. Ashwren choked loudly and felt his body thrash – air! He gasped again and heard his chest labour to draw as much as he could. There were pinpoints of fire all along his skin, and so much light that he could see nothing at all. There were so many things overwhelming his senses that it took longer than it should have for the boy to realise that in feeling so many things, it must mean that he was still alive.

Impossible as it was, this is precisely what a nearby voice confirmed as Ashwren continued to splutter and sob. “He’s alive! It’s a miracle! Fetch the thane – the Dragonslayer’s alive!”