Part 1, word count: 2150 words.

A dragon story.

Strong language, violence, imagery. Caution advised.

Ice ruled the north, not men nor gods. Ice and snow.

In the south, Crow had heard, your blood determined if you was fit to rule. What a joke. Not even a funny one. All men bled the same when pricked by steel. All men's blood froze the same when winter put its eye on 'em. 'ere in the north you had to have the bones to gain a following, 'cause those born with a silver spoon in their mouths and those with turds in their hands alike had to fight the cold; the bullying, piercing winds; and the ice dragons.

They were majestic beasts. Certain beauty to 'em. But if you found yourself face-to-face with one you were good as dead. Crow could hardly believe some bastards sought 'em out. Sought 'em out on purpose. For glory and such. Maybe to prove they did have the bones for ruling.

"Fucking idiots," he rasped, spit biting at his throat, pulled his foot free of the snow's clutch. Raised his voice. "Nothing here, 'Ror!"

"Looks like we ran ourselves out o' all damn luck with last week's loot, eh?" Kreror patted Crow good-naturedly once he'd climbed back up the rabbit hole he'd gone down to look for scraps. "Maybe tomorrow it'll come back to us and bring us some warmth."

Not everyone shared Kreror's optimism. In fact, no one bloody did. But Kreror was Tief to their lot, so his command was theirs to obey, his fool's optimism theirs to suffer.

Big man, 'Ror. Burnt-faced and fearsome. Big man. Girth and all, but mainly in reputation. Known name in the north, once. Mentioned in a couple drunk songs. Mighty Kreror and his loyal dog Crow. Brave Kreror and his tight-lipped second Crow.

Fuck the glory of deeds done in past. Fuck the songs. Glory got 'em fuck all, songs even less.

Look at 'em now. Stiff-boned and worse-jointed, scavenging around in the cold for beasts to kill and hides to sell. For fabric to steal and clothe themselves. For men to sell as slaves, for women to sell as whores, anything to keep 'em fed another couple months.

Tief Kreror and his black Crow and their plucky lot. Reduced to scrounges and vultures.

Was a time there'd been thirty of 'em. Now they was short of half a dozen by one, since they'd lost Vallri to the cold two days 'fore. The chills had crept up on 'er, sly as a thief. And once the chills have a hold of you, there ain't much to be done.

Soon 'nough Vallri turned blue, cracks 'ppearing in her skin.

"Go," she told them in a voice one'd imagine on a skeleton. "Try not to die."

Crow gave her a peck on the lips 'fore they abandoned her. Took her shawl with him, reckoned it'd do her no good no more.

There was some that said ice dragons have the power to turn the chills to ashes. Another reason stupid naive bastards set out hunting for 'em. Heroes and their damn heroics.

But then there was men that said there was God in ice, so Crow shat daily on other men's beliefs.

He hadn't always been this way, though. He'd been a tight believer in dragon healing powers and all sorts of gods hiding in all kinds of shitholes. He'd been ambitious, Crow had, uh huh. Ambitious as you please, with a dumb twinkle in his eye.

He'd long passed that self behind. Cunning cunts like Bdoth may sometimes get paid in betrayals but least they got paid. Heroes didn't.

Crow tried to remember what that felt like, that feel of being a hero, or wanting to be one, oftentimes. Just to test if it felt any good.

"Who're we kidding?" Oirad barked at the dead deer on spit when he couldn't strike up a fire. He was an ill-tempered young lad, new to their lot. Only hotheads can survive the cold. "Nothin' good out here on the ice. Just eat it as it is."

So they did. The deer tasted salty and prickly, but it was something to shove down their throats that was warmer than their testicles.

"Fuckin' hell," Oirad grumbled afterwards. "When I joined the lot of the great Tief Kreror I was expectin' bit more 'an barely gettin' by each day."

"Sorry to disappoint you, kid." Kreror showed his teeth to the boy, the white moon's light bouncing off the burn scars 'cross his hard face. "I'm off to sleep."

Oirad's gaze was filled with venom as Kreror proceeded to do 'zactly what he'd said he was gonna. Already he was starting to snore. Say one thing about 'Ror, say he always does what he says he's gonna.

Jat and Slat went to sleep too, huddled together to keep warm. Well, warmer than if the chills got either of 'em.

Crow sighed. Got up, joints squeaking. Hobbled half a pace, sat down next to the new lad on a frozen limb of blackwood teeming with woodlice.

Oirad scarce seemed to notice him. Busy shooting daggers at 'Ror from his eyes while he rubbed his tattered coat arms.

"What did you expect when you joined our lot?" Crow found speaking hurt the tough way, but he remembered being new to the lot himself. Remembered getting used to hard new faces, how difficult it was and all that. Thought the lad would appreciate some words.

"Eh?" Oirad turned to Crow.

"What'd you expect when we took you in?" Crow repeated his question.

"I don't know. More. Just . . . fucking more."

Crow raised a brow. "Fucking more? My arse is ready if your cock is."

That got a chuckle out of him, least. "I'd heard things, y'know," said Oirad. "About Kreror and his mighty fearsome lot. Heard you took risks. Did things no one else'd be willin' to try. Kill things everyone else'd be pissin' their trowsers at seein."

Crow nodded. "It was like that. Once. Times change. Bones rust. And the winters grow crueler than your temper."

"Did you really kill an ice dragon?" Oirad asked him abruptly.

Crow had to laugh, and aloud. "Where in the world d'you hear that?"

"Everywhere. From everybody. Bards. Warriors. Whores. They all tell it like Kreror and his dog brought down an ice dragon, an' a fierce one it was too. So, I take it ain't true?"

"It ain't," conceded Crow. The lad's shoulders sagged. "But we did come 'cross one."

Oirad's eyes swelled. "Many folk 'ave seen one. Goin' over their heads like a flyin' hill."

"We didn't just see it, lad. We fought it."

"Fuckin' hell! Will you tell me?"

"Aye, if you suck my cock."

Oirad blinked.

"You don't seem much eager," Crow remarked, adding: "I'm pulling your balls, lad, I'll tell you."

"Will I have to suck your cock for it?" Oirad asked, as though considering it.

"Not 'less you want to." Crow winked. "What age're you?"

"Dunno."

"You look seventeen."

Oirad shrugged.

"I was 'bout that age when we came 'cross the bloody beast in a cave as misty as my eyes and as wide as your mum's hole. Now don't interrupt, my memory's bad as my bones as it is.

"Big as a hill, 'twas the dragon, and looked heavier still. Had thick spears of ice buried in its neck, nailed to the cavefloor by 'em. I say neck - was more like a bloody road, all blue mottled scales . . ."

*

We figured it was sleeping in there when summat shook the cave and the ice jabbed down at it.

So it was pinned, y'know, like a common lizard clipped by a knife.

First we saw it we thought it dead, Bdoth and 'Ror and Vallri and I. We were young back 'en, and gods were we a right set of bastards. Hard as nails. As nails, I tell you! We were running from Tief Shekhu's lot, they were bent on openin' us up balls to brains 'cause our name was all o'er the place those days. Only cave we found we found a fucking dragon slumbering in.

I, with my beard thick as my brain, went up to what I thought was its face, all gnarled and blue as who's got the chills, gave its snout a touch. Its breath could move mountains, man, I'm not mincing words 'ere. Don't know how. Gods. Thrum, thrum, thrum, it went. We could hear only its breathing and our heart tryna rip out of our chests. It was terrifying, though I wouldn't've admitted it back 'en if you put my head to a blade. Terrifying.

But thrilling. I mean, we'd found a hurt, sleeping dragon.

It looked old too, though it was pretty much impossible to tell. I remember clear as day hoarfrost covering its wings - gods, those fucking wings! Crooked and grey with finger-like digits running between 'em like a bat's. Each wing, even folded, longer than any cock ever got.

'twas a big-ass bastard, d'you get it?

So 'course young heroes such as ourselves couldn't just walk away. It'd wound our pride.

'sides, there was naught to go. Shekhu's men were out there hunting for us, so what do we do?

'Ror wanted to ride it, he was-

["Ror? Our Tief Kreror?"

"Who else d'you think, lad?"

"Thought he never did nothin' but snore," muttered Oirad. "Rhymes. Kreror. Snore."

"What did I say 'bout interrupting me?"

"S'rry."]

He was a tougher bastard than any father squirts into any mother today, our 'Ror was. Tall as an oak and tough as an oak and 'tever the bloody else they say 'bout oaks he was.

Wanted to ride the beast he did, and truth be told I did too. I mean, you see a sleeping dragon and tell me your first thought ain't mounting that motherfucker! Every northerner's first damn thought, 's a matter of fact.

Ice rules the north, is known. But the ice dragons command it.

But Bdoth was always the thinker 'mong us, said we should run like the fucking wind while we had the chance. Said it as calm as he woulda told us to trim our nails, too. Little wonder the arsehole went on to be leader of the greatest lot the north's ever seen.

["I thought yours was the greatest lot the north's ever seen," put in Oirad. "Das why I joined it."

"Do we look like the greatest lot the north's ever seen, eh, lad? Snore 'Ror and I? And Jat and Slat and a green boy like yourself? 'sides, we like modesty 'ere."

"I ain't green, Crow," said Oirad. "I killed more men 'n Slat prob'ly ever touched."

"What did I just fucking say 'bout modesty? You wanna hear the damn story or not?"

"S'rry, right y'are. Go on."]

We listened to Bdoth 'cause dim as we were piss was starting to warm our britches.

So we ran like the wind 'long the cave. And believe me when I say the bloody dragon's tail ran 'long the 'ole length of it. Skulls and skeletons everywhere, all shapes and sizes, every color as you please. Strange potted plants and patchy fires where'er we looked, spite of the mist making it hard to see where what was.

And silent as fuck all. 'cept the dragon's breath going thrum thrum thrum and the bones crunch-a-cracking u'der our feet.

We ran till we saw light lancing down at the end of the tunnel and we hooted, man. We hooted so loud. We were so fucking relieved. Surely we'd lost Shekhu's men. Got out the other side of the cave, if you can call it that.

["I thought you said you fought the dragon."

"I swear to the fucking Holder and the fucking God that lives in the ice - interrupt me one more time and I'll use your tongue as a kerchief every time I've to throw snort out my nose, boy!"

Oirad mumbled an apology.]

Yeah, well, we ran out the hole, Bdoth and Vallri and I, but looking over our shoulders we saw 'Ror'd held back.

"Don't do it!" I yelled back at him. "I'm going to introduce your fucking head to my fucking axe if you do it!"

Y'see, 'Ror had his knife out and all. Pricking the dragon's tailend with the blade tryna pluck free a scale off it. He showed me his teeth, standing there at the giant cavemouth with a knife small as your cock.

["Hey!" Oirad slapped Crow on the shoulder. The old man winced, carried on.]

"It's as fond of sleep as the fucking summers," 'Ror said to me, working away at the scales. "Think of what it's worth," he said, when a shape 'peared o'er his shoulder from the petrified mist.

The dragon's snarling, ice-mustached face. Big as Old Hell.

Gives me the creeps to this day.

[To be continued . . .]

{ TheBlackWizard_ our very own dragon. I hope she enjoys this. }