Part 2, word count: 3,317 words.

Direct continuation of Part 1. Enjoy.

I'd no idea when it woke up or how it freed itself of the ice or how it found the space to turn its head crammed in that cave without us hearing it.

My best guess? Magic. Or maybe it had more than one head, the bloody beast, who's to say.

"RUN!" Bdoth shouted, and ran, and Vallri chased after him.

I stood rooted where I was, watching smoke billow from the dragon's nostrils, hearing it roar the song of my fucking nightmares.

I saw things in that smoke. Long dark faces with embers for eyes; and evil glistening serpents with forks for tails; and crows feasting a'ay at shadows carved like cadavers. I saw things you won't believe I did, lad. I saw things that'd make Baskbane soil his britches.

'Ror was running - you never saw running be done that way. The dragon's head reared up, smashed against the cave's roof, sent blocks of ice tumbling down at him.

'Ror dodged 'em all but then the dragon breathed and I stood there and I watched and I didn't do nothing 'cause my bones was all water. Aye, it breathed, showing us its rows and rows of jagged teeth, and braided blue fire jumped outta its mouth, sizzling half of our 'Ror up as he sang his own song of pain.

[Crow confronted the lad's eyes. "That's how our Tief Snore Kreror got those burns you see on him."

Oirad was speechless, for once.]

He woulda died. He shoulda died.

But then sudde'ly there was shouts everyplace, vibrating in our breasts. Even Vallri and Bdoth turned 'round.

Tief Shekhu and his men was there, least twenty of 'em. They'd tracked us down after all. Just caught up at the wrong time. Some of 'em had bows and arrows - coward's weapon, I've always said - but they were all of 'em distracted by the fucking dragon.

The dragon was distracted too, by 'em. It swivelled its crystalline head 'round the way a barrel rolls, sized the newcomers up. Decided they looked more sumptuous than us. Blew 'em up in a large blue beam.

Lit the 'ole world up, those flames did. Dancing around on the ice like they was lovers. Boiled Old Heaven itself, I daresay. Blinded me and deafened me. One of Shekhu's burning men shot off an arrow as his flesh blackened which hit me in the chest, put me down to my knees. He missed my heart, thank fuck.

I screamed, but I knew my pain was fuck-all compared what Shekhu and his men was getting. They was still alive, on fire they may be, getting roasted. And the dragon was making the cave and the ice beyond crack and creak and splinter as it spread its wings, swooping down, bearing down on 'em.

Worst way to go, and I'd seen many even 'en.

I swear to the Holder, I thought 'Ror was dead meat. But summat made me finally move my muscles and rip the shaft out my chest 'long with a jet of blood. I got to 'Ror and patted my cloak 'round him, put out 'is fire. Dropped my beloved axe to lose weight. Put him o'er my shoulder like a sack of shit. The dragon just watched us while Shekhu and his burning men shrieked; probably no one'd ever run towards it 'stead of away. I dashed. Fast as my legs'd allow. Kept my head pinned ahead, following Bdoth and Vallri sprinting 'head of us. I push myself on, ignoring the agony in my breast, heaved 'Ror up too - he who was still smoking; I don't know how that blue fire worked.

I ran. Vallri ran. Bdoth, him who people call the North's Savior now-afucking-days, ran. We ran 'fore the ice dragon, 'cause we knew - and it knew, oh you could see it in the bastard's hollow eye how cocky it was - who the master of whom is.

Fool ourselves all we may, ice'll always rule the north. Ice and snow and their roaring, flaming reptile of a messenger.

*

"Suppose that's all there's to tell 'bout it, lad," said Crow, clapping Oirad on the arm and making him jump a foot off the frosted blackwood log they was seated on. "Afterwards, we found one of those medic-mageicians who put some salve on 'Ror's skin while muttering a spell, else he woulda died. Vallri didn't speak for days. 'las, now she won't speak never. Hope she's resting well. Bdoth left our lot shortly after, started his own. And that's that for us bringing down the ice dragon."

Oirad stayed silent for several moments. "Stories exaggerate, eh?" he muttered at last.

"Aye," Crow grimaced, standing up on ancient hinges. "Now if you don't mind, I'm off to take a doze - "

"I'll kill it," said Oirad, making Crow stop in his tracks. "I'll kill 'em all. Something that . . . powerful, that savage, shouldn' be allowed to live."

"Now, look, lad, I didn't tell you that story so you'd try your hand at becoming a hero."

"I know I ain't no hero. But I'm good at killin'. I won't run like Bdoth and 'Ror and you his dog did. I'll be the north's true savior."

"You're taking the 'tirely wrong lesson from this 'fair, boy!" Crow shouted. Jat rolled over in sleep. "D'you hear yourself? The lesson is there's no defeating it! The lesson is if we see an ice dragon close by we hope it don't make us its meal!"

"Go to sleep, Crow," said Oirad, 'sif he hadn't heard a word the old man'd spoken. "You must be tired. Long day, tomorrow."

It was indeed a long day, was the day that followed. They trundled through a blizzard and 'cross a frozen ford, where on the other side they was greeted by Tief Sore Throat and his lot. A hard lot, with fifteen hard bodies 'pon Crow's count, dressed in enviably thick wools. One of them was a southman with skin black as sin, and he was buff as a bull, too.

"What're you bastards doing here?" Kreror pulled Sore Throat into an awkward 'brace the way old friends do, chalky flakes transferring from one beard to 'nother.

"Same as you," Sore Throat replied. "Surviving." His eye settled over Kreror's shoulder on Crow. "Got your dog with you, I see."

"Woof woof," growled Crow. "Didn't your friend Bdoth make you his right hand man? Ain't you who said the north's so white only 'cause you jerked him off right?"

Sore Throat's face soured. "He broke his word."

Crow shrugged. "That's what he does. Each man gotta stick to what he does best."

They decided to share fire and camp for the night, on account of the blizzard having thrown 'em all off kilter. On account of it feeling warm seeing familiar faces again. Ate meat, drank mead, 'xchanged stories, sang songs, that sort of thing.

Crow couldn't sleep a wink at night, much as he tried. Kept thinking 'bout what Oirad'd said the night afore. Bloody naive young bastard. Wanted to seek out an ice dragon. On purpose. On top of that, Jat and Slat had hit it up with some girl of Sore Throat's lot, and they was not tryna be shy 'bout it. Bloody young kids, bloated up with lust and dreams.

Crow and Oirad had to move their makeshift bunks slightly far off on a slope so they could have a couple hours of peace.

From there Crow could see the night sky was a brittle, shapeless thing, hues coming off the violet moon scattered in patches 'cross it. Watching it, the wind whistling in his ears, Crow went to where'er it is men go to when they fall asleep, folded unto himself. In that place he saw the night sky too, looking right like a dreamy cloak of no color with threads of purple dancing 'cross its borders, now threads of red, now threads of blue . . . blue . . . blue flames . . . introduce your fucking head to my fucking axe! . . . and the roaring song of his nightmares jolted him awake.

Still it was night, still the icy wind was howling all 'round the camp, carrying a hopelessly bitter smell on its wings. Jat, Slat and their tramp friend had fallen quiet, thank fuck. But there were other voices filling the night air, whispery-ass voices, drifting into Crow's ear from not afar . . .

He shoved a finger into his earhole, wiggled it about, tried to listen well. That was half your job as a hunter: listening.

". . . should slit their throats where they lay!"

Well, that sure got his attention.

"Don't be a damn fool!" Sore Throat, sounding how a rope would if it could speak in a tug of war. "He's my friend, or as close to one as I've got!"

"Friend?" The southman - his accent gave him 'way - snorted, spat. "Next you're going to tell me you poked an ice dragon with your staff! What's your life, eh, Sore? What's our life? Roaming about in the cold trying to outlast the winter? How much is Bdoth offering for their heads?"

"Nough to keep us fed and warm the rest of our lives." A mumble Crow missed, almost. "But 'Ror's my friend, man."

"I'm not his friend," said the fucking southman. "I'll do it."

"My conscience ain't gonna allow it," said Sore Throat.

"Much good a clean conscience'll do you when your clothes are wet and you've nothing to eat but your own lot's flesh out here!"

Silence.

"They're traitors. They must've done something to piss Bdoth off for him to set a bounty on them."

"They didn't do nothing," said Sore Throat, and Crow felt an un'xpected but tremendous burst of love for the man. "I know 'Ror and his dog. They're honorable men. Bdoth just wants 'em dead 'cause they know how his mind works. Can't 'ave that, can he, the fucktard, not when he's so close to havin' everyone believe he's some kinda herald?"

"Whatever reason the North's Savior has got," implored the Southman, "is none of our concern. Honor and friendship, what's wrong with you, Tief? Let's get him their heads and reap our reward! Someone's bound to get them, word's out in the air!"

"But - "

"Oh, for fuck's sake!" Crow heard a blade being drawn. He heard it swipe, slash, tear. He heard then a gurgling, bubbling noise. 'twas a noise he was familiar with more so than any face. He sprang to his feet 'mmediately and shook Oirad, who was nearest to him, awake. The lad awoke mad-panicked, you could see it in his eyes, but Crow kept him shushed by a finger to the lip.

Follow me, he gestured to the boy.

They crept up and off the slope they was bunked on. Peeking past a column of snow they saw the bull-built blackskinned Southman wiping blood off his longsword - a sharp motherfucker such as could've only been forged down south. At the Southman's feet was spilled Sore Throat and a gallon of his dark, dark blood, being absorbed hungrily by the snow.

"He killed 'is own Tief!" hissed Oirad.

"I saw," grunted Crow.

"What do we do now?"

"Be damned if I know. Guess I'll try take him from the right, you from the left."

Oirad nodded firmly. "Aye. We can take him."

Crow had his doubts, which were 'course lost on the lad who wanted to willingly duel an ice dragon. "He's a big man."

Oirad shrugged and started, when outta nowhere the Southman's head was smashed apart in a messy spray of blood and brain.

Behind him stood their own Tief Kreror, mace in hand, gore-splattered scarlines twitching 'cross his face.

"Fucking southmen," he spat.

Crow and Oirad emerged from behind the ice wall at this. 'Ror started at 'em, but they raised their hands and Crow shouted "It's us!" and the fearsome mace lowered.

"Good to know you're alive," Kreror said, rather rigidly.

"Let's get Jat and Slat and leave right this moment!" Crow suggested.

"Aye," said Oirad, eye on the evil broken bull of a man lying at his feet.

'gain, 'Ror looked taut. Like a wire drawn too broad. "Er," he stammered out. "Jat and Slat're dead. The tramp they slept with choked 'em with their own cocks. Was the Southman's woman, as it turns out."

Few sad seconds created an awkward space in which the wind slid its mournful moaning.

"I killed the bitch," added Kreror consolingly, breath foggy in the cruel cold. "Killed 'em all."

Sometimes Crow forgot this man'd used to be a legendary killer, and him his second man.

"They was good men," said he lamentably. "Deserved better deaths."

"Aye," said Kreror.

"Aye," said Oirad.

"Let's move our asses now 'fore we die the same deaths," said Kreror.

"Aye," said Crow.

"Aye," said Oirad.

They salvaged a liquor-canteen off the dead southman. Then they set off. Moved their asses very fast indeed. Crow's ass, after awhile, started screeching like a damn crow with every step he took just to justify his gods-forsaken name. Still they kept moving, and moving, and moving. Finished the 'ole canteen between the three of 'em in two hours as a tribute to Jat and Slat and Vallri even.

Grief is thirsty business.

Crow 'xplained to the Tief the 'ole Bdoth having put a price on their heads business. "The sheer bones of him!" Kreror snarled when he heard what Crow'd overhead. "I'll have his tongue attached to someone who knows how to say 'thank you' 'stead of 'fuck you' if I ever see him again!"

They were exhausted by the time Cupar* sank beneath the vista and the sun peered over it, which made 'em feel hot. But they was also cold because . . . well, this was the great north. That led to 'em feeling sick and drowsy and other things which have no tag to 'em.

Maybe, 'haps, in some story or 'nother they'd be called heroes. Righteous men with tragic lives tailed by the 'ole damn north on a villainous betrayer's command.

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

Crow'd learnt that lesson. He just wanted to not end up like Sore Throat, and Jat, and Slat, and Vallri. He was 'fraid, he realized. 'fraid of death. 'fraid of the God that might be awaiting him u'der the ice. So in that sense he was a hero, dislike it as he may. After all, what are heroes? Those willing to fight when unarmed. Those willing to -

"Riders!" barked Oirad, snapping the philosophical old man into the 'ere and now.

And riders there were, delicately making their way 'cross the estuary towards 'em, ice munching like hardbread u'der the hooves of their hairy steeds. Steel glinting amongst 'em.

One of the riders raised a mace at 'em, and they charged.

"RUN!" Kreror shouted, and ran, and Oirad chased after him.

Crow stood rooted to the spot, knuckle whitening 'round the handle of his axe. He had an impulse to fight the bastards, show 'em to the mud and snow. Be a hero like he had when he'd saved 'Ror's life all those years back.

But he made himself wheel 'round and run, for he was done acting the fool.

He'd try acting the coward awhile.

Steel-shod hooves hammered, beat 'gainst the ice. Thundered after 'em.

The world was a cold white blur as Crow's feet shoved him forward 'long with his companions, tryna evade his chasers. They ran in zigzags, not minding where they went; 'tis hard for horses to change direction on snow without slipping. That's why that cunt Bdoth had always preferred an oxen. Slow and steady wins the race, he'd always said.

But the fast and furious feel the wind whip 'em in the face, had said a young Crow. No victory'll beat that feeling.

Thinking of that bastard - young Crow, not Bdoth - made old Crow run even faster, squeaking joints or no, and soon 'nough he was in the lead for 'Ror and Oirad. They chugged on, huffing and heaving, blowing past continents of mist till last they came 'pon a shelter structure.

"In there!" yelled Crow, and they headed into the narrow hole. It was surprisingly warm in there for all the mist. Dark, too, and silent as fuck all.

They forged deeper in, cursing the name of Bdoth and his kin, the sound of their chasers a distant thing.

"I need to catch my breath," moaned 'Ror, slumping down on a misshapen boulder.

"Aye, me too," Crow agreed.

Oirad collapsed on a stone next to 'Ror's boulder, limp as a wet rag.

Crow put down his axe. Pulled his prick out his britches to relieve his bladder. But spite of it feeling like it'd 'xplode on account of all the liquor they'd drank off the Southman's canteen, the damn piss wouldn't come out. Oh, to be young again, when he'd used to piss buckets without paying it a second thought. He slapped his cock with his cold numb hands, once, twice, thrice. Nuzzled his balls.

"Come on out," he pleaded, and out came the jet. Felt like a blessing.

The only sounds in the darkness then and there were that of 'Ror snoring, Oirad mumbling, and his urine hitting what looked like a pisspot. Oh, there was also the faintest sound of hooves, but those bastards wouldn't dare enter the cave. Would have to leave their horses out alone, wouldn't they, and no one'd be foolish enough to risk that. If they did come in they'd have to come in one at a time, and one at a time they could be taken down.

His bladder emptied, Crow clasped his britches tight, picked up his axe. There was a woodlice, the biggest woodlice you ever saw, crawling on the handle of it. Crow flicked it off, then bent down to squint at it, but the woodlice was gone God knew where. He was only just getting up on grumbling knees when he saw that his pisspot weren't a pisspot at all.

It was a human skull. Or least it was human-like, all pale and cracked.

Crow narrowed his eyes further. Let 'em get used to the dimness. Saw bones and skeletons lounging 'long the cave they was in, and strangled potted plants, and patchy fires half-dead, and all of a sudden he started laughing like a madman - a rasping, high-pitched laugh which echoed off the walls of the bloody cave, then re-echoed off his bloody paranoia. He couldn't help it, couldn't put a stopper on the laughter or prevent it from shaking his body like a fucking leaf, not even when Oirad called out his name.

He laughed on for a good long while, eyes wetting, gut hurting, till a roar sounded in the cave and quieted him. The roar was low and guttural and threatening, the lyric to the song of his nightmares.

The boulder 'Ror was asleep on shifted, throwing him down.

Oirad lifted his mace, gulped. Didn't look half quite as bold as he had two nights ago saying he'd slay the ruling reptiles.

A small light, a blue ball of flame, stirred to life at the rising boulder's heart, shedding light on its features . . . its twisted, ice-mustached snout, its hollow, crystalline eyes, tendrils of ghostly smoke and petrified mist undulating 'round the monstrosity.

'Ror gave a half-squeak, his mouth wide as your mum's hole, finally awake, the fire's glow shining teasingly 'gainst his burn scars.

The ice dragon smiled like it recognized 'em. Like it wanted Bdoth's reward too. Each tooth that smile revealed was the size of a damn sword.

Crow smiled back - a quivering smile, a resigned smile - let his axe clatter down on top of the pisspot-skull. "Well, fuck," he breathed. "Ain't you a naughty lizard?"

*Cupar is the violet moon.

*Holder is the God Evermore.

This story is set in the world of Heim - a fantasy setting my other, more ambitious story Shadows of the Scriptures is hosted in. Do check that book out if you liked this story.

I really do want to know what people think of this one, since it's probably been the most experimental among the short stories posted up till now.

It was influenced by George RR Martin and Joe Abercrombie's works.

So . . . thoughts, please?

Anyway, thanks for reading! Roar away!