“Northmost hold of the Brood. See if’n old mask face will sell us some provisions, d’ya know what I mean like?” Bronson’s voice was chipper in the afternoon sun. On the horizon, a high tower overlooked rows of sharpened timbers that looked like a giant’s jaw laughing at the hillside.

  The hard-packed road was crystal gray with frost that cracked and creaked beneath their boots. Low wood fences stood petrified white as they guarded ghostly empty pasturelands. Denuded trees spread their skeletal fingers against the sky.

  “Wasn’t there more cattle and all?”

  “Sure they ate it all, they did, like. Kinda quiet, maybe off on a raid.”

  Titus sniffed at the air filled only with the scent of cold. “Eh, Bron.”

  Bronson strolled forward toward the open gates and glanced back, “Yeah, mate?”

  “Somethin’s off.”

  Bronson turned fully, narrowing his eyes, “You tryin’ ta get me to turn back again, like?”

  Titus walked forward biting his cheek before he spoke, “No ya brute. The smell.”

  Bronson sniffed, and said, “I don’t smell nothin.”

  “Exactly! You ever been near a town what didn’t smell at least a half-league away even in the cold?” Titus leaned in and raised his eyebrows.

  Bron stroked his beard and pushed out his chin.

  “Just let me scout it out.” Titus said.

  “Alright alright, but I’m the muscle, see.” Bronson pointed his thumb at himself proudly, “You call right fer me if’n there’s any trouble, like.”

  Titus patted the taller man on the shoulder as he pulled up his scarf into a low mask, “Course, of course.”

  Titus sank low and made his way at an angle away from the open gate. He covered the space between a large tree and the town wall in a dead sprint. He paused, then leaped onto the timbers that made the fence around town, wedging a hand in a gap between them. He planted a foot and scrambled up, twisting his way through the spikes at the top and landing inside the town on the other side with a soft roll.

  A nearby hovel groaned heavy under a weight of snow. Titus scanned the ground. “No footprints,” he whispered to himself and tucked himself against the house, peeking around the corner at a level nearly kneeling. He surveyed around and into a broader marketplace. His expression darkened as he stepped softly out from behind the house and stalked heel to toe in that direction.

  His were the only footprints and his the only sounds. He approached a statue of a woman carved from ice, her hair blown to the side and left arm shielding her from a strong north wind. Her face was jaw open in a look of surprise. Titus looked closer, tilting his head side to side. The detail was incredible. He turned away, eyes drawn to a smaller sculpture of two children, a boy and a girl, in an embrace. The little boy used his body as a break against some strong force shielding the much smaller girl. Her thin hair of sparkling ice glittered in the sunlight. Titus’ crouch became a hunch, and soon he simply walked through the town, examining faces and movements – the precision of the sculptor immaculate beyond compare.

  Titus stopped and spun, looking around, a dark knowing growing in his mind.

  “Oi, everythin alright, ya feen?” Bron’s voice broke the sickly silence.

  Titus turned and looked at him, approaching slow, “Oughta get outta here.”

  “At least should check for somethin.’ What's with the statues, like?” Bron stepped forward and set a big hand on the shoulder of a nearby form. He leaned and his hand pressed through, the sculpture cracking and bursting into shards as Bron slipped and fell out into the courtyard.

  “A real lady killer… eh Bron?” Titus laughed to keep from getting sick.

  Bron scrambled to his feet and dusted all the fragments off of him and said, “What d’ya mean like? Havin’ a laugh are we? Artsy folk’ll be pissed I broke one.”

  “Bron, it’s not art.” Titus gave Bronson a serious look and nodded to another nearby form.

  Bron approached and pushed his face close to one squinting with his dark eyes, “Whatcha mean?”

  Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

  “That’s Larissa Longmont.” Titus’ voice was cold as he pointed to another statue farther on, “looks like Elvira.”

  “Broodmother Elvira?” Bron’s eyes shot back to the statue and he walked over to it, shivering.

  “Don’t think she’s half a mind to correct on titles now.”

  “Never seen her freeze up before, ya know like?” Bronson grinned back at Titus who gave him a serious look.

  “Ah c’mon, ya feen, you just made the lady killer joke with your one back there.” Bron moved back to Titus, “D’ya know what this means like?”

  “Yeah, Elvira’s given us another cold reception.” Titus smiled.

  Bron laughed, “Always was a frigid…” He paused mid-sentence and grabbed Titus by the shoulders and lifted the gangly man off his feet, pulling him in nose to nose. “A dragon done this!”

  “An ice-cold killer for sure, lad.” Titus pulled his head back from Bron’s face. “Coulda been a wizard though. And aren’t dragons fiery?” Titus grasped Bron’s wrists and used his pointer fingers on both sides to find a pressure point and pinched hard.

  Bron released his grip with a jolt and yelped like a kicked dog, “Ya feen, what’s that for?”

  Titus pretended not to hear and turned away, “S’pose we should check the keep. Not sure what we’ll find, but could use somethin’ for the road.”

  Bronson shook out his arms and flicked his hands before flexing them back and forth. “It’s a dragon done this. Ain’t you heard the stories. All different kinds of the things, not just fire. Heard the north’s full of frost dragons.”

  Titus laughed and started walking toward the keep trying to distract himself from the macabre statues around him, “Aye and where’d you become an expert on draconological studies?”

  Bronson smiled as he followed Titus and shouted after him, “Where else, me mum.”

  Titus waved a hand in a dismissive way and said, “Sure she’d be proud, Bron.”

  Bronson stopped and smiled bigger, “Ya mean it, Titus?”

  The tall gangly man turned back, narrowing his glacial eyes before softening and replying, “Course, of course, Bron. Right proud.”

  #

  Eras rode along the north road flanked with leafless winter trees. His patina’d armour was covered with thick furs, patchworked from fox, wolf, and sheep pelts he’d gathered on the route. He opted for warmth and weaponry to a saddle with a proper bit and bridle, and he led the chestnut mare with only his knees and slight tugs on its mane toward the town on a distant hill. A new sword hung in his old sheathe, hilt bright in the waning sun, A shining kite shield counterpointed his heavily rusted armor and bounced against the horse’s flank.

  “Might get some meat tonight, and a warm bed,” Eras paused as he stroked the horse’s mane, “what was your name again?”

  The horse whinnied as it contentedly looked from side to side.

  #

  “That’s a right clean cut.” Bronson nodded slowly as he examined the keep owner’s former throne.

  “Nothing here but snowdust and, well that bashed up ice that is most likely…” Titus shuddered.

  “It’s a dragon.”

  Titus laughed, “A dragon with a sword or axe? Cut’s too clean.”

  Bronson rubbed his eyes and then his face before replying, “Your man got what was comin’.”

  “I’d reckon on a wizard, half a wager. Konner’d been raidin’ a long while, survivors mighta pulled together a collection.” Titus wandered through the space as he talked. He picked up a tankard of ale and tipped it over, the icicle of it just slipping from the edge and dropping on a table with a loud thunk, then he stood tall, “Where are all the men?”

  Bronson stood staring at the warhelm crowned with its single iron horn. He said, absently, “Maybe men taste better.”

  Titus tapped a frozen turkey leg against the corner of a wall, face twisted in disappointment, paused, and said, “What’s a wizard eatin’ men for?”

  Bronson turned halfway back, growling over his shoulder, “it’s a dragon.”

  Titus found a sack and started packing it with whatever frozen delicacies he could find. “We’ll need a fire.” He rummaged through the overturned space but couldn’t find any wood that wasn’t petrified.

  Bronson picked up the warhelm with both hands. He could feel its cold through his gloves. He turned it side to side, and shrugged before swinging down his pack and dropping it in.

  “What ya got there?” Titus’ voice was close behind Bronson. The larger man jumped, not so subtly hiding his pack behind him.

  “Nothin’ just a suavenyar”

  “A souvenir?”

  “Ya, that’s what I said, like.”

  Titus shrugged, “Have it your way, think I got us enough to last a bit.” He pointed to a large sack filled with the wonky shapes of varied delights and then turned to exit the hall.

  “Oi, you goin’ off and make me carry it?” Bronson shouted.

  Titus turned back, “But, Bron, you said if’n there’s any trouble, you’re the muscle. Well, that bag’s heavy, and it’d trouble me. Could use some muscle.” He grinned.

  Bronson picked up a nearby tankard and threw it in Titus’ direction half-heartedly, “Rotter, what’d you do without me?” He huffed as he shouldered his pack, then picked up the sack of provisions and tossed it on top, balancing it across his broad shoulders.

  Titus spoke, “I’d be back in Bevin Town buzzing and maybe bout to lay down with someone nice and warm, but here I am with you. Come on, sun’s just down, and I don’t like a laydown with frigid ghosts for my sleep quality.”

  Bronson grunted under the weight of his gear and nodded up for Titus to lead the way.

  #

  “Hello,” Eras voice carried through the night air and echoed back to him as he passed through the open gate.

  The horse stamped forward and back and shook its head. Eras gave a gentle pat on the back of its neck and leaned in to speak to her.

  “I know, I know. I don’t care for this place either. Let’s pass straight on through.”

  He reached the town center and stopped as he saw a tall handsome-faced woman. The moon’s light glistened through the stray, still braids of her hair.

  He leaned a little nearer and then lifted his eyes to take in the broader marketplace peopled with statues of moon gleam ice. He shivered and took a deep breath, his face settling blank.

  Eras winced at a whistle of wind through the town that carried fresh frost particles in its wake and stung his cheeks. He rubbed his face, tightened his grip on the horse’s mane and kicked gently. Head bowed, the chestnut mare stepped hallowed through the bitter winter mausoleum.