Icy Fangs

It was an unremarkable, unabridged stretch of woodlands. It made for a very boring map – and thus made for a very irritated mapmaker.

And it made for a very dysfunctional and altogether unnecessary project as a whole. Timothy was well aware that, like every inch of his sketchpad before it, every inch that remained would hold a single and unwavering pattern: the hatched lines that marked an unbroken forest.

And yet the Lord of Stonebridge had been insistent on the map’s creation. He declared he was “blind outside of the walls” more than once as he was making the commission – almost as if he was expecting some sort of attack. And his suspicion and insistence coalesced not only into a long-term project on Timothy’s behalf, but also one that was to be drawn out across the earliest and coldest months of the year.

But while the job wasn’t necessarily ideal, it was also necessary. Timothy had spent his childhood under the tutelage of a local scribe, his teenage years as a soldier in the army, and his last few months as a traveling guard for a merchant train. But that caravan had disbanded upon reaching the city, taking his pay with it; and faced with the meager pay of the city soldiers, it was more than clear swords were not a major player in his future.

Instead, it seemed, freezing to death would take their place. Each inch on his page marked a mile; and the same ten inches he had marked on his paper, he figured, had been frozen off of some other part of his body.

Blowing a deep, warm breath between his fingers, he rubbed his palms together and tucked away his pad. He wasn’t quite ready to head back to town yet – or, at least, was not keen on tracking back out to the valley’s edge the next morning. He had one mile left before he reached the mountains; and so, shouldering his back and stilling his resolve, he set out at a brisk march towards the territory’s edge.

The weather, aside from the incessant cold, had been relatively kind to him. The skies had been clear and the wind mind; but as his march resumed, so too did nature’s cycle. The setting sun overhead cast its dying rays across an approaching cloud front – one that brought with it malevolent air currents. Long, pronounced breezes ravaged the ground and shook snow from the canopy above – snow that soon mingled with the tiny flakes falling from the clouds overhead.

By the time the mapmaker had reached the border of his map he seemed a living part of the landscape. His eyes, like the pine needles far above, were dusted with a fine layer of frost. His hair caught and held falling flakes, building them up until they no longer melted and instead hung like forgotten ornaments along his bangs. His lips adopted a pale blue, blending in amongst the snow; and his skin itself paled, as if his entire frame were no more than a meandering drift.

As he turned to watch the building snow and monitor the progressing ice, he realized that return was not an option. Pulling his bearskin tighter around his shoulders he patrolled the edge of the mountain wall, searching for a cave or inlet in the rock where he could take shelter. The route took him in a semicircle that, while no means perfect in shape, should have been perfect for just such openings; but after half a mile he found only more snow and building ice.

Then his foot snagged something. At first he thought it was a twig or branch, nothing more – it even made the same crack. But then he lurched, his whole leg instantly going numb; and it was then he realized he had caught his toe on a patch of loose ice – that he had mistakenly wandered out across the surface of a frozen pond.

He caught his balance and dragged himself back to his feet before he completely submerged – but the damage had been done. His head and shoulders alone had been spared: his feet, his legs, his waist, and his core were all drenched – were all on borrowed time as the winter storm poked and prodded at the water there, urging it to become ice.

He was able to make it a few hundred yards further. There was still no cave; and, from there, there was no more strength.

Shivering violently Timothy huddled at the base of the mountain wall, gripping his arms around his midsection. There was no sense of heat, no sense of touch: there was only the biting cold, the lengthening ice, and the waning despair.

When the first shake disturbed the piling snow the mapmaker disregarded it – barely even registered it. The second was closer though, far more pronounced – that he heard as much as felt, his ears gleaming the less-than-slight crunch.

The third step he could actually see. It was not the footfall itself that he could see – that was hidden in the icy haze that billowed around him. But the owner’s torso emerged from the gale like a statue, gray and stoic against the black sky.

It was not a human’s body – although it bore the same distinct shape. The gray was not skin but scales, running from the woman’s head to the waist and lower body still shrouded in the downfall. From there the features became more refined: long red hair fell neatly around one shoulder and leather-like garments covered her other “human like” features, giving her a modicum of civility.

But as she bent closer to Timothy he could see her eyes. There the monster returned: they were nothing like those of any man or woman, the sclera an inescapable black surrounding a glowing green iris. Their approach was enough to send whatever strength he had left into a desperate retreat – but one that ultimately dead ended against the stone wall.

It was clear just why he was mapping the area. The forest outside the walls was one big blind spot for Kelly – one in which he couldn’t see the dragons that prowled his very doorstep. He had given his newfound eyes no escort, no protection, not even a warning – knowing it was a risk, knowing that if Timothy didn’t return he would stay blind.

And he would, it seemed, stay blind.

“I almost didn’t notice you.” The dragon murmured softly. It was not the voice of an outright killer – it was too gentle, too roundabout. Perhaps, he reason, the dragon was playing with her prey? Perhaps he was simply too far gone and no longer worth the effort? Perhaps, a darkly comical echo mused, she just liked frozen food?

“You’re as white as the snow.” She explained. “I thought I smelled something – but without that coat of yours you’re almost invisible!”

He grunted dismissively. It was meant to urge on her will – but instead she took it as some sort of dying croak.

Her mood darkened, changing from playful to concerned in a sharp instant. Her hands closed around the human, lifting him from the ground like some sort of doll. It really put her size into perspective: there was no structure in Stonebridge, not even the keep itself, that could stand level with her. She had to have been at least eighty feet tall – and her strength, albeit incredible in its own right, was only enhanced by that unbelievable stature.

“I need you to trust me.” She implored – though even her voice knew it was a stretch. “I’m going to save you from this cold…”

It earned her another grunt – one she correctly interpreted as a “Not a chance!”

“I’m very cold.” She explained. “I don’t feel it – but others do. I’ve… been through things that stopped me from producing heat as you or any other living thing does. But I am still a dragon, little one – I still have fire in my belly. If you’ll let me, I’ll use it to save your life.”

She opened her mouth. Timothy grunted again – though this time it was a single almost squeal-like noise, one that persisted from the edge of her lips to the back of her tongue.

Then her hands retracted, her jaws closed, and the last echoed of the wordless plea died in the confines of her cavernous mouth.

Despite the numbness in his limbs Timothy could tell it was hot. His face and neck were the first to notice it; and, as more and more of the ice began to melt and drain from him as water, the more and more his body began to catch on. Soon he was able to rise; very soon after, he was able to shed the bearskin coat altogether.

He made a pointed effort to stay away from the dragon’s throat for two reasons. First and foremost it was death, it was a point of no return for any meal, himself included. But it was the very source of the billowing heat – showing the dragon had at least been telling the truth when she said she had fire in her belly.

It also showed she had been telling the truth about saving him from the cold. But that by no means meant she was saving him from the heat – he was still ripe and ready to be eaten, and there was no better position for her to do so.

“What were you doing all the way out here?” the dragon asked as Timothy began to stir. Her words were meticulously formed, strained as she kept her jaws together. It was almost compassionate: it shut out the wind and the cold from outside, isolating the organic cavern far more effectively than any shutters or blankets could in one of Stonebridge’s inns.

He shifted so that his back rested against one of her gums. Saliva pooled around his waist and ankles; though this, too, was carefully siphoned away so that it flowed to and disappeared down his hostess’s throat.

“I’m Timothy.” He said in introduction. Instinctively he reached out his hand to shake the dragon’s; but he quickly pulled it back, blushing at the ridiculousness of it all.

“I’m out here for a number of reasons. I’m a warrior that has nothing left to fight; I’m a logistical expert with a way to earn money; I’m a stubborn idiot who has no idea when to turn around and go home.”

“You’re smart enough to know you’ve messed up – that says something.” She said gently, the echoes of her words literally massaging the tension out of the mapmaker’s shoulders.

“But a logistical expert you say?”

“I’m making a map.”

“Ah! Kelly will be thrilled – he’s wanted a map of the area for years now. I was working on one for him myself… but it is all conceptual really. They don’t make dragon-sized paper for me to scribble down details; and I forget them before I can relay back.”

“You… know the Lord of Stonebridge?”

“Of course – I’ll take you back to him in the morning.”

“So… you aren’t going to kill me?”

“Not even if you asked nicely.” She assured him. “Now get some sleep – you’re tired and you’re probably hungry, but all I can really do is give you a place to rest. The city will have to take over from there tomorrow.”

Timothy did as he was told, curling up against one gum and closing his eyes. Silently bidden the dragon’s tongue curled over him like a blanket, draping along his chest and shoulders to trap whatever rebellious wisps of heat tried to escape.

There he steadily drifted into a light sleep – one where he dreamed of a kind dragon, warmth, and an uncharacteristically inviting mouth. All around him that same dragon did not sleep – could no longer sleep. And yet she could keep watch, could ensure that her new friend did not suffer the ravages of nature from which she had found immunity.

The journey to the distant mountain crags had been Timothy’s downfall – an arduous and time consuming expedition that had trapped him in the teeth of a blizzard. How ironic it was, then, that a dragon by the name of Crag and a far less ravaging maw had saved his life. And how beautiful it was, then, that such a lasting friendship could be snagged from the icy fangs of tragedy.