Dragon Bewitched_A Viking Dragon Fantasy Romance

by Isadora Montrose

  “It’s about time you got here,” Darius reproached Oswain.

  “Lord Arnor caught me just as I was leaving. Lord Gunther has orders. I can’t come with you today, cousin. I have duties.” There was no apology in Oswain Lindorm’s deep voice, none on his face. He offered no explanation.

  Looking at his cousin’s chiseled features was almost like looking into a mirror. They had the same high cheekbones, the same sharp-bladed nose, the same blue eyes fringed with the same dark lashes. The same golden-blond hair. He was a little taller than Oswain, and his shoulders a shade broader, but there wasn’t much to choose between them or any other dragons of their House. The Lindorms bred true.

  Darius knew better than to ask about Oswain’s assignment. They had been dispatched by their uncle, the Thane of Lindorm, the Eldest of their House, to serve as Lord Reiki’s sword bearers. Their time belonged to Lord Gunther and was not their own. It was intriguing and a little ominous that Oswain’s leave had been canceled, but not unusual.

  Gunther Guntherson, the Lord of the Icelandic Island of Reiki, was neither capricious nor arbitrary. If he had commanded Oswain’s attendance after he had been granted leave to spend the day ice climbing, something was up. But it would be a serious breach of discipline and security for Darius to ask why. If Darius needed to know, he would be told.

  Darius clapped Oswain’s shoulder. “It’s a pity. This is the finest day we’ve had this month. I’ll see you in Hall for dinner.” He stepped into the sailboat and began to haul in the anchor and get ready to cast off.

  “Do you mean to go by yourself?” Oswain demanded uneasily.

  “Certainly. It wouldn’t be the first time. I’ll miss your company, cousin, but I’m tired of twiddling my thumbs on Reiki. And next week, this bay could be full of ice floes and we could be digging out from yet another storm.”

  “Be careful, Darius. They say the island of Balder is malevolent. And that the mountain hates dragons.”

  Darius laughed. “I’m not superstitious, myself. If the mountain throws me down, I’ll just fly home.”

  “I suppose you could. Enjoy yourself.” Oswain hurried back up to the entrance of the subterranean palace that was the home of the Lords of Reiki.

  Darius didn’t watch to see his cousin enter the thick, iron-strapped oak door. He cast off and steered his little vessel out into the channel towards the spiky peaks of the volcanic island of Balder which he imagined he could just see. Even in his human form, his dragon eyes could see far. The sun beat down and he peeled off his parka and sailed in his heavy woolen sweater.

  By the time Darius had anchored in the deep bay that lay at the foot of Mount Bradur, the wind was gusting and the blue horizon graying. He came ashore wearing his parka, and carrying his equipment and pack. A stunted pine grew in the snow-covered lava rock that made up the shoreline. Ice rimmed the rocky beach. As he tied up his vessel to the pine tree, he spared thanks for the snow which covered what was almost certainly razor-sharp volcanic glass.

  He consulted the map he carried in his mind. He followed the sloping base of the mountain as far as he could. Which wasn’t far. He was surprised at how impenetrable the bushes and trees were. And how close to the shore they grew. Usually, this far north, trees struggled to grow in the short summers and fierce winds. But the plants on this island were lush and thick, if dwarfish.

  Eventually he spotted the path that Lord Gunther had marked on his map. Millennia of volcanic action had left the slopes of the mountain steep and broken. Winter storms had added a layer of snow and ice to what was almost a sheer cliff. Darius looked at the vertical ice wall with approval. This was going to be fun. An adventure to soothe his restlessness.

  He strapped on his crampons and tightened the latches. He checked his ice ax and his hatchet once again. Refreshed himself from his water bottle. Pulled his hat over his ears and tied his hood lest he have no hands to do it later.

  It was time. With gleeful zest he tackled the glittering wall of ice. Every time his boots kicked a foothold, he felt anew the thrill of testing himself. He hammered spikes in as he went, past the ice into the rock, so he would have handholds and footholds to descend. The object was to get to the peak of Mount Bradur and then to descend without having to take dragon.

  Not that there would be any shame if he had to. Lord Gunther had told him that no dragon had made it there and back in mortal form. His lord had never made the attempt himself. But his brother Lord Arnor had made three tries and each time had been forced to return to dragon and fly back to his vessel. Darius had prepared against failure by bringing a complete change of clothes, although he had left them in the sailboat.

  The Kittiwake was the property of his lord, and he was required to return it. A twenty-four-foot-long dragon would be unable to sit in the little two-man sailboat, let alone sail it. Even if flying openly during the day was not most strictly forbidden by the laws of Reiki and the customs of Dragonry. But if he could dress warmly once he was again a man, there would be little difficulty in returning to home base.

  He made good progress, although the blue skies and friendly sunshine of the morning had turned into ominous gray clouds and gusting winds before he was halfway up. He was warm enough – dragons seldom felt the cold unless it was extreme – but he was thirsty. He made a promise to himself that at the first ledge he would take a break and have a drink.

  As if to mock his pledge, the wind blew him into the ice-covered rock face. The spike he had driven in held him fast to the ropes to which he was secured by a harness. But he was flung in a dizzying spiral at its end. When he stopped spinning, his left cheekbone took the full force of the ice. Blood trickled down his cheek and froze.

  “Shift,” he muttered.

  Undeterred, he extended his arm and whacked his pick into the ice wall. It took another half hour of progress with an increasingly vicious wind pummeling him at every advance, before he reached anything that could be called a ledge. He wedged himself into a little fissure and squirmed around until he could remove his water bottle from the outside of his pack. The water was icy cold but refreshing. And in any event he had no means of heating it and it was imperative that he drink.

  From this perch he could see clear out over the sea. The calm of the morning had entirely vanished. Whitecaps taller than a man raced across between the sandbars. The gulls and terns had vanished, ceding the gray skies to the wind and the approaching storm.

  For the first time, Darius felt discouraged. It was not part of his duty to be careless of his safety. Challenging his strength of arm and will was one thing, behaving suicidally was a breach of discipline. He would have to turn back after his break, and trust to his seamanship to return Lord Reiki’s sailboat undamaged to harbor.

  He laughed at himself. Perhaps it was true that the mountain loathed dragons. Or perhaps March was a season where storms were to be expected. There would be other opportunities.

  He was planning his descent when the ledge he was sitting on and the fissure at his back yawned wide. The mountain groaned as if it were tumbling down, filling the air with a noise so loud he felt deafened. Before he registered what was happening, he was falling.

  He waited for his ropes to break his fall. But with a shriek like a dozen vengeful harpies, his foot-long spikes wrenched out of the ice and rock and his descent continued unchecked.

  Was it possible to take dragon here? Or would he merely get stuck between the sides of the expanding fissure? He put his arms out and touched the wall. The rock ripped shreds from his gloves as he hurtled by. If he couldn’t fully extend his arms, there was no room here for his dragon body, let alone his wings.

  Gusts of warm, damp air fought with the cold air that was at his back. And then he was enveloped in steaming hot water. It was salty. Bubbling madly. He was soaking wet. His pack dragged at his shoulders and pulled him backward under the surface. There was space enough in this salty lake for him to take dragon. But when he lifted his head from the water he was uncertain what to do. />
  Being a dragon shifter meant that he could see far better than any human. But here in the belly of the mountain, it was pitch black. Far above him he could dimly see a glimmer. But he could not see his hands, let alone an escape route. If he took dragon would it even be possible for him to fly out? Or for him to swim out?

  He could not breathe underwater. And he did not know how deep this hot lake was. If he climbed out in human form and attempted an ascent of the newly created crevasse, he would risk hypothermia. Yet it seemed that was his best option. Better not to discard his equipment and his pack. Thank goodness his pick was tethered to his wrist.

  His satellite phone was probably unharmed by its dunking. It was supposedly waterproof. But he doubted if so far underground there would be any signal. After a long and ungainly struggle, he managed to extract it. As he had expected, he had no signal. Although the flashlight still worked. He flicked it off to conserve the battery.

  The hot water would keep him alive for a long time – if he could find any fresh to drink. Was it his imagination or was the bubbling water beginning to roil faster? Without warning, a whirlpool sucked him down. The deeper it pulled him, the hotter it became. His lungs were burning now. He was going to drown. Shift on a stick.

  He was almost unconscious when the volcano shot him skyward on a geyser and tossed him upward. Instinct alone made him take dragon. The wind howled and his water-covered scales and wings instantly hardened with ice. He plunged down, down, down.

  He attempted to extend his feet for a landing. But blinded by steam and battered by the gale, he plummeted belly first into the snow. Hot water continued to shower onto his unmoving form. The wind shrieked with laughter and piled snow over his torn wings, and writhing tail.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Freya~

  Valdar stamped hard on the wet snow. His great boots packed it into a hard, slick surface. “I say, we should just leave him where we found him. What do we owe dragons?” His features were concealed by his breath. His bitterness tainted the air. He bared his teeth. They were sharp and white and very even.

  Freya returned her gaze to the youth she was tending. She shook her head.

  “Exactly what do you plan to do with him, sister?” Valdar regarded the naked man lying face-down in the snow with disfavor. “He stinks of dragon. Leave him for the mountain to eat. He is none of our concern.”

  Freya turned her head slightly so she could see around her fur-trimmed hood. She smiled placatingly at both her brothers. Her breeches were soaking up the snow she was kneeling in, but she continued to feel for the dragon’s pulse. “We cannot be so uncharitable, Valdar. It is our duty to return good for evil.”

  Besides, she was sure that this was the golden youth from her vision. Loki had sent him for some purpose, and it would be wrong to let him die without discovering it. Wrong to let such beauty perish. They must discover why Bradur and Loki had sent her a dragon. No good could come of defying the gods.

  Valdar folded his arms across his broad chest. His face firmed before he answered her. “Not to dragons.”

  His twin Brand buffeted him across the back. “If it wasn’t for these dragons, we would all be dead, brother.”

  Valdar glowered at Brand. They were identical in all but disposition. Brand’s sunny expression did not alter by a hair, although Valdar’s expression was wrathful. Brand’s words were both true and meaningless. A dragon had cursed them with immortality. But in truth, this boy had done them no harm.

  “He’ll die if we leave him here in the melting snow,” Freya said. “He has no clothes. And he’s bleeding. He needs to be warm. And he needs to be dry. To please me, brother, won’t you transport him to our home?”

  Valdar grunted. Freya might have phrased her request as a plea, but for Brand and Valdar her word was law. They were pledged to guard her until she had no further need of protection. And to do her bidding in the meantime.

  “How?” Valdar asked. She only smiled at him.

  Brand was already changing. Where a tall, athletic young giant had stood, strong, masculine, and wholly human, a huge, long-haired tabby cat with great ear tufts kneaded the soft snow with great snowshoe paws. Valdar hissed and became an identical cat – down to the stripes on his face and the great ruff of fur around his jaws.

  As much because she loved them, as because she was chilled to the bone, Freya embraced her brothers with both arms. Their deep, thick fur warmed her bare hands. Brand immediately began to purr and butt her with his great head. After a while, so did Valdar. She was glad. They were all she had and she hated to quarrel with them.

  She waved her hand for her sledge. It popped out of the freezing air, its gleaming red runners resting lightly on the deep snow. She motioned another time and a red leather harness and glittering silver bells materialized. Brand and Valdar permitted themselves be yoked to the long wooden shafts.

  Freya rolled the young dragon lord onto the padded platform herself. She pulled off her parka and spoke a word of power. Her forest-green coat became a large sable cloak. She covered the young man with this garment and tucked it around his pale limbs before she seated herself on the sledge’s high bench.

  Her crimson tunic and pants were wool. Even wet, they would keep her warm enough until she was home. She picked up her reins and clucked. Valdar and Brand bounded through the snow, leaping over rocks, and soaring over trees. They loved to run when they took the form of forest cats. Far away in the distance the red-gold lights of the homestead beckoned them.

  By the time they reached their spacious stone-built home, the stars had emerged. Tonight they were only dim shadows of themselves. Heavy clouds covered most of the sky, promising more snow. Behind the clouds, the moon was just a pale fingernail paring. Freya waved one arm and freed her brothers from their harnesses. Valdar and Brand resumed their human forms and clothing and carried the stranger into their home.

  They laid him on the settle by the fire. He did not move, but his chest still rose and fell in shallow breaths. He was unconscious, but not yet dead. He just needed warmth and nursing. The sable had fallen to the floor and his long, muscular limbs and broad chest were as pale as marble, and nearly as hairless. In fact except for the cap of gold on his head and the triangle of deeper gold around his thing, he was remarkably hairless.

  Valdar spoke. “It is unseemly.”

  “Unseemly?” Freya laughed lightly. The youth was half dead with cold and no threat to anyone’s virtue. But perhaps Valdar objected to her staring at a naked man. But she had never seen one before, and might never again. She had thought a grown man would have had a larger thing.

  “When that damn dragon wakes up, you will not be safe,” Valdar objected. He and Brand covered the stranger’s nakedness with the sable.

  “What do you think will happen when that blasted skyworm rouses, and sees himself being waited on by a beautiful maiden?” Brand backed him up. “Have you forgotten how Snorre no sooner saw you than he demanded you for his wife?”

  They folded their arms and waited. She well recalled the barbaric lusts of the dragons. Snorre had promised her father and the settlement safety in exchange for marriages to the four daughters of Foreseti the Wise. But she had known they already had wives. Sooner than lie beneath that savage pirate, Freya had run into the hills.

  In revenge Snorre had murdered all her kin and burned their home. Only she and her brothers had been spared. She because Loki had rendered her invisible, even as Snorre and his brothers tried to loot his pool. Her brothers had been fishing in their little sealskin boat. But they had not truly escaped, for Snorre had cursed them all and vowed to return. They awaited him yet.

  Freya shrugged. “The stranger will be weak for some time yet,” she said.

  “Undoubtedly. But the beauty of Freya the Fair is enough to make a weak man strong, and a strong one weak.” Valdar looked between the pinched white face of the youth and his sister.

  “Very well.” She began to chant.

  Mist boiled where she had b
een standing. When it cleared, she smiled placidly at her brothers. “What do you think?”

  “That a dragon will not much care even if you look like a dumpy, middle-aged woman,” grumbled Valdar. “If the mood takes him, he will ravish you.”

  Freya shook her head reproachfully. She knew what she looked like. Her glossy red hair had been replaced with a bun of dull, gray braids. Her face was wrinkled. Her homespun woolen dress and stockings were a nondescript color between brown and gray, and as shapeless as they were plain. When he woke, this handsome lad would take her for his mother.

  Their warm and comfortable home had also vanished and been replaced by the rough hand-hewn boards of a cramped longhouse. The dragon was lying on a bare plank floor. She bent and pulled up his sable. Waved her hand and made him a pallet of homespun wool stuffed with straw. He slept on, oblivious to all her changes.

  Brand chuckled. “I think the cows are a little too authentic,” he said. He looked pointedly at the half-wall that barely separated them from the cattle. The smell of hay and cow overpowered the fragrant driftwood in the fire.

  She had to agree. She well remembered how warm the animals had kept the old homestead long ago when her sisters had been young with her. But truthfully in a thousand years she had grown fussier. The smell of the cattle was no longer bearable. She motioned and returned the beasts to their barn.

  “And now, my brothers, one last task. Make yourselves small, and warm our wounded guest.”

  With a hiss and a snarl, Valdar became a fluffy striped house cat. A smaller version of the feline who had pulled her sleigh. Still snarling, he crept under the sable and curled around the dragon’s feet. Brand shared a long look with her before he too became a cat. He lay on the dragon’s chest, mewing and shivering.