Ice Mountain: Part 1 (A Continuing story)

My friends,

Okay, I haven't been very faithful the past two months or so with this blog and visiting everyone elses. Sometimes life likes to snag you, and then hold you like a psychotic lover. I was stuck, and after vaction I made the solomne vow to at least post once a week, be it a story, a poem or just chit chat. So far I haven't lived up to that vow. But I'm working on it, trust me. Here's a short, short story, which will be played out in eight parts. Most of might remember the last time I did this with, "The Fairy". I've really gotten into the fantasy genre lately and I'm trying my hand at it here. Some of you seemed to like the "Dragon's Curse", I hoped it was original, and from what I see it is, thank God. So, in light of the "Curse" here's another dragon tale, this one perhaps a little more frightening. Enjoy, my dear friends. Enjoy...


Ice Mountian: Part 1



Sarah's cool blue eyes lifted slowly as they took in the mountain's massiveness. Such beauty for such a bad place. A place where folk tended to stray far away from. The place where her son had been taken. A place called, Ice Mountain.

Inspite of the name, Ice Mountain was void of ice, snow, even the bitter cold that caped most mountains. Dark smoke billowed from various spots on the mountain's greenish surface. A fire mountain. Still, the heat, the fire, the smoke, made its own kind of chill. One that was not felt on the skin, but felt in the heart, and in the belly. Up there lay death. Up there, where her son was now. Her only son, Andrew. He was up there now, alone, save for the beast that stole him away, and Gods knew what else.

Sarah unsaddled her horse and said.

"Dear White Girl. Be free now." She gave the mare a healthy slap on therear end.
White Girl let go a brief shriek and raced off into the distance.

Tears welled in Sarah's eyes. White Girl had been her second horse. It was a great loss.

She turned back to the mountain and sighed. There would be a climb. A dangerous climb judging by the steepness of the surface. Yet, she thought maybe she saw ledges here and there where she might be able to rest a bit before moving on.

Unstrapping her leather food bag from the saddle, Sarah cinched it to her belt under her furs, near her sword. She was great with a sword. She knew it, and so did all of her slayed men. Those men who tried so hard to steal her cottage, and Andrew. Those men who wanted to kill Andrew and her just for spite. But behold, she knew the art of the sword. Her father taught her well. And her late husband, Jerard, taught her more.

Sarah looked up at the mountain, frowned and then made her way toward the base. It would take a day, she knew, to even reach it, but, she would move fast. She would have to, for the forest surrounding the lonely dark mountain was infested with horrible things. Evil things that protected the mountain from invaders.

As she set foot into the forest, Sarah unsheathed her sword.

All around her came low methodical thumping. Then something snarled.

(To be Continued..)