Thawing the Ice King

Chapter 1

Fatima

         It is Prazh that wakes me up.

         The wind howls, sharp and shattering, bouncing off the mountains that slice through Prazh and divide Camp Hope from the rest of the dry, desolate continent.

         I wake up immediately and sit up in bed, which is little more than a cot, before I swing my legs over the side. I shudder slightly when my feet touch the cold ground, but I shake it off quickly enough.

         I am used to the cold now. I have been living in Prazh for most of my life, and I am used to her brutal, unforgiving nature.

         I finish my morning ablutions quickly enough – I do not have a choice. I am likely to freeze if I remain naked, or even in my underwear for too long.

         “You better hope that there are actually things out there to hunt,” I mutter to myself as I deal with my hair, long, dark, and thick. I braid it away from my face and tie it into a neat, tight bun at the nape of my neck. It would be simply humiliating if I got killed by a wild worg because a strand of hair got in my face.

         I already have to deal with the men of Camp Hope treating all the women like fragile little babies simply because we’re women.

         “And you better hope this storm doesn’t hit when you’re out in the middle of it,” I whisper, and the words are like a prayer, even though I do not believe in anything.

         A pair of comfortable dark trousers, paired with a dark, slightly oversized shirt, and boots made from taura leather.

         I am most proud of the boots. I saved for months to buy enough taura leather to have them made. They also have little buckles on them, made from scraps of hidium that I melted down and shaped myself.

         Everything else I am wearing, including the old overcoat that I throw on as I walk out of the small shack that I live in, is almost as old as I am. The overcoat belonged to my father, and the trousers and shirt belonged to my mother.

         It may still be early, and the weather may be terrible, but every living being in Camp Hope is awake and preparing for the day.

         I smile and dodge the toddlers that are running around haphazardly and wave at their mothers, who have started preparing breakfast – large pots of porridge that will be bland until they stir in spoons and spoons of dripir fat that will turn a simple, cheap meal into a gourmet dish.

         I head for the center of Camp Hope, where all our meetings are held and where we meet up several times a week when we go hunting.

         “Okay!” Marcus, who has been the hunt leader for a decade, shouts at everyone as the last of the hunting group, including myself, joins the two dozen men and women who will be going out into the wilds of Prazh today.

         “I’m not going to talk too much because it’s early and the gods know that I don’t have the brainpower for this yet. But I’ll be leading the hunt as usual, with Fatima and Simon joining me.”

         Some of the men shuffle from foot to foot and mutter among themselves when my name is called out.

         Marcus rolls his eyes and clears his throat obnoxiously to get their attention.

         “And Fatima will also be one of the primary trackers and will lead us safely through the mountains. We all know how treacherous they can be so I wouldn’t recommend pissing her off.” Marcus gives me a measured stare, and I nod back coolly.

         Marcus and I do not have a close relationship. But he trusts and respects me, and that is all I really want from the men in Camp Hope.

         “Okay!” He splits us into groups, and we grab our weapons. I slip several knives into my boots and sling my bow and sheath of arrows over my shoulder before I take my group to the east, where the sun is rising.

         I do not know if Marcus did it purposefully, but the group I am leading is mostly men, with just one other woman in it.

         Sarah, the only other woman in the group, smiles at me sympathetically as I list out instructions to the group of very reluctant men.

         “We’ll take it slow.” My voice is cheerful but firm. “It is still early enough, so warm up and get your blood moving. A herd of wild dripir have been moving through that thatch of trees.” I point at a particular spot in the mountains. “For a couple of days now. Today I want to take as many of them down as possible.”

         “I doubt we’ll be able to do that,” Jason, an older, grizzled man mutters. “Those dripir are man-eating, and we’ll never catch up to them, anyway.”

         “Well,” I reply archly, not succeeding in hiding my annoyance at him completely. “If you’re not up for the challenge, you’re always welcome to stay and help with breakfast.”

         Jason’s shoulders stiffen at the obvious taunt in my voice, but he doesn’t respond. He simply clenches his jaw and balls his hands into fists.

         And with that, I turn and silently move toward the trail that the residents of Camp Hope created. The trail that leads up into the mountains. The trail that could kill us.

         It could kill us, but I know it won’t. Because I am here, leading this group, and I am good at this.

         I have walked every trail in Prazh. I have inspected every bush, and I have eaten every plant, poisonous or not.

         I know this continent like the back of my hand, and I am no stranger to this mountain, as daunting as it may seem.

         My knowledge of this place, of my home, allows me to move quickly, although I know I cannot move too fast, especially when I hear the rest of the group struggling to keep up.

         My movements are soft and my footsteps are delicate, and after a while, I find that I do not need to breathe that much.

         We are halfway to the thatch of trees where that particular herd of dripir has settled when I slow down.

         “I heard something,” I whisper. Everyone in the group stiffens, and they all stop breathing.

         The mountain is not the only thing that could kill us. There are plenty of things living on the craggy, ugly rock that could take us out in a second.

         But then the noise passes, and all I can hear are the trees and the whisperings of the spirits that have taken up residence on the mountain, along with the other wild things that we cannot see.

         “Okay.” I raise my hand and gesture for us all to move forward. “I think they’re further up the mountain,” I say as I inspect the tracks when we reach the thatch of trees. Jason snorts loudly, but I do not respond.

         He’s a useless specimen of a man, actually. The thought, uncharitable as it is, comes out of nowhere, and I suppress a smile as I lift some dirt from the ground and smell it.

         “Okay, we’re going up this way now,” I order the rest of the group, who trudges on after me as we move in a different direction.

         We aren’t on a trail now, and I decide to pull a knife from my boot just to be safe. I hear the rest of them draw their weapons in preparation as we move deeper and deeper into the forest on the west side of the mountain.

         The trees and the spirits block out the faint morning sunlight, and I know it will be nighttime by the time we leave the forest.

         We face our first real challenge when we come across the mauled body of a wild dripir. It has clearly been attacked by a worg, and it looks like it has been ripped apart mercilessly.

         The attack from the worg comes so quickly that I am surprised I even sense it in time.

         The creature comes at us, all teeth and claws, followed by the rest of its pack. I whip my blade through the air in an arc that separates its claws from the rest of its body.

         “Run!” I yell at the rest of the group, and they obey without a second thought while I handle the worgs.

         The pack is small – there are only five of them – and I take them out in minutes, using all of my knives in the process.

         “At least we’ll have enough skin and fur to keep us warm throughout winter,” I mutter as I slit the last worg’s throat.

         I am sweating and covered in worg blood when the rest of the group reappears. And I am stunned to see that they have captured two medium-sized dripirs.

         “We’ll need to take these back with us.” I gesture at the five worgs. Worgs might not make the tastiest meals, but anything will do in a pinch.

         I realize then that we’re quite high in the mountain and it will be a long trek back, as some of the men help me tie up the worgs.

         And true enough, the sun is setting when we arrive back at Camp Hope.

         We go directly to the center of the camp, where we dump everything that we managed to capture for the day.

         I am relieved to see that the other two groups came back with good hauls, too.

         “It’s going to be a good winter,” I tell Sarah, whose face is covered in muck.

         Then I head to Natalia’s tent. I always see her after every hunt, because she loves listening to my descriptions of the hunt.

         And today was a particularly good one.

         I hear the noises – muffled moaning – as I approach her tent. It sounds like someone is getting sick when I push the tent’s flap aside.

         That is when I see them. Natalia on the ground, her legs being forced apart by Arthus, and blood trickling down her inner thigh.

I don’t know how I move as quickly as I do, knocking into Arthus. And later on, I will realize that the screaming I heard came from me as I smash him to the ground.