Ragnar Ingmarson leaned into the howling snowstorm fighting him every step of his way up the steep slopes of Mount Dreki. Thorfinn Thorkeldson, chief of Madur had set him an impossible task for the hand of his daughter, Ragnars beloved Estrith. He had ordered him to slay Gungnir, the mighty Snow Dragon, a beast out of the sagas whose name men only spoke in whispers. Gungnir dwelled up on the highest peak, killing everyone who dared enter his realm. Twelve men Thorfinn had sent up the mountain, mighty warriors all. But they had all fallen to the beast, torn apart by the swords that were its teeth, impaled by the spears that were its claws, burned by the inferno that was its breath. Ragnar was the thirteenth, the mythical number.
He squeezed his eyes almost shut, blinded by the driving snow. He flexed his fingers to keep them from stiffening in the unholy cold. Hel only knew where in this maelstrom the monster hid, biding its time, waiting to strike down the intruder.
A fierce gust of wind struck his side and pushed him out of his path. His foot caught on something hard and he fell to his knees. Cursing Ragnar got up. Then his eyes fell on what he had thought a large rock covered in a fresh sheet of white. Stumbling he had brushed aside some of the snow and revealed what he now realized was a human face, frozen hard as the rock. Hurriedly Ragnar freed him of his cold shroud. Not a single wound was to be seen, not the smallest mark of tooth, or claw, or flame. But his ankle, bare of the protection of his boot, looked twisted and swollen.
Ragnar drew a deep, cold breath. He could not bury this fallen comrade he had never known. Not in this place, not in this storm. He had to go on or lie down beside him. With a heroic effort he kept staggering on through the cold, every step draining him of strength that should have carried him a mile. The storm lashed at him, its howling mocking his weakness. And somewhere in this freezing hell Gungnir waited patiently to make it a fiery one.
All of a sudden the storm abated a little so Ragnar could see the summit, where the dragon expected him. Tears started rolling down his face, freezing on his cheeks. He had miles and miles to go and no strength left to take another step. Ragnar Ingmarson, Ragnar Bloodaxe, hero of the battle of the Frozen Ford and scourge of the Golden Shore fell and lay face down in the snow.
Then something fuzzy nibbled at his ear. It gave off an unnatural warmth that drove back the cold of the storm. His visitor had soft white fur like a snow hare and from its long narrow snout rose thin tendrils of smoke. He had found Gungnir, the terrible Snow Dragon.
And it was all of two feet tall.
