Frost Mountain
Stanley knew he was a dead man. And that was before he saw the pit.
“Move,” said a gruff voice, and a hand shoved him deeper into the dark tunnel. He stumbled but regained his footing in time. He didn’t bother to glance over his shoulder and see who had pushed him. It had to be one of the collectors—Johan, most likely.
Since he’d been marched into the cave, his eyes had swiveled about, taking in whatever details they could.
In the semidarkness, there were scanty details available.
The ground beneath his feet was uneven. Rocks and grooves made it almost impossible to walk on without tripping.
Overhead, he could just make out a few stalactites looming like Swords of Damocles, harbingers of the doom that awaited him.
The cave had been narrower when he’d first entered it, but it widened the deeper in they traveled.
Stanley’s inner snow leopard growled with discomfort.
It was bad enough that he had ropes binding his wrist, digging into his flesh.
The cave was even worse. He’d rather be out in the open, running in the snow among the coniferous trees, or outside the village from whence he’d been so mercilessly dragged some days ago.
Kirnham had been his village, but not anymore.
Guilt clawed at his chest. Were any of the townspeople of Kirnham still alive?
He’d done his best to defend the town when the Collectors showed up before Johan snuck behind the man and knocked him down.
He winced at the memory and the accompanying dull throb in the base of his skull.
For all he knew, the people of Kirnham were all gone.
He stared down at his hands before him, bound not too tightly but enough that he’d be overpowered and knocked out or worse by the time he managed to break free and try to make a run for it.
He sucked in a deep breath, inhaling the cold, thin air of the cave, and an idea crept into his mind: He could try to shift.
That would shock the Collectors and give him at least a couple of seconds of advantage.
As a snow leopard, he could more quickly escape this dreadful cave and—
“Don’t even think about it,” said the same voice that had barked at him earlier.
It had to be Johan speaking. Stanley had rarely seen the man, except for a few stolen glimpses, but he could picture the man’s reddish beard twitching as he spoke and his grey, wolfish eyes boring into the back of his skull.
Stanley pulled in a ragged breath, making an effort to remain calm.
This had to be the end of the road for him.
They’d been traveling for ... how long? Four days.
Four days since his capture and that of a few others who’d dared to stand up to the Collectors invading Kirnham.
His stomach growled painfully. The whole time, he’d been given only enough food and water to keep him alive for the duration of the journey.
As he trudged deeper into the cave, the air grew warmer and was mixed with the stench of sweat and ... something else that he couldn’t quite recognize. Whatever it was, it reminded him that death awaited him at the end of the trip.
He sighed. It was unsettling how suddenly death could arrive.
One second, you were trying to survive in a village on a mountain designed to kill and destroy, and the next, it was all over.
Even more disturbing was life itself, striking suddenly and without mercy.
One minute, all was well, and the next, four years had gone by.
It had been four years since he’d arrived on Frost Mountain.
Four years since he’d somehow found himself in this god-forsaken dimension after riding through a portal on his horse and nearly getting crushed to death in the snow.
Four years since, he’d been forced to leave everything behind: his town, his ranch, his world, his life . .. his wife.
His bound hands slowly reached up to touch the locket just below his collarbone as if to make sure it was still there.
It was surprisingly warm to the touch. Were he not bound and being marched toward his doom, he’d have paused to take a look at the old photo of the beautiful woman smiling back at him.
Over the years, it had become almost a talisman, one of the few things keeping him sane on this mountain of horrors. It was his good luck charm.
Not that his luck had been particularly great of late. A wry smile dragged across his face.
It’s the end of the road, Stanley.
Johan gave him another shove, and he stumbled farther into the cave.
The tunnel ended, and he found himself in a much bigger cave.
Stanley looked around, and his breath froze in his throat.
The cave was larger than anything he’d anticipated; larger stalactites protruded overhead from a ceiling that he couldn’t see.
The cave was dimly lit, with only a few lights flickering on the walls, enough for him to at least see more than a few feet ahead of him.
“My God,” he breathed.
Another shove jerked him out of his daze. “Move!”
There were other people in the cave—Collectors and prisoners alike—either standing or on their knees. The stench of death was stronger here. Or was it fear? He looked around again, and something else caught his eye.
What in the ...?
His first thought was that it was just a giant shadow.
But what he saw seemed darker even than the flickering shadows cast across the cave.
As he drew closer, a gust of wind hit his face, and he realized he was staring at a chasm, one so wide he could barely begin to comprehend it.
It seemed to beckon him, promising him death.
Stanley had been struggling to stay calm this whole time, but the sight of the chasm shattered his resolve. A tremble raced through his body, settling at his knees, and each step forward became a challenge. His heart thundered in his chest, and a ringing filled his ears.
Johan forced him further toward the pit. “Kneel.”
Stanley hesitated for a second, then dropped to his knees, barely ten feet away from the gaping mass of darkness.
Another gust of wind blasted him, and a shiver traveled up from the base of his spine.
He glanced at the prisoners on either side of him: men on their knees lined up before the pit—prisoners awaiting their execution. There were a few he recognized.
This is it, he thought. The end.
“What is this?”
A voice ricocheted through the cave, deep and booming. Even when he turned his head, Stanley couldn’t see to whom it belonged, but he sensed a sudden presence in the cave. The temperature in the cave climbed a few degrees. There was a collective shuffle as the Collectors dropped to their knees.
There was no mistaking who was the ruler of this place. The Collectors all worked for one person. Everyone who’d been on Frost Mountain long enough or kept their ear to the ground knew or had at least heard of Grim Jim, the Ice Melter, even though many believed him to be merely a myth.
The voice Stanley heard and that settled in his bones didn’t feel much like a myth.
“What ... what’s going on?” one of the prisoners on his left said.
“Silence!” snapped one of the Collectors, and Stanley heard a heavy thud. “You are in the presence of the Ice Melter, the immortal, most powerful dragon ever to grace Frost Mountain. You would do well to hold your tongue.”
“Ice Melter,” Johan said, “these are prisoners from our latest raids.”
“I sent you to bring me treasures,” Grim Jim muttered, and the entire cave seemed to rumble.
“We did as you asked. We scoured the towns and villages for all we could find, and we brought you the treasures you requested.”
“And why are these men here?”
“These are the survivors among those who dared to resist us. We would’ve chopped their heads clean off, but we thought it best for you to decide their fate.”
In the silence that followed, Stanley found himself uncomfortably aware of how terrified he was.
He was trembling now worse than ever, and he’d stared into the depths of the pit.
The darkness seemed to gaze back at him, promising an unfathomable end.
Whatever fate lay ahead of him in this pit, it had to be worse than death.
“I see ...” Grim Jim said, his voice jerking Stanley’s attention away from the pit.
“Yes, Ice Melter. These men can beg for mercy, ask that you spare their lives, and let them join the Collectors. Or they may face whatever lies at the bottom of the pit.”
The Ice Melter chuckled. Out of the corner of his eye, Stanley saw a stalactite break loose and drop from the ceiling into the pit. He listened carefully for the sound of the stalactite hitting the bottom of the chasm, but there was none.
Oh, God.
“Interesting.”
Stanley heard footsteps and he imagined that Grim Jim was walking across the cave. The air grew even warmer and stiller. Stanley tried to stop his shoulders from trembling.
“The choice is up to them.” Grim Jim said suddenly. “Any man here who chooses to join my Collectors today will be spared. Anyone else ...”
He didn’t need to finish his sentence. The pit was right there in front of everyone.
Stanley’s heartbeat pounded in his ears. He forced his gaze away from the pit and stared instead at his bound hands. The Ice Melter’s words continued to echo in his mind: The choice is up to them .
Maybe this didn’t have to be the end for him. All he had to do was join the Collectors, and he would be safe.
Even as the desperate thought occurred to him, his stomach churned at it.
The Collectors were among the most feared and resented people on Frost Mountain, and for good reason.
They did all of Grim Jim’s dirty work, pillaging and murdering at the Ice Melter’s whims. Innocent people died or suffered losses at the hands of Collectors like Johan and the others who had brought him to this very spot before the pit.
He was so lost in thought that he barely registered the movement in his peripheral vision.
Only when he turned his head did he see a prisoner get shoved into the pit.
The man fell into the darkness, eyes wide with terror, hands still bound before him, his mouth open in a scream that sent a cold shiver down Stanley’s spine, even though he barely heard the sound over the drumming in his ears.
A second later, the man was gone, completely engulfed by the darkness.
A hand suddenly clamped down on Stanley’s shoulder, jerking him to his feet.
“Your turn,” Johan said. The man brought his face closer to Stanley’s. “Choose your fate. A fighter like you ... I saw the way you defended your village. You’d be useful to us here. You can join us, or you can follow the other prisoner and find out what’s at the bottom of the pit.”
Stanley expelled a breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding. He knew that nobody who went into that pit came back out. Even people who didn’t know how deep it was or what lurked in its depths knew to be afraid of the gnawing mass of darkness.
I don’t want to go in there, Stanley thought.
The alternative wasn’t so great either.
“Don’t waste our time,” Johan snapped. “Choose, or I’ll choose for you.”
“I’ll never be one of you Collectors,” Stanley spat.
The other man chuckled. “I thought you might say that.”
Quick as lightning, he started dragging Stanley toward the edge of the pit.
“Good riddance,” the man said.
Johan shoved him hard, but Stanley was quicker. He grabbed the man’s arm, holding on to it for all he was worth. Johan’s eyes widened, and he cried out as the momentum of his push sent them both tipping over the edge.
“No!” he yelled.
“If I’m dying,” Stanley said, “I’m not dying alone—you’re coming with me.”
And together, screaming, both men tumbled into the void.