Ice Country

Published by David Estes at Smashwords

Copyright 2013 David Estes

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal
enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to
other people. If you would like to share this book with another
person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If
you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not
purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com
and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work
of this author.

Discover other exciting titles by David Estes
available through the author’s official website:

http://davidestesbooks.blogspot.com

or through select online retailers.

Young-Adult Books by David Estes

The Dwellers Saga:

Book One—The Moon Dwellers

Book Two—The Star Dwellers

Book Three—The Sun Dwellers

Book Four—The Earth Dwellers (Coming
September 2013!)

The Country Saga by David Estes (A sister
series to The Dwellers Saga):

Book One—Fire Country

Book Two—Ice Country

Book Three—Water & Storm Country (Coming
June 7, 2013!)

The Evolution Trilogy:

Book One—Angel Evolution

Book Two—Demon Evolution

Book Three—Archangel Evolution

Children’s Books by David Estes

The Nikki Powergloves Adventures:

Nikki Powergloves- A Hero is Born

Nikki Powergloves and the Power Council

Nikki Powergloves and the Power Trappers

Nikki Powergloves and the Great Adventure

Nikki Powergloves vs. the Power Outlaws
(Coming in 2013!)

This book is dedicated to my incredible team
of beta readers.

Your kindness, selflessness, and gently
honest feedback

has helped craft this series more than you
may realize.

I
t all starts with a
girl. Nay, more like a witch. An evil witch, disguised as a young
seventeen-year-old princess, complete with a cute button nose, full
red lips, long dark eyelashes, and deep, mesmerizing baby blues.
Not a real, magic-wielding witch, but a witch just the same.

Oh yah, and a really good throwing arm. “Get
out!” she screams, flinging yet another ceramic vase in my general
direction.

I duck and it rebounds off the wall, not
shattering until it hits the shiny marble floor. Thousands of
vase-crumbles crunch under my feet as I scramble for the door. I
fling it open and slip through, slamming it hard behind me. Just in
time, too, as I hear the thud of something heavy on the other side.
Evidently she’s taken to throwing something new, maybe boots or
perhaps herself.

Luckily, her father’s not home, or he’d
probably be throwing things too. After all, he warned his daughter
about Brown District boys.

Taking a deep breath, I cringe as a spout of
obscenities shrieks through the painted-red door and whirls around
my head, stinging me in a dozen places. You’d think
I
was
the one who ran around with a four-toed eighteen-year-old womanizer
named LaRoy. (That’s LaRoy with a “La”, as he likes to say.) As it
turns out, I think
La
Roy has softer hands than she does.

As I slink away from the witch’s upscale
residence licking my wounds, I try to figure out where the chill I
went wrong. Despite her constant insults, narrow-mindedness, and
niggling reminders of how I am nothing more than a lazy,
liquid-ice-drinking, no-good scoundrel, I think I managed to treat
her pretty well. I was faithful, always there for her—not once was
I employed while courting her—and known on occasion to show up at
her door with gifts, like snowflake flowers or frosty delights from
Gobbler’s Bakery down the road. She said the flowers made her feel
inadequate, on account of them being too beautiful—as if there was
such a thing—and the frosty’s, well, she said I gave them to her to
make her fat.

She was my first ever girlfriend from the
White District. I should’ve listened to my best friend, Buff, when
he said it would end in disaster.

Now I wish I hadn’t wasted my gambling
winnings on the likes of her.

In fact, it was just yesterday morning when I
last stopped by to deliver some sweet treats, only to hear the
obvious sounds of giggling and flirting wafting through the red
wood of her father’s elegant front door. Needless to say, I was on
the wrong side of things, and much to my frustration the door was
barred by something heavy.

So I waited.

And waited.

After about three hours her father returned
home, and soft-hands LaRoy emerged looking more pleased with
himself than a young child taking its first step. In much less time
than it took for the witch to put the smile on his face, I wiped it
off, using a couple of handfuls of ever-present snow and my
rougher-than-bark hands. I capped him off with matching black eyes
and a slightly crooked, heavily bleeding nose. He screamed like a
girl and ran away crying tears that froze on his cheeks well before
they made it to his chin.

Hence the big-time breakup today.

Best of luck, witch, I hope crooked-nosed
LaRoy makes you very happy.

Why do I always pick the wrong kinds of
girls? Answer: because the wrong kinds of girls usually pick
me.

Since my formal schooling ended when I was
fourteen, I’ve had a total of three girlfriends, one each year.
None ended well, as endings usually go.

Walking down the snow-covered street, I
mumble curses at the beautiful stone houses on either side. The
White District, full of the best and the richest people in ice
country. And the witch, too, of course, the latest girl to add to
my so-not-worth-the-time-and-effort list.

I pull my collar tight against the icy wind,
and head for my other girlfriend’s place, Fro-Yo’s, a local pub
with less atmosphere than booze, where a mug of liquid ice will
cost you less than a minute’s pay and the rest of your day. Okay,
the pub’s not really my girlfriend, but sometimes I wish it was.
I’ve been drinking there since I turned sixteen and passed the “age
of responsibility”.

Although it’s barely midmorning, Fro’s is
open and full of customers. But then again, the pub is always open
and full of customers. We might not have jobs, but we’ll support
Yo, the pub owner, just the same.

Snow is piled up in drifts against the gray
block-cut stone of the pubhouse, recently shoveled after last
night’s dumping. Yo’s handiman, Grimes, is hunched against the wind
with a shovel, clearing away the last of it along the side, leaving
a slip-free path to the outhouse, which will be essential later on,
when half the joint gets up at the same time to relieve themselves.
There are two things that don’t mix: liquid ice and real ice. I’ve
seen more broken bones and near broken necks than I’d like around
this place.

“Mornin’, Grimes,” I say as I pass.

Grimes doesn’t look up, his matted gray hair
a dangling mess of moisture and grease, but mumbles something that
sounds a lot like, “Icin’ neverendin’ colder’n chill night storms…”
I think there’s more but I stop listening when he starts swearing.
I’ve had enough of that for one day. And yet, I push through the
door of the obscenity capital of ice country.

“Dazz! I was wondering when you’d freezin’
show up,” my best friend says when I enter. Following protocol, I
stamp the snow off my boots on the mat that says
Stamp Here
,
and tromp across the liquid-ice-stained floorboards. Buff kicks out
a stool at the bar as I approach. He’s grinning like an icin’
fool.

For a moment the place goes silent, as half
the patrons stare at me, but as soon as they recognize me as one of
the regulars, the dull drone of conversation continues, mixing with
the clink of tin jugs and gulps of amber liquid ice.

“Get a ’quiddy for Dazz,” Buff shouts to Yo
above the din. The grizzled pub owner and bartender sloshes the
contents of a dirty, old pitcher into a tinny and slides it along
the bar. Well-practiced bar sitters dodge the frothing jug as it
skates to a stop directly in front of me. As always, Yo’s aim is
perfect.

“Thanks,” I shout. Yo nods his pockmarked
forehead in my direction and strokes his gray-streaked brown beard
thoughtfully, as if I’ve just said something filled with wisdom,
before heading off to refill another customer’s jug. He doesn’t get
many thanks around this place.

“Out with it,” Buff says, slapping me on the
shoulder. His sharp green eyes reflect even the miniscule shreds of
daylight that manage to sneak through the dirt-smudged windows.

“Out with what?”

Shaking his head, he runs a hand through his
dirty-blonde hair. “Uh, the big breakup with her highness, Queen
Witch-Bitch herself. It’s all anyone’s been talking about all
morning. Where’ve you been? I’ve been dying to get all the
details.”

Elbows on the bar, I lean my head against my
fist. “It just happened! How the chill do you know already?”

Buff laughs. “You know as well as anyone that
word travels scary fast in this town.”

I do. Normally, though, the gossip’s about me
getting broken up with after having done something freeze-brained,
not the other way around. “What are they saying?” I ask, taking a
sip of ’quiddy and relishing the warmth in my throat and chest.

Buff’s excitement seems to wane. He stares at
his half-empty mug. “You don’t wanna know,” he says, and then
finishes off the last half of his tinny in a series of
throat-bobbing gulps.

“Tell me,” I push.

“Look, Dazz…” Buff lowers his voice, a deep
rumble that only I can hear. “…the thing about girls is, when you
want ’em they’re scarcer than a ray of sunshine in ice country, and
when you don’t, they’re on you like a double-wide fleece blanket.”
Now I’m the one looking at my unfinished drink, because, for once,
one of Buff’s snowballs of wisdom is spot on. I thought I wanted
the witch—because of her looks—but as soon as I got to know her I
wanted to toss her out with the mud on my boots.

Using my knuckles, I knock myself in the head
three times, exactly like I rapped on the witch’s door this morning
before it all went down.
Don’t ask, don’t ask, don’t ask
, I
mentally command myself. “What are they saying?” I ask, repeating
myself. Having not listened to my own internal advice, I feel like
knocking my skull against the heavy, wooden bar a few dozen more
times, but I manage to restrain myself as I wait for Buff’s
response.

“Well…some of them are saying good sticks for
you, she got what she deserved, Brown District pride and all that
bullshiver. You know the shiv I mean, right?”

All too well. I nod. “And the others?”

Buff chews on his lip, as if deciding how to
break something to me lightly.

“Give it to me straight,” I say.

He sighs. “You know tomorrow they’ll move
onto the next freezin’ bit of juicy gossip, right?”

“Buff,” I say, a warning in my voice. I know
what’s coming, so I tilt my tinny back, draining every last drop in
a single burning gulp.

“If I tell you, promise me you won’t start
anything—I’m not in the mood.”

Looking directly into his black pupils, I
say, “I promise.”

He rolls his eyes, knowing full well I just
lied to him. Then he tells me anyway. “Coker’s been saying the
witch was too good for you, that she shoulda dumped your
Mountain-fearin’ arse a long time ag—”

I’m on my feet and breaking my false promise
before Buff can even finish telling me. My stool clatters to the
floor, but I barely notice it. I get a bead on Coker, who’s between
two of his stone cutting mates, laughing about something.
Regardless of what it is, and even though they’ve probably moved on
from discussing me and the witch already, I pretend it’s about me.
About how I’m not good enough for someone in the White District.
About how I’m lazy and good for nothing.

My fists clench and my jaw hardens as heat
rises in my chest. Always aware of what’s happening in his pub, Yo
says, “Now, Dazz, don’t start nuthin’, remember the last time…”

“Dazz, hold up,” Buff says, his feet
scuffling along behind me.

I ignore them both.

When I reach Coker he’s already half-turned
around, as if sensing me coming. I spin him the rest of the way and
slam my fist right between his eyes. A two for one special, like
down at the market. Two black eyes for the price of one. His head
snaps back and thuds gruesomely off the bar, but, like any
stonecutter, he’s tougher than dried goat meat, and rebounds with a
heavy punch of his own, which glances off my shoulder, sending
vibrations through my arm.