by G. A. Aiken
Celyn groaned against her and then his body began to shudder. She knew his climax was seconds away, which for some unknown reason, sent her spiraling into another one that had her screaming into his neck.
They orgasmed, their bodies clenched tightly together until they’d wrung each other dry.
Celyn pulled back a bit, staring down into her face, his dark eyes warm. He looked like he was about to say something when Elina turned her head to the side.
“What is it?” he immediately asked.
She pressed her ear to the ground, nodded. “Someone is coming,” she said. “And, at the moment, it is not us, dragon.”
Elina had been right. She knew long before the interlopers arrived that they were coming. So by the time the male Riders came into view, they were both dressed and armed, Elina with her bow, Celyn with everything else.
Five horsemen rode up to them, stopping their horses as soon as Elina lifted her bow in the air, raising it so that she could send her arrow high and far. As fellow Riders, they knew this, but they didn’t seem to know Elina.
They spoke in a language Celyn didn’t understand, and they all sounded angry, the words spitting out. The discussion went on for a few minutes until the Riders nodded at Elina, turned their horses, and rode off.
Celyn lowered his sword. “What just happened?”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“Why did they ride off? What did you say?”
“I told them who I am. Who my tribe is. And they left. What else was there to say?”
“That several-minutes-long conversation was mostly you giving them your name? And you don’t think your name is too long?”
She rolled her eyes and walked around him. “It is my name, who I am, that will keep us safe on the Steppes. Do not forget that.”
“Were any of you angry?”
She stopped in midst rolling of her bedding. “No. Why?”
“You looked angry. All of you looked angry.”
“That is just way we talk.” She finished rolling her bedding and tying it up tight.
“Well, you’ll need to let me know specifically if you’re in trouble; otherwise, I’ll just start killing everyone. And then my father will be very angry at me. He hates when the Cadwaladrs just start killing.”
Elina stood, clicked her tongue against her teeth. The horse that did not belong to her trotted to her side and stopped so that she could get him ready. “Is that problem for your people? You all just start killing?”
“Not for all of us. Just my kin.” He thought a moment. “And Annwyl. It used to be she was the worst of us. But not lately.”
“I do not see the crazed monster that you all think she is.”
“We never said she was a crazed monster.” Celyn glanced off, winced a bit. “Well, we never say it. Others say it, but not us. But normally she is quick to react. Sometimes with a good outcome . . . sometimes not so good.”
“But she has many around to help, does she not? Your father. The Reinholdt Beast. That ten-year-old boy with his mother’s heartless, cold eyes. Even you.”
“Me?”
Elina finished securing her saddle to her horse and everything else to her saddle. She faced Celyn. “You are helping her now.”
“I am?”
“You are here, with me, in the Outerplains. That is helping.”
“Is it?”
“I do not understand you, dragon.” She mounted her horse and settled in the saddle. “When you help, you do not see it. When you do nothing, you think you save world.”
Celyn almost joked about saving the world just by being who he was every day, but no one had ever told him he was helpful before. Like all Cadwaladrs, he was expected to do his job. Nothing more, nothing less. But a little appreciation was kind of a lovely thing.
He walked over to Elina and placed his arms loosely around her hips. Leaning in a bit, he kissed her. A soft, gentle kiss. Not the wild devouring from the night before.
“What was that for?” she asked when he finally—and grudgingly—pulled back.
“Because I felt like it.”
“Oh. All right then.” And, after a few seconds: “Are you going to keep staring into my eyes like thoughtful oxen or are you going to mount up and ride, so we can meet with the tribes before I die of old age?”
“You’re already kind of old—owwww! No need to start punching!”
Gavrilovich Trifonov of the Bear Hunters of the Heartless Clouds in the Far Reaches of the Steppes of the Outerplains rode to the territorial lines between the Outerplains and the Annaig Valley.
He was about to turn the horse and head up the line when his brother stopped him. “I think they come to talk.”
Gavrilovich had seen the mounted Annaig Valley Protectors—knights in armor who provided protection to the lands—but he saw them almost every time any of them got a little too close to the territorial lines. Yet they rarely bothered to speak to each other.
The three Protectors stopped right at the line where Outerplains became Annaig Valley. The knight in the middle raised his hand in greeting.
“Good day to you, mighty Riders,” he said in the language of Gavrilovich’s people, a big smile on his face.
Gavrilovich nodded. “Morn.”
“We were wondering if you saw a man and a woman passing this way. Nothing’s wrong, of course, but our local priest would like to spend some time with them.”
Gavrilovich shrugged. “Sorry. We haven’t seen anyone coming this way in days.”
“All right,” the knight said, his smile never fading. It was so bright, it nearly blinded poor Gavrilovich’s eyes. “Well, thank you for your help. Good day to you, mighty Rider. May death find you well.”
Gavrilovich watched the Protectors ride off, muttering under his breath, “And may death find you.”
“Why did you not tell them about the Black Bear Rider and her oversized slave?” his brother asked.
“We tell them nothing about the people of the Steppes.” He turned in his saddle and looked right at his men. “Ever. I never trust anyone who smiles that much.”
“It’s like looking at the suns,” his cousin grumbled.
“Now come,” Gavrilovich ordered. “We still have to check the rest of the line and then I have to get back to pick up my girls from battle practice.” He glanced at his brother. “The youngest is only ten passing summers and they’re already doing well.”
“Of course. They have shoulders like their mother—and short tempers like bulls raging in field. How could you not be proud?”
The farther they traveled through the Outerplains that day, the more Celyn had to admit that he knew nothing about this territory.
Any time he’d cut through the land, whether it was with human armies or dragon, he’d always gone through the narrow eastern part on the other side of the Conchobar Mountains. It was a much shorter trip and had some farms, a few towns, and definitely forests. One of Rhiannon’s sisters lived a nice, quiet life in that area. And even when marching as human, it took very little time to get to the Northlands through there.
Yet the farther west they traveled through the Outerplains, the fewer trees—and the ones they saw were more like sturdy bushes—and the more grasslands they rode through. It was, as Elina had said, beautiful country.
But like most truly beautiful things, heartless. Living out here was clearly not for the weak. One could travel for leagues and see nothing but grassy stretches of nothingness. Even the mountains that appeared so close turned out to be far away, almost as if they moved back if anyone came near.
To travel this land, alone or with others, year-round, season after season . . . Celyn couldn’t imagine it. Couldn’t imagine seeing nothing but miles of grassland; feeling nothing but the brutal Steppes winds rushing by; hearing nothing but the occasional hawk cawing in the distance.
They did pass a few travelers, but other than a head nod, there was little communication.
No. Celyn couldn’t do it. He couldn�
��t live out here. He’d thought the Northlands were bad with their snow and so few females to keep him warm, but he’d been wrong. At least there he’d eventually find a town. A town that had a pub. There’d be ale and warmth. There’d be talk. Lots of it, even if it was the guttural, low conversation of a Northlander.
But even that was better than this.
Gods, anything was better than this.
Celyn’s roar echoed out over the Steppes, and the horse Elina rode immediately stopped. The horse didn’t panic. At least not like Celyn’s horse, which reared up at his master’s sudden explosion, almost unseating the dragon.
Elina turned in her saddle. “What?”
“How do you stand this?” the dragon demanded, barely managing to keep control of that panicked travel-cow he rode.
“Stand what?”
“The silence! No people! Nothing! There’s been nothing! I feel like we’ve been traveling in this hell for days!”
“It has been one hour since we left camp.”
“What has that got to do with anything?”
With a sad shake of her head, Elina turned back around and set off again.
“That is not an answer, woman!”
He’d been forced to travel that hellscape for a whole entire day before they finally set up camp that night. At least then Celyn had been able to talk to Elina until his throat was raw, which was about the time she’d pounced on him, pinning him to the ground with her naked body and begging him to, “Shut up. By all the horse gods in all the worlds, shut up!”
That order had led to a lusty bout of more naked wrestling, something he was enjoying more and more each night he spent with her.
Then, finally, sleep. Until he woke up to hear Elina crying out.
When Celyn opened his eyes, he was already standing, his sword clutched in his hand, his human body in the first battle stance he’d ever learned from his mother. Ghleanna would be proud of how well she’d taught him all those years ago when he was still a hatchling, hanging from her tail.
But, when Celyn finally realized where he was and what was going on, he saw that they were alone and safe, but Elina was having one hells of a dream.
Naked, she’d tossed her fur covering off her body and was sweating, despite the wicked cold of the Steppes. Her arms swung and batted, as if she was trying to ward off something terrible.
Celyn dropped his sword and crouched at her side.
“Elina,” he said, stroking her shoulder. “Elina! Wake up!”
She did, still screaming. Almost begging. And, when she saw Celyn over her, she did something quite shocking.
She threw herself into his arms, her entire body shaking—which he sensed was not from the cold.
Arms around her, Celyn held her tight, assured that he was at least keeping her warm.
“Elina, what is it?”
“Nothing, nothing.” She gripped him tighter. “Just bad dream.”
Although Celyn wanted to ask what her dream was about, what could be so horrifying as to terrify a woman who spent all day wishing everyone a good meeting with death, he knew the last thing she needed was his questions.
Showing weakness was not something Elina did. Ever. No matter what her tribe might think of her. But she was showing it now, to him, and he would respect her by not being . . . well . . . himself.
It took some time, but eventually her body stopped shaking, and she finally pulled away from him. She stood and walked over to a large boulder. Celyn watched as, naked, she climbed up on it, and sat down. She raised her knees and wrapped her arms around them.
Celyn began to follow her, to slide in behind her, and hold her. But, again, something told him that wasn’t what she wanted. So he tried something else.
Elina sat on the large boulder and stared up at the sky. She worked hard to control her racing heart, her desire to flee.
By the horse gods, how desperately she wanted to flee. Not from Celyn. He was perhaps the only reason she’d gotten this far. His constant questions and chatter had kept her so distracted that she hadn’t had time to think about returning to her tribe. To Glebovicha. To that woman’s mocking tone, her obvious hatred, her utter disgust at Elina’s very presence.
Celyn continually marveled at how strong a hunter Elina was, but hunting and horses had always been Elina’s escape. She could track a lone buck through the mountains and take him down with one shot since she’d passed her twelfth summer, ensuring that she could always provide food or live on her own if it was ever necessary. And after she met with Glebovicha about Annwyl’s request, something told Elina that would be necessary.
Elina stared up at the sky, allowing the wonderful silence of the Steppes to ease her panicked soul . . . until she heard the breathing.
She turned her head and saw scales.
“Climb on,” Celyn said in his deep voice, ten times deeper when in his dragon form.
She liked that.
Without hesitation, Elina climbed onto Celyn’s back, her naked body kept warm by his natural heat and all that black hair.
She kept close to his neck, her legs wrapped around it, her hands pressed against the back of it. Elina felt no fear being this close to a being that she knew could eat her whole . . . like a little treat before a larger meal. She felt safe with Celyn the Dolt. Had felt safe with him from the very beginning. From the day he’d found her standing on Devenallt Mountain, trying to decide whether to run—and bring shame upon herself—throw herself at the mercy of the Dragon Queen and most likely get eaten, or simply throw herself off Devenallt Mountain so she wouldn’t have to worry about any of her problems, Elina had felt safe with Celyn. She’d instinctually felt he’d never hurt her, even though she had no idea why she felt that way.
So sitting on his dragon back, his scales rubbing against her naked thighs and legs as he breathed or moved the slightest bit, did not scare her. If anything . . . she loved the feel of it.
“Watch this,” he quietly ordered. “The queen taught me this. I’m not as good as her, but I’m not bad either.”
The dragon took in a breath and then unleashed his flame. It wasn’t the big explosion of fire and death that she’d seen when he’d confronted those who’d killed the old dragon. It was just as deadly, but there was an elegance to the flame as it moved across the Steppes, zigging this way and that, cutting down layers of grass. It was fascinating to watch, but Elina assumed he was just showing off his flame to her. Like a man showing her what he could do with a sword or trying to impress her with the accuracy of his bow.
Then Celyn rose into the air. Not too high, just high enough for her to see the ground below in the bright moonlight overhead.
The lines of what he’d burned into the ground were simple and clean. Like a beautiful drawing.
“What is that?” she asked, assuming it was some sort of dragon rune.
“Your name in dragon script.”
Elina gasped, surprisingly shocked by his answer. Perhaps because it was so simple and yet so . . . charming.
Damn him! He was Celyn the Charming!
“Want to fly for a bit?” he asked.
“I do.”
“Then burrow close to my neck and wrap my hair around you. That will keep you warm. And hold on.”
She did as Celyn bade as he rose high in the air and began a leisurely loop around the Steppes, giving her another view of the lands she loved so much.
It almost made her forget what had made her wake up screaming in the middle of the night. Not completely . . . but almost.
Honestly, that was more than she could have ever asked for.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Frederik had his shield up while he kneeled beneath it. The battle-axe rammed into the steel over and over again.
Finally, after a few minutes, it stopped, and he let out a breath.
“You going to keep hiding under there?”
“I’m not hiding,” Frederik lied. “I’m . . . biding my time. Before launching a brutal counterattack.”
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The shield was snatched from his hands with more ease than he cared to think about, and Bercelak the Great stared down at him.
“Brutal counterattack? Really?” The dragon held his hand out, and Frederik grasped it, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet.
“You give up too easy, boy.”
“I know. I saw the axe and I panicked. But let’s try again.”
Bercelak nodded. “Aye. We’ll try again.”
Picking his sword back up, Frederik readjusted his shield and his stance. He nodded at Bercelak.
But before the dragon could make his first swing, Addolgar dropped from the skies into the training ring with them, several Cadwaladr right behind him.
“Brother,” Addolgar greeted happily. “And small Northland human.”
“What have you got there?” Bercelak asked about the squirming bundle Addolgar held.
“This is the Baron Roscommon.”
Bercelak sneered in disgust. “The one who killed old Costentyn?”
“That’s the one. Celyn told me to take him to Annwyl since he’s one of her subjects.”
“Annwyl’s in her library. Take him to her.”
“I’d suggest,” Frederik cut in, “that we not do that.”
The brothers looked at each other and back at Frederik.
“Really?” Bercelak asked. “You suggest we not do that? Then what do you suggest that we do?”
“Aunt Dagmar has worked hard to . . . tamp down a few of Queen Annwyl’s more endearing . . . qualities.”
Addolgar chuckled at that, but his brother just snorted and said, “Get to your point, boy.”
“I’m concerned that once she knows what happened with Roscommon and his people, she will react harshly.”
“The boy’s got a point, brother. Celyn figures the people of that city have already suffered enough with most of the able-bodied men dead. But Annwyl may feel different.”