Light My Fire

by G. A. Aiken

  She glanced up and saw the blurry form of Arlais standing there.

  “Yes, Arlais?” Dagmar asked as she leaned back in her chair and put her spectacles on.

  “Would you like some tea, my lady?” Mabsant asked.

  Dagmar shook her head and waited for her daughter to come close.

  “I have a request, Mother,” Arlais stated. As she approached Dagmar’s desk, Adda came out from under it and pressed her big dog head against the child’s neck. It was the only thing that gave Dagmar any comfort. The fact that dogs seemed to love Arlais and, in return, Arlais adored them. If the dogs were terrified of her or aggressive toward her, Dagmar didn’t know what she’d do.

  A knock at the door had Dagmar rolling her eyes—Why is it suddenly so busy in here?—but Mabsant rushed to the door himself.

  While he dealt with the message brought by one of the gate guards, Dagmar returned her focus to her eldest daughter.

  “So what is it?”

  “Auntie Keita has asked me to accompany her and Uncle Ragnar back to the Northlands for a visit.”

  Dagmar thought on that a second, nodded. “All right. I’ll have to talk to your father first, of course, but I doubt he’d say no.”

  “Good. Thank you.”

  Arlais turned away, and Dagmar was about to refocus her attention on the bills. But before she could pull off her spectacles, she sensed that Arlais was standing right next to her.

  She looked up and . . . she was.

  “What is it?”

  “You’re just going to let me go, aren’t you?”

  Dagmar blinked, confused. “What?”

  “When Var wants to go only a few miles away to Uncle Bram’s house you’re all, ‘Over my dead body’ and ‘How can my dearest child leave me?’ But I say I’m going to go all the way to the bloody Northlands and you’re all, ‘Bye! Don’t let the Garbhán Isle gates hit you on the ass!’”

  “Arlais!”

  “You don’t care about me at all, do you?”

  “That’s bloody nonsense!”

  “Is it? Really, Mother? Really?”

  “Stop yelling!”

  “I bet if it was one of those five little bitch sisters of mine, you wouldn’t even think of letting them leave!”

  “The oldest one is seven!”

  “I’m eight!”

  “But a very mature eight!”

  “Oh! You are the worst mother ever!”

  “I don’t know how that’s possible!” Dagmar screamed back. “You’re still alive, aren’t you?”

  The boy tried to run past Elina, but she caught him and held him tight. “No!”

  “I have to get to Uncle Bram! I have to warn him!”

  “I will go!” Kachka whistled for her horse. She started running before it arrived. “Elina, get that boy back to his mother!”

  The horse ran past Elina and Var and caught up to Kachka.

  Kachka reached out and caught hold of the Steppes horse’s mane, launching herself onto its back.

  Elina, still holding Var by his shoulders, turned them both and found her horse already standing there. Waiting.

  “I love this horse,” she told the boy as she walked over and mounted. She reached down and grabbed the boy’s arm, hauling him onto the horse with her.

  “You will wrap your arms around my waist,” she ordered him. “And you will not let go. You will also watch my left side.”

  “Okay. But don’t forget I’m on your left side. I don’t want you mourning me second.”

  “Do not worry, little Var. Just hold on and keep your head low.”

  “Low? Why?”

  Elina turned, her bow raised as she heard something rushing up behind them. She shot two arrows, one after another, and the dragon who’d been charging toward them on all fours reared back with a roar, the arrows hitting him in the mouth he’d been opening to unleash flame on both Elina and Var.

  “That is why,” Elina told the boy before she clicked her tongue against her teeth and the horse sprinted off.

  Frederik had been about to go into Aunt Dagmar’s study, but he heard her and Arlais getting into it before he even reached the door. In no mood for any of that, he kept walking until he was outside. He briefly gazed up at the tower, but . . . no. He was definitely not in the mood to check on that stupid thing either.

  So Frederik kept walking. Past the castle grounds, through the woods, and near a stream. He stopped there and stared at . . . nothing. At least nothing in particular. He just stood there, staring . . . silent.

  Good thing, too—otherwise he never would have heard that distinct sound of something cutting through the air, right over his head.

  And, as Bercelak had trained him again and again, Frederik dropped into a crouch and rolled to the side. When he jumped to his feet, a sword was buried where he’d just been standing.

  At the lake, where his kin stood waiting for orders, Bercelak pointed at three of Addolgar’s sons. “You lot, I want you and . . .” He pointed at three of his nieces. “. . . you three, go with them. I want you in the air, watching—”

  “Bercelak!”

  Bercelak turned to find one of his brothers pointing at him. “Some prissy queen’s guard here to see you?”

  Bercelak went up on his back claws and recognized the red dragon as Aberthol. One of Rhiannon’s guards.

  Assuming he had a message from Celyn, Bercelak motioned Aberthol over with a wave of his claw, then focused on his nieces and nephews.

  “I want you lot in the air, over Garbhán Isle. Look for anything that seems strange or out of place. I don’t care what. If you see something, let your mum or father know and they’ll get in touch with me. Understand?”

  One of Addolgar’s sons raised his claw.

  “What?”

  “Aren’t we in Garbhán Isle, Uncle?”

  Bercelak gritted his fangs together. Say what you would about his sons, at least none of them were this bloody stupid.

  Taking a breath—he’d learned long ago that yelling at Addolgar’s sons did nothing but make them become absolutely useless; they were so bloody sensitive—Bercelak struggled to keep his temper under control.

  “Aye. We are in Garbhán Isle. But . . .” Bercelak’s words faded off when he noticed that his nephew was no longer listening to him, but busy staring behind him.

  That’s when he heard someone—it sounded like bloody Celyn—yell out, “Spear!”

  Bercelak spun around to see Aberthol running toward him, his sword out, his face a mask of rage as he screamed out, “In the name of the one true god I smite thee!”

  Bercelak pulled his sword, but as he raised it, Celyn flew in from above, catching the spear that one of his kin threw to him before he spun in midair to give him power, slammed his wings against his sides, his entire body shooting down.

  Ramming his back legs into the Red’s back, his talons digging past scale and flesh to tear into precious spine, Celyn forced the dragon to the ground and then buried the tip of his spear into the back of Aberthol’s neck. He twisted it one way, then another, until the dragon stopped moving.

  Bercelak stared down at Aberthol’s body.

  “You all right?” Celyn asked.

  Bercelak nodded. “How did you know?”

  “Because you weren’t the only one. They already tried to kill Princess Agrippina.”

  Bercelak shoved his sword back into its sheath. “Rhiannon? You left her?”

  “She’s with Mum.”

  Bercelak opened his maw to argue, but they both knew he couldn’t. Next to being protected by Celyn or Bercelak himself, the queen couldn’t be in better claws.

  “But I don’t think the assassins will go after Rhiannon or Annwyl. I think they want the deaths that will lead to war.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “They kill you, there’s no stopping Rhiannon from going head to head with the Salebiris and the Cult of Chramnesind. I sent Brannie to my father’s, and Izzy and Éibhear to Dagmar. But Brann
ie will need the most backup, I think. Father has more pull with the dragons than Dagmar.”

  “Have you talked to your mum?”

  “Can’t get through to her. Something is blocking the communication between us.”

  “Keep trying.” Bercelak walked through the silent crowd of Cadwaladrs. He pointed at one group. “You lot . . . go to Bram’s. Don’t waste time. Brannie’s on her own.” He pointed at another group while the others took to the air. “You lot to Devenallt. And the rest of you back to Annwyl’s castle to back up Izzy and Éibhear.

  “I’m going back to my mate,” he finally told Celyn. “You go to your father. Last I heard, my grandson Var is with him. Make sure he’s safe.”

  Celyn nodded, unleashed his wings, and was gone.

  Alone, Bercelak looked down at Aberthol’s body. The cult had turned a guard closest to the ruling powers of this land, but they hadn’t ordered him to kill Rhiannon. Probably knew they couldn’t. As protected as Rhiannon was, she was also bloody dangerous on her own.

  But this cult . . . they’d gone after Bercelak instead, not bothering with Rhiannon because they were thinking about long-term and long-lasting damage.

  The realization worried Bercelak more than if they’d tried for Rhiannon and Annwyl. Because now he understood what Fearghus had been trying to tell him for years.

  That whatever was about to happen with these zealots . . . it might just tear their world apart.

  The soldier, a man Frederik didn’t recognize, snarled at him.

  “Little bastard,” he muttered before yanking that blade from the ground and charging him.

  Frederik started to jog backward, but then realized he had nowhere to go. He wasn’t armed, which would just make him a running target that wasn’t nearly as fast as he probably should be with all those days in the library now catching up with him.

  So Frederik didn’t move. He stood his ground and let the soldier run right at him, the blade held high to impale Frederik in the face.

  But as the soldier neared him, Frederik pulled his eating dagger from the belt at his waist, and dropped into a crouch, then brought the dagger in and up, burying it inside the soldier’s thigh.

  With a scream, the soldier went down and Frederik quickly stood to his full height, the bloody blade in his grip, as he heard someone cutting through the trees toward him. He yanked the blade out of the dying soldier’s hand, but he quickly let out a relieved sigh when he saw Izzy and Éibhear.

  “Thank all reason,” he said, panting.

  “Are you all right?” Izzy asked, her hand on his shoulder.

  Frederik briefly watched Éibhear continue to run right by him. “He tried to kill me,” he said of the soldier bleeding out on the ground.

  “I know him,” Izzy said, appearing shocked. “He was once in my platoon.”

  “Where’s Éibhear going?” Frederik asked.

  Izzy’s eyes grew wide. “Fuck. Dagmar.”

  Arlais pointed her finger in Dagmar’s face. “I’m telling Daddy!”

  “You do that! In fact, let’s go find him right now and I’ll tell him myself!”

  Dagmar started to push her chair back, but Adda suddenly brought her big dog head over and gripped Dagmar’s forearm between her jaws.

  Arlais’s eyes widened in panic and she yelled out, “Adda, no!”

  But the dog ignored Arlais and suddenly scrambled back with Dagmar’s arm still caught in her mouth. Afraid the dog would rip it to shreds, Dagmar allowed herself to be dragged out of the chair, across the floor on her knees, and toward the door, where Adda released her, turning her focus on the desk she’d just pulled Dagmar away from.

  That’s when Dagmar saw that her assistant of the last eight years had buried a ceremonial dagger right where Dagmar had been sitting.

  Mabsant looked up, his face an angry snarl. “I should have killed that dog weeks ago,” he growled out.

  He yanked the knife from the chair as Adda charged him.

  “Arlais!” Dagmar screamed. “Run!”

  Arlais ran to the door, but it wouldn’t open. The key broken off in the lock.

  “Help us!” Arlais screamed as she pounded on the door. “Get us out of here!” Dagmar heard someone trying to get in from the other side, bodies ramming into the thick wood.

  Adda wrapped her jaws around Mabsant’s throat and bit down, but the bastard managed to ram his blade into the dog’s chest and inner thighs.

  “No!” Dagmar screamed, getting to her feet.

  Arlais ran back to her side, her small arms around Dagmar’s waist as Mabsant tossed Adda aside.

  The dog had done great damage, but Mabsant was still coming for Dagmar, his bloody dagger raised high.

  Dagmar pushed Arlais behind her and yanked her own eating dagger out of the small belt around her waist.

  But both of them stopped as they heard a strange hissing noise from the back of the study. They looked over and smoke curled from the bookshelves.

  Dagmar assumed it was dragons about to tear down the walls. But then her youngest five girls were standing there, their heads low, their gold eyes locked on Mabsant.

  “Abominationsssss,” he hissed hysterically. “You all need to—”

  They flew at him. Literally. No wings. But their bodies were off the ground and they were on Mabsant in seconds. Fangs tearing into his flesh as they slammed him to the floor.

  His ceremonial blade flipped from his hand and landed at Dagmar’s feet. She thought nothing of it, until Arlais picked it up.

  “Arlais, no!”

  Rhiannon swung her forearms wildly.

  Ghleanna stepped back. “What are you doing?”

  “It’s like gnats!” she complained even as she knew Ghleanna, with her very non-magickal self, would never understand. “All that buzzing around me. It’s annoying!”

  “You’re starting to sound as crazy as Annwyl.”

  “Oh, shut up!”

  “Why don’t just admit you’re wrong. For once in your life, just admit it!”

  “I am not wrong about anything! And . . . and . . . och!” Rhiannon swung her forearms again, the feeling of being covered with something magickal becoming overpowering.

  Unable to stand even a second more, Rhiannon lowered her claws, called a spell to mind, and spoke it while writing runes in the air with magickal flame.

  “There!” she announced triumphantly. “It’s gone!”

  But before Rhiannon could crow too much, the voices of her offspring railed in her head, most in mid-thought, as if they’d been blocked from her hearing all this time.

  Rhiannon looked at Ghleanna. The black She-dragon had her claws to her head, her eyes wide in panic.

  “Bram,” she said.

  “Go,” Rhiannon ordered her.

  “I can’t leave your—”

  “It’s not me they want. So go! Go save our Bram!”

  Brannie was nearing her father’s home when they slammed into her from above, and dragged her to the ground.

  A squadron of dragons that Brannie had fought with before, as both dragon and human. Dragons she’d once called her comrades, she would now call her enemies.

  Brannie brought her head up, slamming it into the dragon who had her pinned facedown.

  “Bitch!” he cried out when she heard bone break.

  Brannie knew she had only seconds to get to her claws or she’d die on her knees.

  She scrambled up, her blade in her hand. She slammed the base against the nearest tree and, as it was designed, it extended to a length and width befitting a She-dragon of her size.

  “You will die, blasphemer,” a green dragon needlessly warned her.

  Brannie grinned. “But first, I will take all of you worthless shits with me.”

  Kachka rode into the rundown courtyard outside Bram the Merciful’s castle. She urged her mare up the stairs and then had the horse rear up on her hindquarters so that when she came down, her hooves smashed the doors open.

  She rode inside and across t
he hall. Bram stood in a circle of men that she now realized were also dragons. Older ones, but still dragons. So Kachka kept moving forward as Bram stared at her with his mouth open, his eyes wide in shock.

  Keeping her right foot in one stirrup and pulling the left one out, Kachka leaned over and down. As she hung from the horse’s side, she gripped her saddle and held on tight as she swung her free arm out when she neared Bram.

  “What the hells are you—oof!”

  She picked up the dragon—thankfully still in his human form—by his waist. The other dragons dashed out of the way in a panic, giving her room to swing Bram up onto the back of her horse.

  “What are you doing?” he demanded once she was sitting back in the saddle and had hold of the reins.

  “Saving your life, dragon. You are welcome.”

  “Kachka, what the hells is going on?”

  Kachka turned a corner. “You are to be assassinated by the zealots of the one-eyed god.”

  “Var—”

  “Is safe. He is with Elina.”

  She turned another corner and saw the back door ahead. Thankfully, it was open.

  “Hold on, Bram the Merciful,” she ordered as the horse reached the doorway. “I will get you—”

  Once past the door, the horse reared up again, took several steps back, then turned in circles.

  The damn thing really had no choice with all those soldiers outside Bram the Merciful’s back door.

  Dagmar grabbed her daughter’s arm, but Arlais easily pulled away and walked over to her sisters.

  Seva pulled back, her face covered in blood. There were so many fangs. So gods-damn many.

  “Finish him,” Seva told Arlais in a voice that did not sound like hers or anything from this world.

  “Arlais . . . don’t.”

  But when Arlais looked over her shoulder at her mother, Dagmar realized that she was no different from her sisters. Not with those gold eyes that were now black with a tinge of dark red around the iris.