by G. A. Aiken
But before his fingers could touch the animal’s soft pelt, a blast of flame singed his human fingers.
“Gods-dammit! What was that for?”
“You have to be the most selfish dragon I’ve ever met,” Rhona accused. “And considering my kin—that’s truly saying something.”
“What did I do now?”
“Ren needs to eat.”
“So? Let him eat.”
“You’ve devoured all the dried beef and bread we had. You haven’t even asked any of us if we’re hungry or not.”
Vigholf shrugged. “I asked Keita. But she—”
“Keita? You asked Keita? Keita who’s not doing any Magicks to protect her nieces and nephew? Keita who’s not protecting anyone? Keita who’s done nothing but talk about all the bloody dresses she plans to get—not buy mind, but get—when she arrives in Dark Plains? She’s the one you’re making sure is fed?”
Vigholf cleared his throat, scratched the back of his neck. “Well . . . yeah.”
Rhona’s eyes narrowed and she shoved him back from the carcass. “I’m giving this to Ren. You can bring your precious Keita something else that you caught or killed.”
“That deer wasn’t for her. It was for me. I’m hungry.”
“Again?” Rhona gawked up at him. “How can you be hungry again? You’ve done nothing but eat all day. Now that I think about it, I’ve never seen a dragon eat while flying.”
“Then clearly you’re not putting in enough effort.” Rhona’s eyes narrowed again, and Vigholf, in no mood to fight with her, quickly put his hands up. “There’s more deer over in that glen. I’ll grab one of those.”
“Good.”
Rhona crouched beside the carcass and proceeded to skin it.
Vigholf watched her for a time until he asked, “How’s the Eastlander doing anyway?”
“He’s tired. To-his-bones tired.”
“You’re worried about him.”
“Aye. I am.”
“You two seem . . . close.”
Rhona gave a good yank and removed the deer’s pelt with her bare hands. “Aye. I guess we are.”
“How close?”
She tossed the pelt aside and looked up at Vigholf. “What?”
“How close are you to the one your sisters refer to as the ‘handsome foreigner’?”
“Why are you asking?”
“Why won’t you tell me?”
“Because it’s none of your business?”
“And what exactly is none of my business? What are you hiding from me?”
Rhona stood, flicking the deer blood and pulp from her hands. “I hide nothing from you, but my business and my personal life are my own. Even my mother doesn’t ask me these sorts of questions.”
“I’m not your mother.”
“No. So you have even less right.”
“Then answer me this,” he quickly said before she could walk off. “Are you two . . . attached?”
She snorted a small laugh. “No. Not like that. We’re . . . old friends.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Unattached old friends. So leave it be.”
Except Vigholf wasn’t sure he could.
Rhona blasted the deer with her flame, using the power of it to turn the carcass over and over until it was wonderfully roasted on all sides. She reached for it and lifted it onto her shoulder. That’s when Vigholf asked, “Do you want to be attached?”
Rhona froze. All these questions were beginning to get strange. Then again, the barbarian was strange.
“Attached to what?”
“A mate of your own.”
“Guess I hadn’t thought much about it. Why?”
“No reason.”
“How could you have no reason to ask me that?” Rhona snapped.
“Because I don’t.”
“Well, you don’t have to snarl!” She turned away from him.
“But,” he said to her back, “you’re not against having a mate?”
Rhona faced him again. “Why are you asking me these questions?”
“Because I’m curious.”
“Well, be curious with another female.”
“Why? What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing’s wrong with me except that I’d never settle for a male who wouldn’t fight with me in battle.”
“I’ve been fighting with you in battle for five years.”
“Not willingly.”
“That’s ox shit. When have I ever said—”
“‘Females . . . fighting by my side?’” Rhona imitated in her low, making-fun-of-Vigholf voice that she used to entertain the triplets. “‘When did the hells come to earth?’”
He blinked. “Oh. All right. I may have said those words before, but—”
“But what?”
“But not when it’s been you. I’ve never said those words about you. You’ve impressed me from the beginning.”
“How very big of you,” she snipped, again turning away from him. “You lunkhead.”
Rhona took a few steps, but Vigholf cut in front of her. “I’ll admit that my opinion of female fighters was that there were none. But,” he quickly added when she hissed, “you and your sisters have changed my opinion on that belief. Shame I can’t say the same about you believing all Northlanders are barbarians.”
“You are all barbarians.”
“Even Ragnar?”
“Well . . . no. But he’s different. Special.”
Vigholf ’s left eye twitched and she suddenly felt fear for Ragnar’s safety. But, after a moment, Vigholf went on. “And has any of my brethren tried kidnapping one of you, forcing you into a Claiming?”
Rhona rolled her eyes. “No.”
He took a step toward her, slowly closing the gap between them. “Have some of us not proven ourselves to be excellent strategists in battle rather than berserkers you need to leash between fights?”
“I guess.”
Another step. “Haven’t we been polite and considerate to all the female warriors even when they’re throwing ale, starting fights, and generally being a bit crazed?”
She let out a breath. “Most of you, yes.”
“Then how about giving us a break? Giving me a break?” Another step. “Since we’re all doing so well, that is.”
They were nearly touching now, his grey eyes gazing down at her.
“I have to get this meat to Ren,” she said. “He needs to eat before we can return to the skies.”
“All right.”
But he didn’t move or stop looking at her that way. She couldn’t explain what that way was—but it was that way. So Rhona forced herself to walk around him and slowly headed back to her cousin and friend.
Although to be honest, she really wanted to make a run for it. She just didn’t know why.
Chapter 8
Morfyd the White, Eldest Daughter and Third-Born Offspring of Dragon Queen Rhiannon, Heir to the Queen’s Magicks, and Battle Mage for Queen Annwyl’s Army, tracked down her human mate.
She rode her horse around hurrying troops, cooks, riders, scouts, and all the others that made up a human queen’s army.
“Morfyd?” Her human mate, Brastias, general of Queen Annwyl’s army, pushed his men aside to stand by her. “What is it?”
“We move now for the Euphrasia Valley.”
“So soon? I thought we had a few more—”
“The Sovereigns aren’t pulling back. They’ve moved out. Heading to the Valley.”
Brastias glanced out over what had been their battleground for nearly five years. His laugh was a little bitter. “I’d hoped they’d been running from our relentless onslaught.” He looked up at her. “But they’re off to help the Irons.”
“Aye. They’re already heading there.”
“You’ve seen it.”
“I’ve seen what the gods have shown me.”
“Could the gods be lying?”
“Of course. But we both know they aren’t this time.”
Brastias
nodded. “So we follow.”
“Take the Eastern Pass. If I remember the terrain correctly, you’ll be able to cut the Sovereign army in half.”
He nodded, turned to the commanders of Annwyl’s legions. “We move. Now,” he ordered. “Bring only what each man needs. No more.”
“And Annwyl?” one of the commanders asked.
So Brastias wouldn’t have to lie to his men, Morfyd quickly answered, “I go to her now. But everyone is moving at this moment. Understand?”
The commander’s eyes narrowed a bit, but he wasn’t about to challenge Morfyd. Although her reputation was nothing like Annwyl’s—Morfyd simply didn’t have the body count to her name—they still knew Morfyd was a She-dragon not to be trifled with.
The men left to get their legions moving and Brastias wrapped his hand around her ankle, sweetly squeezing it.
“Anything?” he asked, his voice very quiet.
“No. Annwyl and the others are blocked from my sight.”
“Also down to your helpful gods?”
“I really don’t know. The west, past the Aricia Mountains, has always been blocked from my sight and my mother’s. Whether that’s due to the gods or a very powerful witch or mage . . . I do not know.”
“Don’t worry, luv. If there has always been one thing I’ve had faith in, it’s been our mad queen.”
Morfyd leaned down in her saddle and kissed Brastias. When she pulled away, she whispered, “Watch your back, my love. There are always those working against our queen and those loyal to her.”
“Aye,” he answered sadly. “That I do know.”
She left him then, knowing she’d stay behind for a bit. She’d stay behind and wait. Although she had no idea why. And watching Annwyl’s men scramble to head off for more blood and death in battle under Annwyl’s banner, Morfyd realized she no longer had any choice but to do what she’d been resisting since she’d realized Annwyl had gone off with Morfyd’s cousin and niece.
She would now have to contact her mother.
When they were no more than three miles outside of Garbhán Isle, Ren suddenly stopped, bringing the rest of them up short. The Eastlander looked so tired that if Dark Plains had been any farther away, Vigholf would have had to carry him.
“What is it?” Rhona asked Ren.
“They know I’m here. The Kyvich. And they are not pleased.”
“Why?”
“Perhaps they know what I’m doing. I don’t know.”
“You wait here.” Rhona motioned to Vigholf. “Watch them while I let the others know we’re here. The last thing we want is the Kyvich to panic over Ren’s presence and all my cousins need to see is a bloody Lightning about before they—”
Rhona shoved him. A good thing too with that giant, steel spear shooting straight at him. But Rhona’s brown claws caught it in mid-flight, the steel tip inches from Vigholf’s throat. The pair stared at each other.
“Thank you,” he murmured.
“You’re welcome,” Rhona replied just before a big fist slammed into the back of Vigholf’s head, shoving him forward.
Rhona flew out of the way when Vigholf was suddenly moving toward her due to that silver-scaled fist to the back of his head. Then another fist, this time black, slammed into the Lightning, forcing Vigholf back. But it wasn’t some enemy dragons who’d followed them to Dark Plains, but her Uncle Addolgar, the Silver—and good gods! Her father!
While both males mercilessly pummeled Vigholf within an inch of his life, Rhona shoved the spear into Keita’s hands, ignoring the royal’s squeal when it nearly dragged her to the ground below, and quickly flew between the battling males.
“Daddy! Addolgar! No!”
Her father stopped immediately, but Addolgar kicked Vigholf in the face, sending the Lightning flipping back in midair.
She cringed, feeling bad for the Northlander. But seeing her father again . . .
Heartless female! He was getting battered by the wench’s kin, and instead of coming to his defense, she was busy hugging some bloody Fire Breather. Where was the loyalty?
The older silver dragon had his broadsword out, aiming it toward Vigholf’s head. Vigholf yanked his hammer off his back, swinging it through the air, mostly to block the sword. But if he happened to hit the dragon’s head in the process . . .
But before Vigholf’s hammer could hit anything, it was caught and held in a strong claw, as was the older dragon’s sword.
“My daughter,” the big black dragon with red-tinged scales told them calmly, “said to stop. So you’ll stop. Even you, Addolgar.”
The Silver snarled and yanked his broadsword away. “Someone should have warned us you were coming here, Northlander. Thought you were a threat. Didn’t realize you were just more Lightning scum.”
“I’m so glad we have that truce with you,” Vigholf muttered, wiping the blood that dripped from his nostrils.
“Uncle Addolgar fought against Northlanders in at least three wars, including against your father,” Rhona explained. “So you shouldn’t take it personally that he sees you all as worthless scum.”
Vigholf stared at the female. “How does that help the situation?” he demanded.
“I’ll escort you back,” the black dragon told them all, his smirk reminding Vigholf of Rhona, “so the Lightning can arrive without being accosted. Poor, weak little thing.”
“Daddy,” Rhona—barely—chastised.
The dragon laughed and, after taking the steel spear from a still-struggling Keita and tossing it back to Rhona, headed toward Garbhán Isle, Keita and Ren beside him. Vigholf caught Rhona’s forearm. “Daddy?”
“Be glad he was here, Lightning. He’s one of the few strong enough to stop my Uncle Addolgar from doing anything.”
Rhona made her way back to the castle, flying over the gates and landing in the courtyard.
The castle grounds weren’t at all like Rhona remembered. Instead of the cheerful place with all the vendors in the courtyard and outside the castle grounds, it had become a military outpost. Siege weapons lined the inside of the walls and someone had begun to build a moat. Only a small portion was finished, but already there was something alive and rather unfriendly looking swimming in the murky water.
No. This wasn’t the place she remembered.
Rhona nodded at cousins, smiled at aunts and uncles, but it was her father she ran to, her father whose arms she threw herself into.
“My girl,” Sulien the Smithy whispered, gripping her tight. “My beautiful, precious girl.”
“Oh, Daddy, I’ve missed you so.”
“And I you.” He stepped back, looked her over, and smiled. “So beautiful.”
She handed over the stainless steel spear that had nearly impaled the Lightning. “Not one of yours,” she noted.
“You know my work.” He leaned in, whispered, “This is shoddy.” He motioned to the emergency spear strapped to her back. “And where’s your spear?”
Rhona glared over at the Lightning who’d landed behind her father. “It’s in pieces,” she complained.
“It was an accident,” Vigholf shot back. “I told you I was sorry.”
“But you didn’t mean it!”
“Don’t worry,” her father soothed. “I have something for you anyway.” His brown eyes sparkled. “Something better.”
Rhona grinned, feeling real excitement. “What? Tell me!”
“Get settled in first. I’m sure you’re here for a reason, so finish all that, then find me at the forge.”
Her father smiled at her, his claw petting her cheek. “Glad you’re back, little one. Will you be staying long?”
“I’ll probably head back tomorrow.”
“Then we’ll make the most of our time today.”
Chapter 9
“We’re heading back tomorrow?” Vigholf asked Rhona once her father was gone. “You don’t think they need us here?”
“Unless my orders change . . .”
“Right, right.” Gods, this woman and
her bloody orders. “I just don’t want to leave this place undefended.”
For a brief moment he saw the concern on Rhona’s face, but then one of the Kyvich walked between them, ignoring the much bigger dragons surrounding her. The witch carried the head of some human male. It looked to be a foreigner, but still.... “Jesella,” the witch called out and tossed the head to another witch. “You know what to do with that. Tonight’s a full moon.”
“Where’s the rest of the body? You know I need the fingers and tongue as well!”
Rhona smirked at Vigholf. “I’m heading back tomorrow,” she said, walking off.
He watched her, unable to figure her out. She could be such a babysitter, caring for everyone, and the next a cold, uncaring, “I’m only following orders, sir” soldier.
“Lord Vigholf?”
Vigholf turned his focus to the ground and smiled. “Lady Dagmar.”
Dagmar Reinholdt. The Northland woman his brother Ragnar had taken under his wing, educating her and making her as devious as Ragnar could be. At the time Vigholf didn’t know why. He’d found nothing very interesting about Dagmar Reinholdt with her plain face and small body. But he thought perhaps Ragnar wanted her as a pet. Not for sexual reasons—she was much too young for any of that and Vigholf wouldn’t have allowed it—but for general amusement. Like a puppy or a kitten. Yet Ragnar had paid too much attention to her education, her health, and the inadequacies of her eventual—and worthless—husbands.
Over the last few years, though, Vigholf had come to understand what had drawn his brother to the child and then the woman and why the Northland men—hard, brutal men rarely scared or intimidated by anything—had without humor or irony called her The Beast. Because Dagmar Reinholdt was brilliant. A strategist and politician, she wore reason and logic as her armor, playing her political games with the highest-ranking monarchs and, it was rumored, the gods. Her mind was such a vicious and deadly thing that Vigholf now realized it was better to have Dagmar Reinholdt on their side rather than against it.
“You must be starving, my lord.”