by G. A. Aiken
“I am, but I’d like to see my mother first.”
“She’s been staying at Devenallt Mountain with the other Northland dragon females. I’ve sent word, so your mother will be escorted here soon. Until then”—she motioned to the castle—“let’s get you fed.”
Vigholf knew that tone. He heard it from Ragnar all the time. “I don’t have much choice in this, do I, my lady?”
Her smile was small—and cold. “No, my lord. You don’t.”
Naked and in human form by the lake where her kin had made camp, Rhona studied the many scars littering her body. “I’m like a bleedin’ pin cushion,” she muttered.
“Rhona?”
Rhona turned, smiled. “Hello, Talaith.”
“Think we can talk?” her cousin Briec’s beautiful mate asked, and Rhona could hear the concern in the woman’s voice. The stress. Not surprising. Most of them gone for five years, with no visits from her daughter for the entire time and none from Briec after the first two.
Rhona looked down at herself. “Got any clean clothes I can wear? Mine are all a bit stinky at the moment.”
Talaith laughed a little. “Maybe in Annwyl’s closet.”
“That’ll do.” She started to head away from the camp, but Talaith caught her arm, pulled her back.
“Here.” Talaith took off the fur cape she wore and wrapped it around Rhona’s naked body. “At least until we get inside. For the sake of the servants.”
“Such a prude,” Rhona teased.
“I’m worried,” Talaith admitted when they were away from Rhona’s kin but not quite at the castle gates. “I haven’t heard from Briec in several days.”
“You’ve heard from Briec?” Usually only immediate blood relations could contact each other directly and at long distances. Unless, of course, they were . . .
“Witch,” Talaith reminded Rhona. One of those Desert Land witches, mortal enemies of the Kyvich, Rhona had heard. So having the scantily clad, tattooed females around must be especially hard for Talaith. “Learning to contact my mate was one of the easier things I’ve had to relearn since the return of my powers. And with a little more effort and a lot less complaining, Briec could be an amazing mage, so it’s been quite easy. I don’t hear from him every day, but he’s never gone this long. . . .”
“When I left all was well. We’re at a standstill.” Although Rhona was well aware all that could change in a moment. But what was the point of worrying her?
“Can you check with your mum?” Talaith asked.
Rhona stopped walking, tightened the fur around her body. “Uh . . .”
“Uh? Uh what?”
“No one’s supposed to know I’m here.”
“Why the hells not?”
“Keita—”
“Och! That female!” Talaith raised her hand to silence Rhona’s immediate defense of her cousin. “What is she up to now?”
“Maybe you should ask—”
“Forget it.” Talaith caught Rhona’s hand, pulling her along with a surprising amount of strength. Then again, Rhona did often forget that Talaith was once an assassin. A very good one.
With a little snarl, Talaith said, “Let’s find that damn female.”
“How is everything going?” Dagmar asked while Vigholf tucked into a heaping bowl of delicious-smelling beef stew.
“Fine.”
The bowl suddenly disappeared, his spoon dangling in midair.
“You’d get between a dragon and his food?” Vigholf asked, only half seriously.
“When he insists on answering my question like a true Northland male—yes.” She lifted the bowl, holding it in both hands. The scent of it wafted to his nose and Vigholf couldn’t help but growl a little. “But unlike most of my countrymen, you can and do create and execute full and complete sentences. So I ask again . . . how is everything going?”
“I see my brother has taught you very well.” Honestly, during the last five years, Vigholf had been forced to stretch his opinion on what was right for females to be involved in and what was not.
“Yes. Your brother did train me well,” she replied. “And he told me I could trust you as I trust him.”
Those words meant much to Vigholf because his brother would have never said them to Dagmar unless he’d meant it. “You can, my lady.”
“Dagmar. Please.”
“First off, Dagmar, your mate is well. Mean. But well.”
“Mean?” She placed the bowl of food back in front of him. “Are you sure you have the right—”
“Gwenvael the Ruiner, yes?”
She nodded, eyes wide behind those spectacles his brother had made for her many years ago.
“He is quite . . . loyal to you, I’m afraid,” Vigholf explained. “And has been for the last five years. But for someone like him that is not easy. Especially since, like his brothers, he has not returned here for the last three years. He’s turned impatient, mean, and nasty; and he takes it out on the rest of us—and the enemy. The Irons call him Gwenvael the Defiler.”
The woman burst into laughter, something Vigholf never thought he’d hear from the dour little human. She stuttered to a stop. “Sorry. Private joke. And . . . uh . . . why do they call him that?”
“He has a tendency to dismember the bodies. Sometimes while the owner of that body still breathes. I told you . . . he’s become quite mean without you.”
“I see.”
“As to the war itself . . .” Vigholf sighed. “That’s a bit more complicated, I’m afraid.”
Rhona pulled on a sleeveless chain-mail shirt, brown leather leggings, and knee-high black leather boots. Thankfully, Annwyl was close to Rhona’s size. The height of the boots covered up that the leggings were a tad short, and the fact that the human queen had larger tits gave Rhona more room in the shirt for her bigger shoulders.
And while Rhona pulled on the queen’s clothes, the queen’s sisters-by-mating argued like two angry harpies.
“How could you not tell them?” Talaith demanded of Keita. “You should have told Briec and Fearghus.”
“And give Vateria exactly what she wanted? You seem to forget, sister, that I am a Protector of the Throne.”
“Blah, blah, blah!”
“I made the decision to tell my brothers nothing, but I’m here to protect my nieces and nephew myself with the help of Ren. So please . . . get over it already!” Keita looked at Rhona in the mirror. “And you should have kept your gods-damn mouth shut.”
“I’m off duty, cousin, which by Cadwaladr law means I can beat you ugly.”
Talaith blinked. “There’s Cadwaladr laws?”
“When necessary,” Rhona said, and picked up her sword and the remnants of her beloved spear. “You two argue this out. I’m off to find my father.”
“You’re leaving?” Keita demanded.
Rhona faced her cousin. “You asked me to escort you and Ren here safely. You’re now here safely. What you do from here is up to you.” She walked to the bedroom door. “I’m off at dawn,” she told them and walked out, closing the door behind her.
Talaith watched her mate’s cousin leave the room. “Is she all right?”
“She’s Rhona.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means what it says—she’s Rhona. Now let’s get something to eat. I’m starving for real food.”
Talaith locked her gaze back on Keita. “Don’t try to change the subject—Ren’s not taking my daughter anybloody-where.”
Keita pressed her fingers to her temples. “If you’d only listen—”
“No. She and her cousins are perfectly safe here, Keita. I’ll not risk sending them to a country I know nothing about with Ren. Or anyone that’s not me, Briec, or Izzy.”
“But—”
“No. And that’s the end of it. And just so we’re clear, don’t think for a second you’ll get the twins past the Kyvich. I know that coven. They’ll hunt Ren down and rip the scales from his hide. So if I were you, sister, I’d let this go.”
Dagmar and Vigholf walked into the Great Hall from the kitchen. “When are you leaving?” Dagmar asked.
“Tomorrow, I think. I’m traveling with Rhona and if I don’t keep an eye on her, she’ll scurry off without permission.”
Dagmar stopped and looked up at him. Vigholf was as handsome as his brother, but in a different way. Maybe it was the scar across his jaw. Because nothing about him looked as innocent as Ragnar the Cunning. “Keep an eye on her?”
“Someone has to.”
“You do know she’s a—”
“A Cadwaladr. Yes. I’m quite aware of her blood ties since everyone keeps reminding me,” he finished on a mutter. Although Dagmar only thought of Vigholf as her friend’s brother, she still felt the need to make it perfectly clear to him how things were with many Southland females.
“I wouldn’t crowd, my lord. I’ve found the females of this clan and this territory hate that.”
“I’m not crowding. I’m . . . helping.”
“I’m a Northlander, too, Vigholf. I know how the males of my country ‘help’ females. It can be smothering for some of us. I don’t know Rhona well, but if she’s like the rest of her kin . . .”
“I’m careful. It just seems like she watches out for everyone else but no one watches out for her. Besides . . . I think she likes it.”
“Really?”
“Yes. She just hasn’t realized it yet.”
“Aaah,” Dagmar said at the same moment Rhona bounded down the castle stairs, her weapons strapped to her back and wearing what appeared to be the clothes Annwyl had left behind.
“Did you eat?” Vigholf demanded as she headed out the Great Hall’s big front doors.
Rhona’s answer was to flick two fingers at Vigholf and keep going.
“See?” Vigholf pointed out with a shocking amount of confidence. “She likes it.”
Now Dagmar knew. When it came to females, Vigholf was nothing like his brother—but he was a true Northlander.
Sulien held up the broken spear, one piece in each hand. “A warhammer did this?”
“You saw that hammer the Lightning almost hit Addolgar with. And that’s not even the one he uses during battles. That one is bloody huge. Nearly as big as the bastard’s head.”
Her father chuckled and stepped around her. “The only purpose of this spear was to protect you—and it did. Its job is now done.”
He started to throw the pieces into a bin he kept for trash.
“Don’t you dare throw that out.”
“Why not? It’s broken, and repairing it would be useless. It’ll only break again.”
“But you made it for me.”
“You cling to what is meaningless, child. Just like your mother sometimes, only with her it’s mostly grudges.”
He tossed the spear into the trash, and Rhona had to fight every instinct she had to not dive into that bucket after it.
“Besides,” her father continued, “I have something better.”
Sulien crouched in front of a trunk, opened it. “I was going to give it to you when I saw you back at home, but this is even better.”
Her father stood and handed her a small metal stick. She’d guess it was only three feet long—and that was it.
“Oh . . . a stick. How . . . uh . . . nice.”
“Don’t be foolish, Rhona. It’s more than a stick.”
He took it from her, held it in his big hand. And Rhona smiled when a sharpened tip suddenly appeared at the end. “Oh! It’s a long knife.”
Then it extended another four or five feet, turning it into a metal spear. “Oh, Daddy! That’s—”
It extended again and grew wider, stretching to and through the opening at the top of the tent.
Eyes wide, Rhona grinned. “That’s . . .” She simply didn’t have words for what it was. There were quite a few weapons among their kind, many of them created by her father or his kin, that could extend from small to big and back again, so that the dragons using them wouldn’t have to constantly switch weapons depending on their current forms. Usually banging the weapon at a certain angle on its base extended it or a shield and they were easy enough to make small again.
But this . . .
“No matter what form you’re in, you’ve got a weapon.”
“What do I press?”
“Nothing.” The spear quickly slipped into its original size, and her father handed it to her.
“But . . .” After years of training by her father’s side, before she’d joined Her Majesty’s Army, Rhona knew what was needed for their weapons to work. “Don’t you need a chant? A spell? Something?”
“Only in the creation of it.” He leaned in. “Want me to show you?”
“Are you joking? Yes!”
He laughed. “Go on and try it first. See what it can do.”
Rhona held the weapon in her hand. It seemed so . . . ordinary. A metal stick. Nothing more. But then she called for the tip and it was there. She used her free hand to touch it.
“Careful,” her father warned. “It’s bloody sharp.”
It was. And Rhona was delighted.
She called forth the spear, and the weapon lengthened and grew. It was the perfect height for her, too. As tall as her with the tip extending just past her head.
Rhona dropped into a crouch, one leg stretched out to the side, the weapon now in both hands. A low attack.
Her father stood back and watched her, his smile warm. When she was younger and home more, they often did this. He’d create new weapons and she’d try them out for him. It was the main reason she had proficiency with more weapons than most Dragonwarriors.
She thrust the spear, stood, and swiped it through the air.
“Daddy, I love the weight.”
“Light, yeah? But combined with your strength . . . deadly just the same.”
“I love it,” she gushed. “I absolutely love it.”
“Call its full length. You can still handle it while human even at that length and width.”
Excited to try, Rhona aimed the weapon toward the exit and away from her father. She called forth the dragon-sized weapon and happily watched as it grew in her hands, the length of it reaching past the tent flaps and—
“Owwwwww! Gods-dammit, female! ”
With a thought, Rhona retracted her weapon. A few seconds later, the Lightning stumbled into the tent, blood flowing from his shoulder, lightning sparking from his body.
“I told ya!” he bellowed “What happened to your spear was an accident!”
They shoved Vigholf into a chair and the two Fire Breathers leaned down to get a better look at his wound. Without much effort, he could see the resemblance between father and daughter. Although Rhona was much prettier.
“He’ll live,” the male said, appearing quite disinterested in Vigholf’s wound.
“Why is it when I come to this bloody kingdom by invitation, I’m nearly killed?”
“Luck?” Rhona asked.
Along with Ragnar and Meinhard, Vigholf had escorted Keita and Éibhear to the Southlands five years ago just before the war with the Irons began. He’d had his first introduction to the infamous Annwyl the Bloody when she’d charged him and Meinhard. Then, while they tried to keep the crazed monarch at bay, she’d gone for Vigholf’s head—and took his hair instead. When it happened, it had been humiliating. A shame he was sure he’d never recover from. But as Vigholf got to know Annwyl better, he quickly realized that he was lucky to have kept his head at all.
Rhona’s father leaned in to take a closer look at the wound. “I can fix this.” He reached for him, and Vigholf couldn’t help but scramble out of the chair that held him.
“No offense if I’d rather not be tended to by a blacksmith.”
“Don’t be such a baby,” Rhona chastised. “Me da’s good with a needle and thread.”
“Your da can keep his needle and thread to himself, thanks.”
Rhona folded her arms over her chest. “So what are you going to do? Wande
r around all evening bleeding like a stuck cow until you pass out and die and we’re forced to quickly burn your remains so the stink of your corpse won’t bother the children?”
“Your concern for my well-being overwhelms me, Sergeant.”
“You shouldn’t have been following me, Commander.”
“Who said I was?”
“Common sense?”
“I don’t know who that is,” he muttered, turning away and looking over the blacksmith’s work area.
“If you’re not going to let my father tend your wounds, at least see the healers by the lake. They’ll help you.”
“No need.” Vigholf, pulling off his chain-mail shirt, walked over to the forge and picked up a poker that still sat in the burning coals.
“Wait—” Rhona cried out as he pressed the poker to his open wound, sealing it closed. It hurt, but nothing he couldn’t handle. Once he knew he’d stopped the bleeding, Vigholf pulled the poker away, ignoring the bits of skin that went with it, and tossed it back into the forge. When he faced father and daughter, he found them gawking at him. Rhona’s mouth was open, but her father was grinning, even laughing a little.
“You are a mad bastard,” she whispered.
“What? It’s done, isn’t it?” He pulled his shirt back on. “Now—” Vigholf began until that familiar scent caught his attention, and he moved quickly toward the tent opening, ignoring the way Rhona scrabbled out of his way as if he was some dangerous animal.
Such an odd female.
Rhona watched the crazed male walk out of her father’s forge and she couldn’t help but follow, curious to see what had caught his relentless attention. She was taken by surprise, though, when she saw the Lightning put his arms around an older She-dragon in human form.
“Mum,” she heard him whisper.
“My dear, sweet son,” the female whispered back. “Oh, how I’ve missed you so.”
All right. That surprised Rhona. Not that the Lightning had a mother, but that he’d treat her so . . . tenderly.
Rhona’s father tapped her shoulder and she stepped back into the tent.