Ragnar: Dragon Lord of Wye

by Nancey Cummings

  Lights flickered on as Ragnar entered the medical bay. He opened a cabinet and rummaged around for the numbing gel Derix compounded.

  The ship’s computer alerted him to an incoming call.

  “It’s the middle of the night, mother,” Ragnar said. Searching with one hand and keeping a squirming Kolle in place proved a challenge.

  “Need your beauty sleep?”

  Ragnar snorted. “Yes. My beauty must compensate for the rest of the crew.”

  “So modest, my nestling.” Lady Sorrel’s image filled the view screen on the wall. “Is that the nestling?”

  He found a small pot and removed the lid, revealing a foul smelling green gel. Clove, Terrans called the herb. Ragnar found it repulsive. Kolle’s nose twitched and the teething toy was abandoned on the floor as the nestling reached for the jar.

  “Yes. We are fussy tonight and cannot sleep.” Another whack from Kolle’s balled fist.

  “What are you doing?” Lady Sorrel followed her son’s movements.

  Ragnar scooped a generous amount on his finger and the nestling’s mouth popped open. He ran his finger around the inflamed gums. “The nestling is teething. Adelle claims the oil from this herb is an old Terran remedy but I have no idea why this works,” he confessed. He was just thankful that it did work.

  Gel applied, Kolle resumed gumming the fabric of Korven’s drench shirt. Ragnar rubbed the nestling’s back as its eyes grew heavy with sleep. Poor thing. Exhausted, yet too uncomfortable to sleep.

  “You want one of your own,” Sorrel said.

  “Certainly not. I’m far too busy and having too much fun to allow a child ruin to my social life.”

  “My son, I know you are many unflattering things—irresponsible, shallow, pleasure seeking—but never did I suspect you were a liar.”

  Ragnar frowned at the accurate description of himself. The two years he’d spent play acting as “Prince Ragnar” was not a great exercise in his acting chops. Ragnar had let every vain and selfish impulse bubble to the surface. He surrounded himself with sycophants and false friends, spending the queen’s money heedlessly in the pursuit of his own pleasure. In other words, he was the perfect distraction. No one ever saw Korven beyond the blinding great light that was Prince Ragnar.

  “It doesn’t matter what I want. I have yet to feel the fires of my first Fever,” Ragnar said. Wyers matured sexually in three distinct phases. During the first year of life, the sex organs were not known as the nestlings’ slit remained closed. Puberty happened in the teenage years and the Wyer body developed secondary sexual characteristics. Males became taller and gained muscle mass. Females gained fat on their hips and developed breasts. Engaging in mating during this time was possible—and Ragnar lost no time appreciating the female form—but a Wyer remained infertile until they went into Fever, in their twenties. Because he was of royal blood, Ragnar would develop wings, much like the ones Korven sported.

  Ragnar was thirty and still had not fully matured.

  Was that the source of his envy? His pride was wounded because his cousin, years younger than himself, matured first? Ragnar was always the lead in their partnership. The first to laugh. The first to leap. The first to kiss a pretty female.

  Was he so petty that he begrudged Korven’s joy and family all because Ragnar was second?

  Preposterous.

  “I cannot imagine spending the rest of my life chained to one female.” Even as he spoke, his words struck him as false.

  “Ragnar the Liar.”

  “I refuse to let you anger me because I do not wish to wake the nestling.” Kolle’s well-being was more important that Ragnar’s stinging pride. “How old were you when you endured the burning of the Fever?”

  “Twenty-seven. Older than most.”

  “Scandalous.” The Fever was an overwhelming, primal need to mate and it lasted until the male took a female. Some males became aggressive, violent or possessive. Ragnar witnessed his cousin transform from good natured Korven to a male obsessed with claiming and possessing a Terran female. Other males, such as Derix, completed the fertile cycle with barely a hint that anything was amiss. Females had an easier time with the Fever, he was told, but the entire concept remained foreign to him.

  “Is the nestling asleep?” Sorrel asked.

  “Finally.” His large fingers stroked the soft hair at the back of Kolle’s head.

  “It’ll happen for you. Some in our family are late bloomers.”

  Late bloomer. His mother’s side of the family harbored a few secretly unmatured Wyers. No one talked about those relations, the ones who never went into Fever and failed in their only duty as nobility: to make the next generation of little nobles.

  Only females inherited on Wye and he was the youngest son. His two elder sisters served the family with politically advantageous marriages. Ragnar had been content to be a pleasure-seeking playboy without a thought spent on a mate, nestling or the future. Until now. Until his age made his lack of reaching the final stage of maturity an embarrassment.

  “There are far too many beautiful females in the galaxy and I have no interest in cleaning the puke and piss of a nestling,” he said. He had no interest in being married off and hidden away on some country estate.

  “You have spent too much time with your rebellious cousin,” Sorrel said with a frown. Ragnar snorted. Korven had one moment of defiance and now the system believed him a maverick.

  “You will be home for your birthday,” his mother continued. “You can marry whomever you please beforehand or I can arrange a selection of mates for you when you return home, but you will marry.”

  “Or cut me off from my fortune?” Meager as it was.

  “You are not so big that I cannot bend you over my knee, nestling.”

  “I am too tired to discuss this,” Ragnar said. “You can harass me in the morning.”

  “Sleep well, my sweet nestling. You know I am only thinking of you.”

  Thinking of him, yes, and also trying to avoid him embarrassing the family. Ragnar tried to picture the type of mate his mother would select. Someone sensible and responsible, no doubt. An upright female who could tame his bad behavior.

  Ragnar snorted, causing Kolle to stir in his arms. He rubbed the nestling’s back and murmured soothing words.

  No, a mate and nestling were all wrong for him.

  Chapter Two

  Ragnar

  “Oh my stars, it is you!”

  The familiarity in the voice made Ragnar pause. His back straightened and he turned on his heel toward the female making her way to him. Her stride had purpose, dedication. The crowd in the opera house would not keep them separated.

  She knew him. Well, lots of people knew him. But he knew her, as well. How could he forget those soft, full lips and her breasts that defied gravity. They had been lovers for a time.

  Shame he couldn’t remember her name.

  “Darling,” he said, taking her hand and pressing a light kiss to the back.

  “Amber.”

  Oh, yes. Amber. The actress. Not as famous as his last attachment but she had a travel series that mostly featured her drinking and partying in exotic locations. She was a fun female. Why did he break it off?

  “I remember drinking those lurid purple shots, sitting around a bonfire on the beach.” Ragnar leaned in, pressed a kiss to her offered cheek and whispered just for her, “And everything your hands did under the blanket we shared.”

  She was a fun female. Perhaps he could spend more time with her. Perhaps he could build a nest with her.

  She giggled, high pitched and grating. The noise set his teeth on edge.

  Ah. That was why he broke it off.

  “I can’t tell you how nice it is to see you again.” She wrapped her hands around his arm and leaned in.

  Ragnar involuntarily took a deep breath.

  Amber smelled of expensive chemicals: rarified and artificial. Everything about her shouted expensive: designer clothes, the necklace sparkling at her co
llarbone, her platinum hair and even her high-end face reconstruction. Ragnar could barely see the fine lines unless he searched for signs of the surgery.

  “You look ten years younger.”

  That laugh again. “I should. I spent a fortune.”

  “Yours or a generous donor?” In addition to the laugh, Amber had the annoying habit of spending all Ragnar’s credit.

  “A gentleman friend. We’ve since parted ways.”

  “Going to introduce us to your little friend?” Adelle approached, holding a tiny cup made of fine porcelain. She sipped at the potent brew.

  Terrans were so peculiar about their coffee. He didn’t understand why the cups had to be so tiny.

  “Who’s she, Ragnar baby?” Amber asked. The sweetness in her voice did not mask the naked aggression in her eyes.

  “My cousin by marriage.” Ragnar removed her hand from his arm and stepped away. “Adelle, this is Amber, an actress. Amber, Adelle is married to my cousin, Korven.”

  “Oh.” Determining that Adelle was not competition, Amber directed all her charm back on Ragnar.

  He needed a rescue. He glanced toward Adelle, silently pleading for rescue.

  The contrast between Adelle and the beautiful but shallow starlet could not have been more obvious. Fun females were all well and good, but they lacked the ability to keep his attention for long.

  Why couldn’t he find a female like Adelle? Ragnar knew he would never grow bored with her.

  Perhaps he had been selecting potential mates based on the wrong criteria. Beauty faded and Ragnar had reached the age where he was more interested in a good conversation than gravity defying breasts.

  And then what? Build a nest? Get to work producing nestlings? Ragnar shook the silly idea from his head. That was not for him.

  “This is still a business trip,” Adelle said. “We don’t have time for any extracurricular activities.”

  “It is impossible for me to forget.” His only job was to entertain the Fremm engineers and put them in an agreeable disposition before Korven embarked on the hard negotiations.

  If there were people who understood big, it was the Fremm. A Fremm engineering firm had designed and built Aslan Station, the over the top luxury station in the Tal system. While Fremm design normally steered toward austerity, the operations of a space station were handled by the mechanics while design aesthetics were handled by interior decorators.

  Aslan Station was a marvel. Adelle babbled excitedly about “systems” and Korven was interested in the station capacity and traffic all the while Ragnar found it supremely boring. This was a luxury station, a hub for the best in entertainment and indulgence in the system, perhaps in all the Interstellar Union. The best chefs, the best wines, the best performers and the most beautiful women were waiting to indulge the traveler with credit. Ragnar wanted to be that traveler but he was stuck indulging the whims of Korven and Adelle who only wanted to tour maintenance tunnels.

  On this expedition, Ragnar’s sole job was to glad hand the Fremm engineers, so show them a good time and put them in an agreeable mood. The truth was the Fremm firm was excited about working on the space station project for Wye. The proposed contract offered rights to mine for a super light, super dense mineral preferred for deep space construction. The mineral was rare in the IU but plentiful on Wye. The Fremm wanted this contract. Korven could insult the giant blue aliens’ mothers and bungle every interaction and they would still sign the contract. They did not need Ragnar for this handholding.

  Yet here he was, supremely bored.

  They gave the Fremm engineer a bow as the party approached.

  The evening at the Aslan Opera House for a performance of the Terran opera Don Giovanni was Ragnar’s idea, because he had to do something. The Fremm enjoyed stiff, overly formal theater and Terrans had a bizarre theater where everyone sang and then died at the end. No dancing or japes , just complex arias then stabbing. He figured the blue barbarians would enjoy that bit.

  “Prince Korven,” the Fremm said, nodding his head.

  “No titles for me,” Korven said, returning the nod. “I’m just a regular male.”

  A pattern glowed on the Fremm male’s brow. Amusement? Ragnar had never really paid attention in cultural diversity class. “A male who has the ear and purse of the Queen of Wye and is building a grand project.”

  “Not so ordinary, then,” Adelle said, entwining her arms with Korven’s.

  Again, that unaccounted for emotion bubbled in his gut. He didn’t want Adelle. He wanted what his cousin had with his mate. All Ragnar had was a beautiful but empty headed female. He felt too warm and a growing ache between his shoulder blades distracted him.

  The female on his arm giggled and leaned in. “Who’s he, Ragnar baby?”

  “This is Jorun et Forsa. He built this station.” Ragnar leaned in and dropped his voice so only she could hear, “And he has more credits than everyone on this station combined.”

  To her credit, she did not lick her lips and pounce immediately. She gave Jorun an appraising stare and dropped Ragnar’s arm. “I was hoping to watch the show with a handsome male. I have an extra seat if you’d care to join me.”

  “I could not deprive Lord Ragnar of his companion,” Jorun said, sending him a questioning look. The marks on his throat were unmistakable. The blue male was interested in the Terran starlet but worried about offending the Wyers. How charming.

  “Amber is an old friend,” Ragnar explained. “I do not begrudge any male enjoying her hospitality for the evening.”

  Amber practically dragged Jorun away.

  “You were supposed to wine and dine,” Adelle said. “Not hook him up with one of your floozies.”

  Ragnar waved away her concern. “That male has no social skills. He’ll be thanking us in the morning.” And perhaps begging them to get him away from Amber but that was a problem for later.

  Adelle snorted, unconvinced.

  The opera was an undecipherable Terran mess. The performers did not sing in the common Terran language, the one that Adelle spoke. She explained that it was an obscure, ancient Terran language called Italian. And no, she couldn’t understand it either. But the emotions, she insisted. He could follow the story through the emotions in the music. Terrans were either lying to themselves about their classic theater or they lied to the rest of the universe. Stiff, the actors warbled in a dead Terran tongue and conveyed none of the emotions of the story Adelle claimed.

  Ragnar shifted in his seat impatiently. The next time his cousin’s mate had a suggestion on par with classic Terran Theater, he’d find a reason why they could not indulge her whim.

  Perhaps it was the unexpected encounter with Amber that soured his mood. Amber was the perfect example of the type of shallow female he’d pursued with vigor in the past. He, himself, was perfectly shallow and perfectly happy to remain shallow… so why then did she upset him?

  The pain in his shoulder matched the growing pain in his skull, behind his eyes. A headache, that was the reason for his foul mood. Nothing else.

  An alluring scent drifted through the air. He shifted in his seat, stretching out his long legs. They had a private box with room enough for four grown adults, plenty of room for one angsty male to stretch and frown and try to locate the source of the aroma of rich, fertile soil and something more. Something just for him.

  Ragnar stood.

  “What are you doing,” Adelle said, tugging on his hand. “Sit down.”

  “I need air,” he said, leaving the box.

  Priya

  This was a mistake.

  Priya tugged at the front of her black wrap dress. It took a chunk out of her savings to purchase and was still a size too small. The tight fit played up her assets—her chests and hips—and Priya hoped that if she displayed enough cleavage, no one would pay attention to her face. A scan through the public appearances of Prince Ragnar revealed the male had a taste for slender women with huge knockers. Priya wasn’t slender or tall but she had the kn
ockers. She hoped it would be enough.

  The rest of her savings had gone into purchasing the tranquilizer. Small but not invisible, Priya stashed the tranq pen in the only place she could conceivably hide it: her cleavage. She’d be fine as long as no one stuck their hand down her front. She hoped.

  There were too many moving parts in the plan. To many variables to factor. She needed to slip into the Aslan Opera House. Fine. She’d find a way. Then she needed to get Prince Ragnar's attention. He was a notorious playboy. She’d find a way. Then she needed to get him alone. This is where things got tricky. Assuming she even caught his eye, she needed to convince him to slip off somewhere quiet.

  She’d already scouted out the location and had a crate on a hoverboard waiting. Drugging the prince and transporting him unseen to her ship was the easy part.

  Catching the prince’s eye was the hard part. Everything would fall apart if that didn’t happen and she would have squandered her savings on nothing.

  Priya teetered on flimsy shoes with an insanely tall heel. Molded plastic and leather took on the form of white blossoms, forming a sole inches thick and the heel was designed to appear as a twig. Green leather vines twined around her calves. The white flowers reminded her of the blossoms in the orchard in the spring and the shoes were exactly the bit of ludicrous fashion she saw celebrities wear on all the entertainment news programs and added credibility to her simple outfit. She prayed she could walk in the silly shoes and didn’t fall flat on her behind.

  Every aspect of this plan was so far out of her comfort zone. She normally lounged around her ship in loose pants and a shirt with no bra. Actually, on long hauls, she’d skip the pants all together and just wear panties and a shirt. It was her ship and it was just her. She didn’t have anyone to impress. She could wear what she wanted. Visual communications were kept to a tight face shot, though. She didn’t need her mother knowing Priya flew the Dashing Canard in nothing but her skivvies.