Dragon’s Call: Dystopian Fantasy

by Ann Gimpel

  The weave of her spell tightened. So far, the moonstone hadn’t done much more than warm and pulse pleasantly. “Not here.”

  An exasperated breath whistled through what sounded like clenched teeth. “I’m neither stupid nor as young as I appear. When I ask you something, I expect information. Not here doesn’t cut it.”

  The man who’d spoken to her hadn’t left. He moved forward until the light sheeting from Rowan illuminated him. I sucked in an involuntary gasp of air. Of all the wretched luck, I knew him. He’d been one of those I’d hung about with before the Breaking.

  He clearly came to the same conclusion because he extended an arm, index finger pointing right at me. “You. Where the hell have you been these past fifty years?”

  Rowan turned to look at Patrick. “You know him?”

  “I do, indeed. His name is Bjorn. He showed up out of the blue maybe a hundred years back and drifted in and out of my dry goods store—when I still had one. Over time, we became friends, and we’d often stand one another a pint and a game of pool at the local pub.”

  “And then one day I wasn’t there anymore,” I cut in. “I had my reasons.”

  Rowan ignored me. “What is he?” she asked Patrick. “I sense Norse, but it’s faint.”

  Patrick grunted. “When I knew him, he convinced me he was a witch, albeit a damned weak one.”

  Rowan flapped a hand my way. “Not a witch.”

  Since neither one of them were paying any attention to me, I started a surreptitious teleport spell. No way I could win here, so the best thing was for me to leave.

  The moonstone wasn’t having any of it. Where it had augmented my power when I faced goblins, this time it did the opposite and power frittered through my fingers. Or maybe Rowan’s truth spell was getting in the way.

  I felt the full brunt of her focus once again. “You understand how to circumvent truth spells. Not here is true enough, yet it tells me less than nothing. You will accompany us within.”

  I pushed my shoulders back and stood tall. Before, I’d used a bit of my own glamour to appear less than what I am, but I needed Rowan and Patrick to take me seriously. I wasn’t some minor magician they could push around.

  “It’s time for me to be on my way. I’m scarcely your prisoner. I’ve done nothing to justify you holding me against my will.” I considered adding they should thank me for wiping out a herd of goblins, but that might be laying it on too thick. Besides, the wiping out had actually been the dragon, not me.

  Raising a hand, I cut through the webbing of Rowan’s truth spell and turned. No one called after me or tried to stop me as I strode into the night.

  After I’d gone fifty paces, I called up an entry to Bifrost and traversed the Rainbow Bridge. After making its desires known earlier, the moonstone had reverted to stone like inertness.

  Even after I was back in Vanaheim, I couldn’t escape Rowan’s image. Her scent clung to me, amber and mint and vanilla. Leaving Midgard had been difficult. I hadn’t wanted to leave her, but neither did I want other coven members dredging up the many memories they had of me.

  Groups of witches formed and reformed as years passed. While I knew about the witches beneath Ben Nevis, I hadn’t paid close attention to individuals within the coven. Were there others besides Patrick who’d remember me? If so, what exactly would they recall?

  My ears weren’t exactly burning. How could they be with layers of the Nine Worlds between us? But I didn’t fancy anyone recounting tales to Rowan. I’d been a bit of a philanderer in those days. Witches made willing partners. It wasn’t as if I were stepping out on a mate of my own. I’ve never had one, but some of the witches I dallied with did.

  I always figured with all those festivals of theirs, fertility rites like Beltane, no one would get too upset about who had sex with whom.

  I’d reached my house. Instead of going inside, I settled on my haunches in the dirt. The sky had developed the gray-pink aspect that told me dawn wasn’t far off. I had plenty to do. Spells in various stages of completion required my oversight.

  But the only thing I wanted was to return to Midgard.

  “Get over yourself,” I muttered just before I stood and shambled inside. I hadn’t made a particularly stellar showing. Besides, Rowan—or whatever her name really was—was a goddess.

  And a dragon.

  She’d have less than no use for a poor sod like me.

  Chapter Six, Rowan

  I fumed as I watched Bjorn walk away. He’d given me less than nothing in response to my questions. Only his name. I wanted to shout a power word to stop him in his tracks. It would have worked, but I’d never shown anywhere near the full scope of my power to the witches. Granted I’d finally fessed up about what I was, but them hearing it and seeing the evidence might yield different reactions.

  The way things stood, I was still one of them. A full on display of my magical ability could change all that. Much as I did not want Bjorn to leave, I also didn’t want to risk alienating the only family I’d ever known. Mother didn’t count with her tempers and her self-serving ways. Her go-to place was what was in it for her. Our recent exchange was a potent reminder nothing about that had altered in the least.

  Patrick stood by my side not saying a word. Indecision must have been rolling off me in waves, but he knew better than to mine for information. Bjorn was easily the best-looking man I’d ever run across with his ice-blond hair and eyes the shade of a sun-dappled ocean. His square chin, broad forehead, and hawk’s beak of a nose were rugged, but they fit together nicely.

  His hair had been caught up in small bits of leather. Not exactly braided, but tucked out of the way. Judging from how far down his body it fell, I assumed it was as long as my own. Leather garments had hugged his rangy frame. A wee bit taller than me, his build was muscular but not broad. As in the muscles arranged themselves pleasingly across his shoulders and down his arms. I hadn’t examined his legs. I would have had to move past his groin to do that. A risky action given how attracted I was to him.

  His power was different from mine, but strong. I’d sensed him masking his ability, and I wanted to unwrap him, strip all his layers away until the man beneath stood before me. The image was so sensual and so graphic, my body vibrated with need.

  It had been a long while since I’d taken a man to bed, so long I barely remembered the mechanics of lovemaking. I rarely thought of men in that way, so why the hell was I swimming through a sea of heat and hunger and lust? Nothing had passed between Bjorn and me, yet I was attracted to him. More than attracted, I craved him with a singlemindedness I’d have to bury ten leagues under.

  I had a lot to deal with. I did not need to add to my problems.

  “Rowan?” Patrick touched my arm, and I startled.

  “I’m all right,” I muttered for the second time that evening. “You know him?”

  Patrick nodded. “Of a time, I did. It was long ago, well before the Breaking. As I think on it, he likely hid much of his true nature because the man who just walked into the night carried himself very differently from the one I recall.”

  “How so?” I turned to face my old friend. Witches were far from immortal, but many were very long-lived, lasting centuries. Patrick was one of the old ones.

  “He made us believe he was one of us,” Patrick replied and held up a hand. “Aye, I know how tough that is to swallow, but he concealed a lot of what shone through tonight. He’d romp with us during festivals, fade in and out of coven life. Back then, none of us minded.”

  I absorbed what he’d told me. Before the Breaking, everyone was more accepting, more trusting. “What kind of man parlays with dragons?” I asked.

  “Legend has it dragons and Norsemen are connected.” He exhaled noisily. “I’m not being impertinent, but how much of your Celtic background did you absorb before you left?”

  “Some. Living with them day in and day out, I figured out who was who.” I licked at lips that had gone dry. “I, uh, I’ve never exactly admitted this, b
ut Mother didn’t show me off. To anyone. I lived in her rooms in the Celts’ castle for many years before I broke free.”

  “Do you mean to say, she hid you away?” At my nod, Patrick drew his brows into a thin, unhappy line. “Do you know why?”

  “No. I always figured it was because she’d dallied with someone she was ashamed of and feared the other Celts would throw it in her face if the result—me—was too visible.”

  “Aye, but she could have rid herself of a child she didn’t want.” He focused blue eyes filled with compassion on me.

  “Do. Not. Feel. Sorry. For. Me,” I hissed.

  “There’s a difference between support and sympathy,” he reminded me in a brusque tone. “Back to your Celtic roots. How much of your history do you know?”

  “Not much,” I admitted. “The Celts have our own dragon god, but there was only one of them. I believe Dewi was female. She kept to herself, and I only caught the odd glimpse of her. Mother told me she had a foul temper and to steer well clear of her.”

  “Interesting. What do you know about the Norse pantheon?”

  I had no idea where he was going with this. Sooner or later someone else would come outside to see what had happened to us. “About as much as I know about the Celts.” I shrugged. “Odin and his stupid Hunt. Thor and his hammer. Asgard. Valhalla.”

  The corners of Patrick’s mouth twitched, and he told me, “The Hunt is but one small aspect of Odin’s power.”

  I crooked two fingers his way, not in the mood to play guessing games where I had to keep feeding him questions.

  He understood. “My take is Bjorn is from somewhere in the Nine Worlds. They’re all linked together by Yggdrasil, the One Tree. It’s an enormous ash and a key part of all Norse legends.”

  “Go on. I’ve heard of the tree, but I figured it was a metaphor for something else.”

  Patrick shook his head. “No. The tree is real. I’ve seen it.” He stopped for a moment before going on. “This”—he stooped and patted the dirt—“is one of the Nine Worlds. What we call Earth is named Midgard by the Norsemen.”

  I thought about it. “So if they’re right, and everything is linked together, did the Breaking impact the other eight worlds?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “There are a whole lot of worlds out there,” I murmured. “Hundreds of borderworlds. Maybe thousands. Most of them don’t support life.”

  “I suppose you’d have to teleport to get there.” Patrick sounded wistful. That type of magic was well beyond witch-linked ability.

  “Yeah. But it’s not pleasant. The place between worlds has no air. If you guess wrong and hit a world that also has no air, it can be nerve-wracking.”

  Something occurred to me. “If you’ve seen Yggdrasil, the Norse worlds are close.”

  “Aye. Mortals are denied access to most all of them. Our place is here.”

  “But you’ve snuck into some, haven’t you?” I raised a brow.

  Patrick nodded. “I have, and I wasn’t apprehended. Fortune smiled on me because my life would have been forfeit had my incursions been discovered.”

  I gave him a quick hug. “You must have been very curious.”

  “Och, I was. Also very young. And rash enough to return many times.”

  I was still thinking about Bjorn. How long had he been traveling back and forth between wherever he lived in the Nine Worlds and Earth? Had tonight’s visit been coincidence? Was he an actual god? If so, which one?

  But most important was whether or not he’d return.

  I scraped my teeth together. I was being stupid. What difference would his presence make? He was easy on the eyes, and he’d probably be a great addition to my bed, but the very last thing I needed was to get mixed up with any more deities.

  It was bad enough that dragons had invaded my dreams. One question I hadn’t picked over was whether my dragon dreams from last night had anything to do with the dragon who’d just flown over my head. I had an odd feeling the answer was yes, but I didn’t see the connection.

  “The others will wonder what became of us,” Patrick said.

  “I’m surprised they’re not out here en masse already,” I retorted. “How about if you go back inside.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To see what’s burning. I’ll be quick about it.”

  “I’ll send Mort after you.” He turned to trot back toward the well-hidden entrance to the caves beneath Ben Nevis.

  “Thanks,” I called. The cat was good company. Not precisely a familiar, but near enough. If the need arose, I was certain he’d share his feline magic with me.

  I summoned a mage light to illuminate my way and loped toward the smell of smoke. It wasn’t long before I saw flames and counted five pyres. The troll Bjorn had mentioned stood like a sentinel between the burning piles. When I probed him with my power, I found life within, but it was already beginning to ebb.

  Sure enough, dawn was breaking.

  A quick search yielded humans, still safe in their rubble pile. I couldn’t imagine what they’d lived through. Absent magic, I’d have thrown in the towel long since. I tilted my head and stared at the sky. The thick cloud cover from earlier had receded, and a few stars twinkled in the velvet darkness above me.

  I wanted the dragon to return, but I had the oddest feeling the beast was linked to Bjorn in some unknown way. Reading between the lines of his description, they’d worked together tonight. Did it mean the witches and I weren’t alone any longer? Or was the goblin massacre an isolated incident?

  I cursed Ceridwen nine ways from Faery. She could have taught me far more than she had. Most of what I’d learned I’d picked up from context or from poring over her books and scrolls. She would have rebuked me sharply for treading on forbidden ground, but she never consulted her old source materials. If she wanted something, she bent over her cauldron.

  I’d hated that kettle with a passion when I was a child. It got all the attention I’d craved. If Mother was communing with her darling, I had to wait. And if that damned thing bubbled or snorted or puffed steam or smoke, Mother came running. I could be crying my eyes out, and she ignored me.

  “Oh for the love of Andromeda, stop it,” I told myself, talking out loud so I’d be certain to take my own advice.

  Whatever Ceridwen was—or wasn’t—it wasn’t my fault, nor did I have control over any of it. Lots of kids drew rotten hands. I didn’t have a corner on that market, and feeling sorry for myself was a dead-end road. It wouldn’t buy me anything but the icky, uncomfortable feeling if I only turned over enough rocks I’d figure things out.

  There weren’t enough rocks in the universe. Or enough time.

  A low purring growl told me Mort had found me. Sure enough, he launched himself to my shoulders and curled around my neck. I stroked his ratty fur, happy for his simple, uncomplicated presence.

  I needed to get back to the witches’ meeting. At the point the dragon’s magic—or maybe Bjorn’s—had drawn me outside, they’d nearly decided to move to Inverlochy Castle. The discussion when I left was about whether to split our forces and maintain both locations.

  I could see arguments on each side of that coin. The primary one for picking one locale or the other was there weren’t all that many of us, and we were stronger together. The best rationale for separating was that each spot had specific advantages. I hadn’t yet told them I was still keeping an eye on the magic that had spawned the Breaking.

  If it got away from me, we’d be far better served beneath Ben Nevis. Who knew what impact runaway Celtic magic would have on Inverlochy Castle? The place might not have been originally constructed with Celt power, but it may as well have been. Once we took it over, we redid all its moorings.

  I pushed my shoulders back from their slumped position. Yeah. Lots to think about. A bunch of responsibility. If I guessed wrong, or my power faltered for some unknown reason, witches might die. I didn’t want even one more witch death on my conscience. Not that I hadn’t don
e all I could for the witches who’d faded away, but my best wasn’t good enough.

  It rankled.

  What hurt even more was it would have cost Ceridwen almost nothing to have helped. No need to reveal her spell was the culprit that had unraveled the world. She could have rustled up Gwydion or Arawn or Arianrhod or Bran. Or even Andraste, although that one would have been truly out of her element tending to the sick and wounded. And not just witches. Mortals had died in droves. Piles of bodies had rotted to nothing but bones.

  I shook myself so hard, Mort yowled and dragged me out of my funk. I couldn’t go backward. Nothing to be done about the devastation that had already occurred.

  The sky had lightened with the dawn. A quick little gasp from the troll told me he was gone. Good riddance. He’d do far more for the landscape as a standing stone.

  I turned back toward Ben Nevis with Mort purring up a storm. Time for a stern lecture. From me. To me. Usually, I did better than this holding my disenchantment at bay. And my anger. Why had I chosen now to throw myself a pity party? Mother wasn’t any different than she’d ever been. I had to accept it and move on. She might be annoyed I hadn’t tossed myself at her feet begging forgiveness for unknown sins, but she and I were done.

  “No.” I was back to talking out loud. “We were finished almost the day I was born. I just didn’t know it back then.”

  For some reason, acknowledging the truth made me feel better. I’d done all right on my own. I hadn’t faltered for lack of maternal hovering. Mort traded off purring for licking my neck with his rough tongue. Almost as if he divined my thoughts and was trying to make up for the mothering I’d never received.

  Together, we covered the distance to the witches’ lair and ducked inside. A quick trip down the central passageway spit us out in the common room.

  Tansy ran to me, light on her feet. Tonight her fair hair was loose, and it fluffed around her head and upper body lending her an angelic appearance. “You’re back. We were just getting worried about you.”