Dragon’s Call: Dystopian Fantasy

by Ann Gimpel

  The Celts used to spear me with the other kind frequently. As if they were trying to figure out what type of interesting bug I was. As I rolled that particular memory over in my head, it wasn’t all that different from the way Bjorn had looked at me.

  As if he were trying to figure something out.

  Breath hissed through my teeth. My magic was strong. What else was there to determine? The cat moved from lying next to me to perching on my belly. Between his rumbly purring and everything else that had happened, I drifted downward. Not quite asleep, but not exactly awake, either.

  Damn, it felt good to just lie here. No one needed anything. I was safe. If Mother had been determined to roust me from the center of the coven, she’d have done so long ago. I suppose her stumbling block was pride. Like a jilted suitor, she wanted me to want her for her, not because she’d shattered the world and made everyone’s existence a living nightmare.

  A large scaled form with outstretched wings flew across the darkness behind my closed lids. “Go away,” I mumbled.

  The dragon veered and flew back across my visual field. Lit from within, it glowed golden. Or maybe copper. I tried again. “Go away.”

  I should have ignored the fucking thing. It landed and folded its wings behind its back. Squatting on huge haunches, the beast stared at me through large, liquid eyes that spun like pinwheels. They shaded from silver to green to dark, and back again.

  I knew instinctively not to look right into his eyes. Or maybe it was a her. Did dragons even come in genders? I assumed they had to, or there’d never be any new dragons. Fully committed to being awake, I pried my eyes open as I pondered whether something that was immortal even needed to reproduce.

  The dragon didn’t go away.

  I blinked hard and rubbed my eyes. The creature hadn’t moved. Smoke plumed from its nostrils and rose toward the ceiling of my chamber.

  “All right. You’re real. Why are you here?”

  It didn’t answer. I asked the same question in mind speech. And then in Gaelic and several of the elder tongues. The cat still curled on my tummy, oblivious to our visitor.

  Some cats make decent watch animals. Mort was halfway in that camp, and he should have at least reacted to the dragon’s presence. That he didn’t suggested perhaps I was the only one aware of the wyrm. Or the illusion that had formed in the shape of a wyrm.

  That train of thought sent me bolt upright. Breath caught in my throat, and I sent a veritable cascade of seeking magic shooting outward, intent on deterring whatever shared my bedchamber.

  Steam joined the smoke puffing from my uninvited guest. The dragon’s mouth opened in what might have been a grin. Or maybe I was anthropomorphizing the fuck out of whatever it was feeling. Since I couldn’t get rid of the dragon, I trolled for Celtic power.

  Once I determined the dragon illusion wasn’t Mother or one of her spies, my breathing rate lowered from panic mode to slightly above normal. There were many wicked things in the world, but I’d take a troll or a goblin or a sprite or a gnome—or a dragon—any old day over my Celtic kin.

  During my momentary panic, I’d looked right into its eyes, but it hadn’t snared me. Did that mean the old tales about dragon eyes capturing your soul weren’t accurate?

  Unfamiliar magic swept from the crown of my head to my feet, warm and probing but not unpleasant or threatening. “What do you want?” The question burst from me, but the dragon didn’t answer it any more than he’d answered why he was here.

  I kept returning to “he,” so maybe that part was right. Perhaps my caller was male. Oblivious to my turmoil, Mort slept on. Tail tucked around his body, his purring was a soothing counterpart to the dragon’s quiet presence. A small whoosh snapped my head around in time to see Tansy poke her nose through the hangings that formed a door to my room.

  I fully expected her to take one gander at the dragon and run screaming back the way she’d come. Instead she walked toward me, a soft smile on her face. “Do you want more to eat?” she asked, and then added, “We hoped you’d be asleep. I told everyone I’d come check on you.”

  I shook my head. Apparently, the dragon, still puffing ashy smoke in a corner of my room, was visible only to me. “I’m all right,” I told Tansy. “Thank you for making certain I was fed.”

  Color suffused her thin cheeks, and she bowed her head for a moment. “You saved my life, Ro. It’s not something I’ll ever forget. Is Mort bothering you?”

  “Not at all.” I opened my arms. Tansy all but dove into them, and I hugged her tight. It’s good to be loved. No matter how tough I think I am, having Tansy in my arms and my cat next to me were a good reminder to focus on what I had. I’d been sunk in self-pity over what was missing.

  No matter what I did, Ceridwen wouldn’t be any different. Neither would Bjorn. The Breaking wouldn’t reverse itself without a whole lot of planning and effort—and maybe not even then.

  Tansy brushed a thin finger across one of my cheeks. “You’re crying.”

  So I was. “I’m just overtired. I’ll be better once I’ve rested.”

  She scooted off the bed. “I’ll make you some tea and spell it to relax you.”

  I smiled. “That would be lovely. Thank you.”

  When I angled a glance at the dragon, he wasn’t there anymore. Tendrils of smoke danced near the ceiling, but the beast was gone. Had he ever been there? Or was my weary mind playing tricks on me. Another possibility surfaced. I’d been thinking about Bjorn. He was linked in some unknown fashion to the dragon who’d been with him killing goblins.

  Was Bjorn a dragon? To put a finer point on it, was the dragon who’d just been here the same as the one I’d seen in the air the previous night? Oftentimes, magical creatures had animal familiars or another form they could morph into. Had Bjorn paid me a visit in dragon form to check if I was all right? I might be impossibly far off base, but the idea soothed me, so I clung to it.

  By the time Tansy brought me a mug of steaming tea, I was more settled. She sat with me and combed my tangled hair with magic and her fingers as I drank the comforting beverage. It had a mildly alcoholic undernote and tasted of wildflowers I hadn’t seen since the Breaking.

  “How did you make this?” I asked.

  She ducked her head, looking pleased by my question. “I found patches of dried flowers near the shores of the closest lake and gathered them.”

  “But it’s not safe,” I protested. “That’s where Bjorn and the dragon killed all those goblins. And the troll.”

  She patted my shoulder. “This was a long time ago. I’d forgotten about the flowers but came across them when I was helping Hilda and them get items together to move to Inverlochy Castle. Most blossoms would have turned to dust after all this time, but not these, so I put them in a spot in the kitchen for us to use.”

  Tansy sat with me a while longer. I shut my eyes and quieted my breathing so she could get back to her other work. All of us had more to do than we had hours in the day. The time she’d stolen to nurture me was time she’d have to make up.

  After a whispered, “I love you,” she tiptoed out of my chamber.

  For the second time since her visit, I fought the hot sting of tears. Patrick had said how lucky the coven was to have me. It cut both ways. They’d saved me from a solitary existence where I would have had no one.

  It might have maybe made me stronger, but it also would have turned me into an embittered crone. Caring for the witches made me vulnerable—but I’d chosen wisely the day I’d shown up on their doorstep.

  I’d struggled with my decision. The only way I’d made myself knock on their door was I’d promised myself I wouldn’t remain long. Only until I’d patched myself up. I was raw from Mother’s indifference and fearful I’d end up back within the velvet-lined trap of the Celtic pantheon. Loneliness rode my shoulders like a deranged hag, sometimes screaming, sometimes cajoling, but the message was always the same. Go home because I’d never make it alone and on my own.

  I doubled up a fist
and punched the air. It hadn’t been my imagination. Nor had it been a crazy old woman. The incessant messages to return to the Celts had all come from Mother. She was more than capable of that type of projection and compulsion.

  Why had I been so dense I’d never realized it before now?

  One more reason to hate her should have kept me awake fuming. Instead, the rest that had been so elusive swallowed me whole. When I woke would be soon enough to deal with everything. Bad mothers. Imaginary dragons. A man who didn’t want me the way I wanted him.

  Except maybe I was wrong about that last. If my visitor had been Bjorn, wearing his dragon form, maybe he cared more about me than I realized.

  Chapter Eleven, Bjorn

  I hadn’t even finished eating when a cavalcade of visitors began. I’d assumed people would leave me notes and let me triage my work as I thought best, but it had been wishful thinking. I wanted to return to Midgard, make certain Rowan had returned safely, but between broken wings, broken magic, twisted spells, and a magic wand that had turned on its owner, hours passed.

  For the first time ever, I longed for a closed sign, similar to ones I’d seen in many Midgard shops before the Breaking. Humans had the right idea. They weren’t always available.

  The next problem was a chalice that was suddenly producing sour wine. Its owner, one of the smaller giants, was worried it might be poison. “I can live with sour,” he grumbled, “but not if it makes me sick.”

  He was too big to sit on any of my chairs, so he stood hunched by the side of the room as he waited for me to pronounce his precious cup could be salvaged. Patchy dark hair sprang in erratic clumps from his otherwise bald head. Close-set dark eyes, swarthy skin, and a perpetually befuddled expression were par for the course for giants.

  Some of their women are stunning. I have no idea what happened to the men.

  Giants don’t have a well-developed sense of smell when it comes to things like toxins. They’re spot on locating mortals, though, since they like to eat them. I suppose it’s always like that with predators and prey. It makes sense you’d figure out how to locate your favorite foods. After trying a few simple cleansing spells—all of which failed—I asked my client if he wanted me to dispose of the chalice safely.

  The tarnished brass cup with intricate carvings covering its surface chose that moment to vomit a stream of cherry-colored death right at its owner. He moved fast for such a big man, and so the poison only sliced through the edges of his leather breeches. Before I could restate my offer to destroy the thing, he snatched it up and raced out of my cottage.

  I considered locking the door, but there’s never been a lock that kept determined magic-wielders out. Besides, they’d complain to Odin, perhaps go so far as to suggest he appoint a different master sorcerer.

  Right about now, I’d welcome being fired.

  Gah. Politics are such a grind, and I’ve never been any good navigating those waters. When I realized I’d been holding my breath, wondering who the hell was going to show up next, I exhaled long and loud.

  No one else seemed inclined to darken my doorway. I cast a quick spell to neutralize spills from where the chalice had left smoking spots on my stone floor. They might have burned themselves out, but since I hadn’t figured out what was powering the thing, better safe than sorry. If I’d let them be, I might have returned to naught but foundation stones.

  The cottage might not be much, but it was mine.

  It wasn’t wise to tempt fortune, so I hustled out of my house, intent on catching a ride on the rainbow bridge. I hadn’t made it fifty paces when a low keening whistle snagged me, drawing me back.

  The bloody stone. I’d gone off without it, and it was reminding me in its inimitable nagging way to go back and fetch it.

  How far did its influence reach?

  Could I move beyond its scope?

  In the spirit of scientific experimentation, I kept right on walking. And it got harder and harder to move forward. My limbs may as well have been mired in quicksand for all the progress I made.

  “All right,” I shouted, grateful no one else was about, “I give up.” I turned around and the stone zinged through the air, ending up in the hand I extended to catch it.

  Interesting. I hadn’t actually had to return. All I’d needed to do was acknowledge its superiority over me. I filed that little tidbit away for future reference and continued toward the nearest spot I could grab a lift on the bridge. I had no idea what I’d do in Midgard. Not that I didn’t visit there periodically, but I’d just been there.

  After I chased Rowan down, I’d have no other reason to remain. The magical vessels I’d crafted to contain the worst of the Breaking’s residual darkness should hold for another few days. Perhaps as much as two weeks—if I were fortunate. During that time, I’d make a point of asking Nidhogg if he had a more permanent solution.

  Even if he didn’t, the worst that could happen would be the remains of the Breaking would go back to how they’d been before my attempt to permanently defuse them. I blew out a thoughtful breath. The problem extended much deeper than the bits of Celtic magic clinging to the edges of the Breaking site. What I’d done was superficial, probably a waste of time and magic.

  I hadn’t yet reached Bifrost, and I slowed my pace until I wasn’t moving at all. I could still return home and consult my lore scrolls and books about how to address the insidious darkness I’d felt pulsing beneath the Breaking. My haste was ridiculous. It certainly wasn’t fueled by me caring about Midgard. No, it was all about my unholy fascination with Rowan.

  Damn. Each time I called her that, I cringed. The name was just wrong. Should I tell her about her true name, Runa? I took a few mental steps backward. Maybe I shouldn’t seek her out at all.

  Once I’d reassured myself she’d returned to Midgard.

  I had to do that. I wouldn’t rest easy until I knew she was safe, but there was no reason to reveal any more about my obsession with her than she might already have guessed. The more I thought about it, the surer I was that a quick trip to Midgard was the proper course of action for me. I’d use magic to check on her, and then slip away.

  We would run into each other when we checked on the Breaking, but not immediately. I’d agreed to work with her on securing its foul magic, but neither of us had tacked down a time frame. Besides, she’d be busy helping the witches with their crop project within the illusion that was once Inverlochy Castle. Meanwhile, I could slide in and out of the Breaking site without attracting attention.

  Same thing I’d been doing for years.

  After its hissy fit when I forgot it, the stone had been quiescent. Until now. I wasn’t certain if it was reacting because I’d stopped walking, or because of my train of thought. The one where I’d begun the process of snipping the strings that bound me to Runa.

  Rowan, I corrected myself. If I didn’t watch it, and called her by her true name, she was bound to react to it. True names were like that. They resonated deep in your soul. Rather like a puzzle piece that snapped into the spot meant just for it. Knowing her name had been withheld from her would add fuel to the hatred she felt for Ceridwen. Rowan hadn’t said much, but she didn’t need to. Her angst and pain and anger had bled through her words.

  The stone zapped me again. Clearly, it wasn’t going to let me be until I was well on my way to Midgard.

  Not the stone, I reminded myself. The crystalline chunk was inert. The energy powering it was Nidhogg’s desire. Win, lose, or draw, I was shackled to the Norse dragon at the hip for the foreseeable future.

  A rather considerable part of me rebelled, but it was wasted energy. I might have magic to burn, but compared with a dragon, I was small potatoes to the max.

  My feet had begun moving again. Before I could summon a portal for the bridge, one bloomed to life in front of me. Normally, something like that would have given me the creeps because it proved Nidhogg was hovering, watching my every move. So much for my assumption about being invisible to the gods.

 
; I leapt over the lintel, through the gateway, and onto the bridge. I’ve called it a bridge, but Bifrost is a living part of the Nine Worlds. Linked to their energy, it moves where it’s called. So my journey feels the same whether I’m going to Alfheim or Niflheim or Midgard. I have to pay attention, though. Markers are carved into Bifrost’s surface. Runes denoting each world. If I wait too long, I’ll miss my destination, and then I have to start over.

  The worlds flashed by in their usual order. Not getting off in the proper spot would add considerably to my journey time. Not much chance of screwing things up this trip. The same portal that had opened for me in Vanaheim popped into being at just the right moment.

  I didn’t linger within Bifrost to question why I suddenly had my own personal gateway valet. Nidhogg wanted me in Midgard, and he wanted me there badly enough to make things as easy as possible. It should have worried me. Dragons never made things easy for anyone. Not even each other. It’s survival of the toughest almost from the moment they hatch—if the lore is to be believed.

  The dragonstone had settled into a comfortable buzzy hum. I was being compliant, so no more need to ride me. Rain cascaded from a dark-gray sky as soon as I was fully out of Bifrost. This particular cloak had no hood, and I was drenched in no time. Water ran down my face and my neck; I directed a thread of magic to counteract the worst of it.

  When that didn’t work very well, I settled for keeping it from running into my eyes. I peered around at an empty vista. I’d come out in an unfamiliar spot, but Midgard was a big place. A wee bit of power gave me rough coordinates. I was a few leagues from the lake where Nidhogg and I had tangled with the goblins.

  Thinking about them brought me around fast. Rain aside—it was the least of my concerns—I scanned for threats.

  And for the dragon.