Last Dragon Standing

by G. A. Aiken

  “Why?”

  “Because you are all that stands between a world of many leaders, many cultures, many gods—and a dictator. War calls for you, Queen Annwyl. You must answer.”

  Before Annwyl could reply, a knock came at the back door to the room and Ebba entered. She walked on two legs and wore a dress, coming to Annwyl’s side, and whispering in her ear, “You wanted me to tell you when I was putting the babes down for the night.”

  “Thank you,” Annwyl replied, but then she saw the witch, Ásta, watching the centaur and smirking. The other, Bryndís, was still down on one knee, head bowed. “This is Ebba,” Annwyl told the witch. “The babes’ nanny.”

  The two females sized each other up until the witch said, “A centaur. We once hunted your kind for sport.”

  Ebba smiled. “And we used to devour your kind as snacks. Don’t cross me, Kyvich, or I’ll leave nothing for your sisters to mourn but what I pick out from between my teeth.” Then, with a nod to Annwyl, Ebba walked out.

  Annwyl again leaned down to Dagmar and whispered in her ear, “Adore. Her.”

  Rhiannon watched from her throne as her offspring approached, her sister held in Gwenvael’s arms. Beside her was what remained of the Elders. Those who’d been involved with Elestren were among them, safe. They’d been pulled into the She-dragon’s need for vengeance without realizing it, and Rhiannon wouldn’t hold that against them…this time.

  “Is it done?” Rhiannon asked once her offspring stood before her.

  “It is done,” her eldest son answered for them all.

  “Good.” She slipped off the dais and moved closer to Gwenvael. She brushed the hair from her sister’s battered and torn face. Now she remembered why she’d always hated Franseza since they were hatchlings—the bitch was mean. “Hello, sister.”

  Esyld’s eyes opened, and widened a bit more when she saw Rhiannon staring down at her. “I-I told them nothing, sister. I swear. I never betrayed—”

  “Hush, now. It’s over. I know what you’ve sacrificed.” Gods, did she know. The Northlander had touched Esyld’s hand, and what he saw, he sent to Rhiannon. Esyld’s Quintilian lover who’d tried to warn her, to protect her, only to get his throat cut in front of her; the beatings; the torture. Ragnar had shown Rhiannon all of it. She hadn’t asked him to, but she understood why he’d done it. So that there would be no question about Esyld’s loyalty, and there wasn’t any question. Esyld was and would continue to be loyal—to Keita. It had been Keita Esyld wanted to protect. It was Keita she’d suffered for, afraid of what would happen to her niece should Franseza get to her. And that was how it should be. “You’re safe, sister. You’re home.”

  Rhiannon motioned to her guards. “Take her to the healers.”

  Esyld was carefully removed from Gwenvael’s arms and taken out of the meeting chamber.

  “We are sorry for what you suffered, Princess Keita,” one of the Elders said. Rhiannon didn’t bother to see which one.

  “And Elestren has been removed from her position among my royal guard.”

  “Elestren should be removed from this world,” Briec said.

  “No.” Keita glanced at her brother, shook her head. “I won’t allow it.”

  “Why do you protect her, Keita?”

  “She thought I betrayed the queen—she was doing her job. Perhaps a little overenthusiastically. Besides, she’s family.” Rhiannon sensed her daughter had been forced to have this conversation with her brothers quite a lot since they’d left for Castle Moor.

  “The decision’s been made,” Rhiannon said, returning to her throne. “Ghleanna will decide Elestren’s fate.” She sat down and glanced to the Elders. They all nodded, and Rhiannon focused on her children. “Now, there’s one last thing….”

  Together, Keita and her siblings, Ragnar and his kin, walked through the courtyard and up to the Great Hall steps. It had been a long flight home, and all of them were exhausted, looking forward to getting some food and some sleep.

  But they stopped at the very bottom of the steps and waited. They waited for Annwyl the Bloody. She sat in the middle of the stairs, watching them all. Behind her stood Dagmar, Talaith, and Brastias.

  “Annwyl?”

  Annwyl looked her mate in the eyes. After a time, she spoke. “We proceed with the celebration feast for the children as planned. Then, once all is ready, I’ll be leading my legions to the Western Mountains and into war against the Sovereigns.”

  Fearghus let out a breath. “And I’ll be leading Queen Rhiannon’s troops into the Northlands to fight against the Irons.”

  The mated pair stared at each other a long moment until Annwyl stood and said, “Then, my love, we best get ready.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Celyn waited for Izzy by the small lake they liked to go to together. It was growing late, and the first day of the three-day feast to celebrate the twins’ birthday would be starting soon. His mother expected him to attend, and the way she was feeling about him right now, he was loath to miss it. But he needed to see Izzy alone.

  “Celyn!” She charged through the trees and into his open arms. “You won’t believe it!” she gushed, arms and legs tightening around him.

  “I won’t believe what?”

  She dropped to the ground and held his hands. “I’m going with Annwyl into the west. I’m going to be her squire!” She bounced up and down on her toes. “Mother’s absolutely livid!” She laughed and hugged him again. “I’m out of formation and fighting by Annwyl’s side!”

  He forced himself to smile. “That’s wonderful.”

  “And Brannie will be coming with us. Your mum doesn’t want to split us up. She says we work well together. Isn’t that amazing?”

  “Amazing.”

  Izzy frowned a little. “What’s wrong?”

  “Izzy…” He decided just to break it to her. “I’m being sent with Queen Rhiannon’s troops into the Northlands.”

  Izzy’s eyes grew wide, and then she hugged him. “You lucky bastard!”

  “What?”

  She pulled away and grinned at him. “You’ll be fighting alongside Lightnings! Meinhard and Vigholf and Ragnar. Me and Brannie have been training with them every morning the last few days, and they’re brilliant! I think they’re part of the reason Annwyl’s made me her squire. You’re going to learn so much. I’m so jealous!” She punched his shoulder.

  He gawked at her, and she frowned. “What’s wrong?”

  “Aren’t you going to miss me at all?”

  “Of course! I’ll miss you terribly.” But then she clapped her hands together and squealed, “But I’m going to be Annwyl’s squire!”

  Gwenvael sat in the chair, his foot tapping.

  “So,” Dagmar said from behind him, her voice very calm, very controlled, “you’ll all escort Esyld back to Outerplains when you leave?”

  “Aye,” he replied, clenching his hands. “She still smiles, but I think she grows weary of my mother. Any longer and I’m afraid she’ll crack from the pressure.”

  “Are you sure she’s strong enough to return?”

  “Morfyd said she will be by the time we leave. But she is still healing.”

  “I know she is, but I’m sure she’s ready to return to her home and try to find a way past what she’s been through.”

  “You’ll be sure to have someone keep an eye on her, won’t you?”

  “Already taken care of,” she said, her hand on his shoulder. Her soft, reassuring hand. “And remember I love you very much, Gwenvael.”

  “I know you do.” He waited, teeth gritted. And he lasted right up until he felt Dagmar pick up that first lock of his precious, precious hair!

  “I can’t!” he said, jumping out of the chair and scrambling across the room.

  Dagmar tapped those viperous scissors against her leg. He knew those scissors were out to get him. He could feel it.

  “You cannot go into the Northlands and battle with all that hair.” He noticed that her voice was no longer
calm and controlled. “It’s unseemly.”

  “Will you not miss my hair at all?”

  “I’ll miss you more, but the hair needs to go. Now get in this blasted chair!”

  “I can’t do it. It’s my hair. It loves me for who I am.”

  “You act as if I plan to shave you bald. I only plan to cut up to the middle of your back or so.”

  Gwenvael gasped, horrified! “You might as well shave me bald!”

  Dagmar threw down the scissors, and Canute slipped under the bed in the face of his mistress’s rarely seen rage.

  “Just let me get through the feast,” he said, bartering. “Three more days not only for me, but for you to luxuriate in my hair.”

  Dagmar crossed her arms over her chest. “My father was right, you know…. You are completely insane.”

  Briec sat on the bed, his elbow resting on his knee, his chin in his palm, and watched his lady love rage.

  “Who does she think she is? Making my daughter her squire?”

  “Perhaps she thinks she’s queen.”

  “Shut up!” She paced in front of him, looking wonderfully yummy in a dark blue gown he’d had made for her. “And that simpering idiot—”

  “You should just call her Izzy.”

  “—is running around announcing it to everyone like it’s a good thing. ‘I’m going to be Annwyl’s squire. I’m going to face death on a daily basis with this crazed monarch.’”

  “I don’t remember our Izzy’s voice being so high before.”

  “Shut up!”

  Izzy charged down the hallway toward her bedroom. She needed to get dressed; the guests were already arriving for the feast. She turned a corner and ran head first into that slab of brick that someone had the nerve to call a chest.

  She fell back, her ass hitting the floor. And while rubbing her forehead, which seemed to have taken the worst of the impact, she scowled up at the big idiot in her way.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, trying to sound so concerned.

  “I’m fine.” He reached for her, and she slapped his hands away. “I don’t need your help, thank you very much.”

  “Are you going to keep acting like this?”

  “Yes.” Izzy stood. “You’re a prat. I knew you were a prat—I just didn’t realize the extent of your pratiness!”

  “Fine. Be that way.”

  Éibhear walked around her, and Izzy tossed out, “And nice move getting Celyn sent to your brother’s troops.”

  He stopped and faced her. “What are you talking about?”

  “Like you didn’t know.”

  “Celyn’s going to be in the Northlands? With me? Well, I’m going to end that centaur shit right now.”

  She caught his arm before he could search out Fearghus. “Or you could stop this shit between you. I don’t need you watching out for me, Éibhear. I don’t need you beating up my lovers—”

  “Never use that word to me again.”

  “—or deciding who I can fuck and who I can’t.”

  “We’re not having this conversation.”

  “He’s your cousin,” she reminded him.

  “And you fucked him!” Éibhear bellowed in her face.

  Izzy was calm when she replied, “I did. More than once. And you’re not going to make me feel bad about that. But he’s your cousin. Don’t ruin what you have with your kin over something you can’t control. Which is namely me.”

  She headed to her room, slamming the door behind her.

  And Branwen didn’t even look up from the book she was reading when she gleefully stated, “I swear, you two have the best arguments.”

  Fearghus dashed across the room and yanked the small eating knife from his daughter’s hand, his son falling back on the bed laughing hysterically, as Annwyl finished turning around to show off the new gown Keita had chosen for her.

  “It’s not bad, is it?”

  “No.” Fearghus shook his head, probably more times than was actually necessary. “Not bad at all.”

  “Are you all right? You look like you’re sweating.”

  “Just seeing you in that dress has my blood surging.”

  Annwyl scowled, her gaze locking with her daughter’s. “Did she just snort?”

  “No.” Fearghus placed his hand over his daughter’s giggling face and pushed her back to the bed next to her brother. “She probably just has a little sniffle.”

  “You are such a bad liar. How did you ever convince me that you and the knight were two separate beings?”

  “Probably because you never let me finish a sent—”

  “It’s insane to even imagine it now—you’re such a bad liar.”

  Keita, who hadn’t quite managed to get any clothes on for this evening’s dinner, removed herself from Ragnar’s cock and clambered across the bed until she faced him.

  “What did you just say?” she demanded.

  Covered in sweat and, well, covered in her, Ragnar lifted his head. “I said you should accompany us all to the Northlands as a Battle Maid.”

  “Is that like a tent whore?”

  “No.” He closed his eyes, took a deep breath. Let it out. “It is an honored position among my people.”

  “You sure this isn’t just a way for you to get me back to the Northlands and keep me busy with your cock when you’re not out fighting the Irons, so that I’ll eventually stay with you forever?”

  Ragnar gazed at her, blinked once. “Of course not. Whatever gave you that idea?”

  She pointed a finger at him. “Because I’ll give myself to no male. I don’t mind having a regular lover, but I’ll not become my mother. Chained to some male who adores me beyond all reason.”

  “Because what female would want that?”

  “Is that sarcasm?”

  “What gave you that idea?” He motioned to his still hard, and deliciously thick cock. “Now would you mind getting back over here and finishing?”

  “As long as we understand each other. I’ll come as your Battle Slag—”

  “Battle Maid.”

  “—but I’ll make no commitment beyond that. And I won’t be the winning prize of any Honours, my wings will never be threatened, and you won’t even think about scarring up my perfect, perfect body with flames or lightning or whatever it is your kind uses to brand your victims.”

  “Mates.”

  “Whatever.”

  “I guess that’s fair enough.”

  “I will not be Claimed, warlord. By you or anyone else.”

  “Fine.”

  Feeling confident she’d gotten her point across, Keita crawled back across the bed and on top of Ragnar. She caught hold of his cock and positioned it underneath her, allowing her pussy to slowly slide down until she’d taken him fully inside her once more.

  Keita groaned, still shocked at how much she always enjoyed the feeling of Ragnar the Cunning sliding inside her.

  Ragnar caught the back of her neck, big fingers massaging the muscles there. “But remember that while you are with me, princess—”

  “I still hear prince-ass.…”

  “—you’ll have no other cock inside you. No other male’s claws or hands on you. That seems a fair trade, don’t you think?”

  “Fair enough,” she gasped, already rocking her hips against him. “Fair enough.”

  Dagmar headed toward the stairs. She wore another dress picked out by her sister-in-law Keita that looked as good as the first she’d given her. Apparently the royal intended to get Dagmar “an entire new wardrobe of pretty things!” A thought that horrified Dagmar a bit, mostly because she knew Keita had no intention of actually buying that new wardrobe, so she feared for any caravans that might be traveling through the area in the next few days.

  Halting her steps, Dagmar glanced down at Canute. She raised her brow at the dog, knowing they both had sensed it, and went back down the hallway until she stood in front of her niece’s room. Without knocking, she walked inside and caught her niece quickly hiding something behind her
back.

  “Give it,” Dagmar ordered, her hand out.

  “But—”

  “Iseabail, Daughter of Talaith and Briec, give. It.”

  “He cheers me up.”

  “Don’t give me that face, Queen’s Squire.” And she saw her niece purse her lips, trying to stop the smile she got anytime someone called her that.

  “Can’t I keep him until we leave?”

  “Trust me, Izzy. You can’t keep him at all. Now give him over.”

  Sighing, she pulled the puppy from behind her back and placed him in Dagmar’s hand.

  “I like dogs,” Izzy said.

  “Izzy, you like everything.” Dagmar kissed her forehead and headed out of the room. “Get dressed. Dinner soon.”

  Dagmar took the puppy down the stairs and out the back way of the Great Hall before she tossed him to the ground. “Stop pretending you’re a puppy, Nannulf!”

  The wolf-god landed on his giant paws and grinned at Dagmar, his tongue hanging out. If he had a human form, she had no doubt he’d be laughing at her. “And leave my niece alone,” she warned him. He opened his mouth, and she quickly added, “And no barking!” The fortress walls couldn’t stand the damage that would cause.

  Nannulf pouted, tail hanging low, until Dagmar petted his head. Then he slathered her face with his tongue; spun around, hitting Dagmar with his tail and almost knocking her on her ass; and took off running.

  “Who are you talking to, Dagmar?” Morfyd asked as the Dragonwitch came up behind her.

  “A god,” Dagmar said simply.

  Turning right around, Morfyd marched back inside, muttering, “Show-off,” as she did.

  Éibhear walked up to his sister and tugged on the sleeve of her gown. She faced him, one brow raised, her lips pursed in disapproval, before he’d managed to say a word.

  “Don’t still be mad at me, Keita,” he said. “I can’t stand when you’re mad at me.”

  “Did you apologize to Izzy?”

  “No.” He folded his arms over his chest, knowing he was pouting but not caring. “And I’m not going to. She’s crazed! Won’t listen to reason.”