by Ann Gimpel
Dragon’s Heir
Dystopian Fantasy
Ann Gimpel
Contents
Dragon’s Heir
Book Description, Dragon’s Heir
Books in the Dragon Heir Series
Author’s Note
1. Chapter One, Rowan
2. Chapter Two, Bjorn
3. Chapter Three, Rowan
4. Chapter Four, Bjorn
5. Chapter Five, Rowan
6. Chapter Six, Bjorn
7. Chapter Seven, Rowan
8. Chapter Eight, Bjorn
9. Chapter Nine, Rowan
10. Chapter Ten, Bjorn
11. Chapter Eleven, Rowan
12. Chapter Twelve, Bjorn
13. Chapter Thirteen, Rowan
14. Chapter Fourteen, Bjorn
15. Chapter Fifteen, Rowan
16. Chapter Sixteen, Bjorn
17. Chapter Seventeen, Rowan
18. Chapter Eighteen, Bjorn
19. Chapter Nineteen, Rowan
20. Chapter Twenty, Bjorn
Book Description, To Love a Highland Dragon
To Love a Highland Dragon, Chapter One
About the Author
Also by Ann Gimpel
Dragon’s Heir
Dragon Heir, Book Three
A Dystopian Fantasy
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By
Ann Gimpel
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Tumble off reality’s edge into myth, magic, and dragons
Copyright Page
All rights reserved.
Copyright © August 2019, Ann Gimpel
Cover Art Copyright © August 2019, Covers by Julie
Edited by: Kate Richards
Names, characters, and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or people living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced or shared by any electronic or mechanical means, including but not limited to printing, file sharing, e-mail, or web posting without written permission from the author.
Book Description, Dragon’s Heir
Rowan hasn’t made a dent in coming to terms with her black-to-his bones dragon father when she gets pregnant. The dragon-child isn’t even here yet, but everyone’s already fighting over his future.
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The third (and last) book in a magic-laced, fast-paced, fantasy trilogy. With dragons.
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I’m being pulled nine ways at once. Brand new mating. Brand new pregnancy. Stronger magic than I’m used to. The Nine Worlds are failing. Rot that began on Earth has spread to Vanaheim. Odin knows more than he’s telling us, and no one has any interest in working together.
The only thing everybody has in common is a sudden, weird fascination with my baby. The dragons want him raised on Fire Mountain. The Celts want us in Inverlochy Castle with them. Hel hasn’t weighed in, but I bet she’d like to see her grandson in Niflheim where she can dandle him on her knees every day.
If it weren’t for the catastrophe looming over our heads, Bjorn and I would escape to a distant borderworld and never look back. It’s always an option. Good to preserve as many of those as possible
Keep your fingers crossed for me. And my son. See you on the other side.
Books in the Dragon Heir Series
Dragon’s Call, Book One
Dragon’s Blood, Book Two
Dragon’s Heir, Book Three
Author’s Note
If I seem to be on a dragon kick here, it began long ago. My first runaway bestselling trilogy, Earth Reclaimed, had dragons in it. So did my almost-as-successful Dragon Lore series. Dragons have made cameo appearances in other books as well.
Well, maybe slightly more than cameos in the Ice Dragon series.
Beyond dragons, I’ve had a lifelong love affair with both the Celtic and Norse pantheons. While writing one long-ago book, I swore no Celtic gods. Nope. Nary a one. Well, along about Chapter Five, who should come strolling out of the wasteland but Fionn MacCumhaill, Celtic god of creation, protection, knowledge, and divination.
I gave up to my muse thereafter. She hasn’t led me astray yet.
Welcome to another series that blends the Celtic and Norse pantheons. In my imagination, the deities all know one another. It was a pretty intimate circle filled with petty—and not so petty—squabbling. Add enough acts of unbelievable valor to keep things on an even keel, and the foundations of a story magically appear.
Chapter One, Rowan
Odin’s gallery in Valhalla was filled to overflowing with delegates from eight of the Nine Norse Worlds. Hel was there representing her realms of the dead and Niflheim. An outraged contingent of frost giants had also staked a claim to Niflheim as their domain. A predictable scuffle ensued that had shifted from curses to the ring of steel on steel. One of Hel’s serpents was with her. Its forked tongue lashed in and out, spraying poison at the giants.
Odin crashed a fist down on the scarred wooden table that ran the length of the messy hall. The place had clearly seen better days, and it didn’t appear anyone ever cleaned it.
“’Tis not why we are here,” he thundered and skewered Hel and three frost giants with his single fog-colored eye. Dark hair spilled down his back in many small plaits tied off with colorful bits of leather.
I’d never seen frost giants before, but I understood why they’d been named. Icicles clung to their whiskers and dripped down their chests. They wore skins, carried clubs and flails in addition to swords, and looked rather like my idea of caveman warriors. Big ones, though. Humanity’s predecessors had been tiny by Norse standards.
The remainder of the room’s occupants were interesting as well. I’d never laid eyes on a living dwarf, either, but I had seen the occasional elf.
Hel bowed in Odin’s direction. “I hear and obey, my liege.” Her huge, black cobra-esque snake slithered to her side and wound around her ankles much like a cat would have.
“Better.” Odin still sounded grumpy. “I’ll bring the Hunt in to establish order if I have to.”
“We doona want them here,” an elf shouted. Raspberry hair fell to his feet, and his gossamer wings were decorated with glittery patterns.
“No one does,” Hel told the elf, “which is precisely why Odin threatened us with their presence.”
“Ye concede Niflheim to us?” one of the frost giants boomed.
“Nay, I doona.” Hel’s response was acid enough to curdle milk.
Both of Odin’s ravens took to the air, cawing as they circled the giants. “I said this topic is closed.” Odin’s voice was level and even—for once. “If ye canna comply, ye must leave. If ye do, ye will still be bound by today’s decisions even though ye had no say in them.”
Amid grumbling, the frost giants sheathed their weapons and lumbered to the edges of the hall. Its ceiling was at least four meters tall and supported by rough-hewn beams and upright posts.
Odin took a slug from one of the twin drinking horns draped around his neck. Thor sat to his left, his fair hair spilling down his chest in two thick plaits. Unlike his father, his eyes were more blue than gray. In contrast to his hair, his beard was flame red. Other Norse gods were arrayed around the table. No one had bothered with introductions after learning my name, probably because I was the only one here who didn’t know everyone.
Zelli, the copper-scaled dragon I’m bonded to—my right as a Dragon Heir—stood behind me. Dewi, the Celtic dragon god, was next to her, red scales shining like burnished fire. I felt the occasional flare of magic between them and was certain they were chatting up
a storm about me and my unexpected turn of events.
I quashed a mental wince. Even within my thoughts, I was so conflicted I was having a hell of a hard time saying the word pregnant. I’d done what I usually do when I felt overwhelmed: pushed the whole mess aside with promises to think about it later.
Not that I didn’t have some time. At least I figured I did. I’m part Celtic god and part dragon. Bjorn Nighthorse is sitting next to me. He’s my mate. Delight and pride and determination have practically oozed from him since the dragons sensed a hatchling within me. Bjorn carries Norse and dragon blood. I have no flipping idea what this baby will be. I mean, it will look human—probably—but the little creature will be magic incarnate.
We’ll probably have to ward the nursery to keep him contained.
I should be paying attention to the meeting, but Odin hadn’t said much after censuring Hel and the frost giants. Or maybe he had. I wasn’t exactly at the top of my game. How could I be? I had so many questions. How long would I be pregnant? Would it be the normal nine months? Or some other variable? Dragons laid eggs. If I remembered right, it took them something like two years to hatch.
Sooooo, splitting the difference meant I had roughly sixteen months before the birth. Or maybe I only had nine. Or perhaps even less. Magical children have their own timetables. I chewed on my lower lip. Less was unacceptable. I had so much to do even eating and sleeping felt like luxuries.
Speaking of dragons, Quade is bonded to Bjorn. I neglected to mention him, but he’s huge and black and part of the dragon gabfest unfolding behind me. Probably, they didn’t see any reason to focus on Odin, either. So far, all he’d done was act as a referee. After a couple more transits of the hall, the ravens returned to his shoulders.
Huginn and Muninn, Thought and Memory, were beautiful birds. Twice as large as normal ravens, their black feathers glistened, and their dark eyes shone with sharp intelligence. If legends were true, they flew the length and breadth of the Nine Worlds acting as Odin’s spies and feeding him knowledge as they gleaned it.
“Why is no one from Midgard here?” one of the Norse women asked. Golden hair swept back from her high forehead and cascaded to the floor around her chair. Her eyes were the color of polished amethyst.
Thor shot her an annoyed look, but she faced off against him and turned her hands palms up. “Midgard is the focal point of the current attack. It’s turned into a wasteland. I assumed mortals would care about their fate, but apparently not.” An eloquent shrug held a “let them stew in their own shit” flavor.
It annoyed me enough, I spoke up. “Humans didn’t believe in magic. Now they’re scared shitless of it. Do you blame them? From where they sit—or cower in ruins, more accurately—magic broke their world. Nothing is left of their old way of life.”
“Aye?” The unknown Norsewoman raised a golden brow. “Ye’d still think they might show the slightest interest in their destiny.”
An idea flashed through me. “I can secure a representative from Midgard. Probably two or three. They’re not mortals, but witches. Would that be good enough?”
Breath whistled through the woman’s teeth. “I suppose ’tis better than naught.”
I stood, preparing to leave, when Bjorn jumped to his feet. “You’re not going alone,” he said.
I twisted to stare at him. “Don’t be silly. I’ll return before you know it.”
He stared back. “How were you planning to transport the witches?”
It was a decent question. One I should have an answer for, except I didn’t. While I can teleport, witches can’t. “Uh, Bifrost?”
“Which is why you need me. The rainbow bridge barely tolerates your presence.”
I bristled. Granted, my first encounter with the bridge hadn’t been pretty, but it had been resolved courtesy of Zelli’s intervention.
“No one leaves,” Odin bellowed. “Not until we have crafted first steps to deal with the dark magic flowing unimpeded into Midgard. I’ve taken care of the witch problem. ’Tis well in hand.”
The back of the meeting hall grew indistinct, fluid, and shiny with reds and golds. When they cleared, Nidhogg stepped through a portal. The Norse dragon is pure gold with silvery green whirling eyes. A smaller blue dragon named Ysien followed him into Odin’s halls.
The gigantic room was beginning to feel crowded with five dragons and a bevy of Norse gods.
“I heard that last part,” Nidhogg rumbled. “I agree with including a witch or two. Eyes on the ground and all that.”
Speaking of eyes, I resisted rolling mine. It always slays me when ancient creatures who’ve been around since the dawn of time spout modern jargon.
I expected the portal to wink out. Instead, it glowed brighter. Patrick and Hilda tumbled through looking frightened out of their wits. I was already on my feet, and I sprinted to them. “It’s all right,” I shouted to punch through their obvious panic at being shanghaied.
Both witches zeroed in on me. Patrick’s harsh expression softened, and the taut set to Hilda’s shoulders relaxed a bit. “You brought us here?” he asked.
“Nope. It was Nidhogg. I don’t command that kind of power.” Reaching out a hand, I hauled Hilda to her feet, and then Patrick. He was short with thinning blond hair and blue eyes. Patched breeks came to knee level, and he wore a plaid woolen shirt. His feet were bare and dirty, which suggested he’d been working in the garden when Nidhogg’s magic caught him up.
Hilda was even smaller than Patrick with steel-gray hair she kept cut short. Her blue eyes held a violet cast that has always reminded me of a field of lupines. A navy-blue denim skirt covered her legs, and she wore a sleeveless red sweatshirt. Like Patrick’s, her bare feet were covered with dirt.
“Crap.” I shook my head. “The others will be frantic. They must have seen you disappear.” The spell I’d started jumped to my call. I’d teleport to the ruins of Inverlochy Castle and reassure everyone.
“I’ll take care of it,” Ysien said and vanished.
Eyeing the spot he’d stood, I muttered, “Maybe not the best idea.” Ysien was far from diplomatic, and I could see him scaring the witches worse than they already were.
“It will be fine.” Nidhogg turned his swirling gaze my way. “I instructed him to be gentle.”
Gentle and Ysien didn’t belong in the same sentence, but I kept my mouth shut and rode herd on my need to control everything. It’s always been one of my stumbling blocks.
“Why are we here?” Patrick asked.
“Ye have become the official representatives for Midgard.” Odin sounded as friendly as a cornered wolf. “And now that the Nine Worlds are complete within these halls, we can begin. And we shall.”
“Official representatives to do what?” Hilda tipped her chin up.
I was proud of her. She had to be stunned by the sheer volume of power humming around the room.
“Why, speak with Midgard’s inhabitants. What else?” the blonde goddess replied. “Tell them they must help.”
“We’ll figure it out,” I told Hilda and Patrick. Mostly, I wanted Odin to get on with things. In the grand scheme of how badly Midgard—Earth—was broken, I didn’t see mortals playing any role at all.
Ysien shimmered back into view, and the gateway swooshed shut behind him. I wanted to grill him, demand a blow-by-blow account of his time with the witches, but I’d never get it.
I was used to the way the Celtic gods did things. Most of them hated meetings of any kind, so when they all gathered, it was always short and sweet. Didn’t take me long to figure out the Norse pantheon loved to hear themselves talk. The blonde goddess turned out to be Freya. I listened through a long-winded rendition of her last few scrying episodes that damn near put me to sleep.
Thor and the giants were reminiscing about a hunting expedition for some mythical beast whose name I couldn’t pronounce when Odin’s shrill whistle brought their discussion to a halt. It must have signaled someone in the wings because platters of food materialized, carried i
n by dead warriors.
Many of them stayed and broke bread with us.
I admit I was hungry—feeding two and all that—but I was also frustrated. Not trusting telepathy not to be intercepted, I placed my mouth near Bjorn’s ear and murmured, “How much longer?”
A slight shrug told me he had no idea.
Patrick and Hilda sat at a small table off to one side, eating. So far, other than Odin’s statement about all the worlds being represented, I couldn’t see any reason to have disturbed their day.
Time passed. Quite a bit as the platters emptied.
“We have come to consensus,” Odin bellowed.
My eyes widened. We had? I didn’t recall any discussion at all—not about anything relevant.
“We will begin with the outer borderworlds and repair the damage to the barrier that keeps them separate from all other worlds.”
Talk about a long-game approach. I nudged Bjorn. He shook his head very slightly, which was a warning for me to hold my tongue. Meh. I’ve never been good with warnings or instructions.
I shot to my feet, unsure if I should raise my hand, or wait for Odin to acknowledge me, or just start talking. He didn’t so much as look my way as he rattled off assignments for a couple of groups to assess what needed shoring up. The away teams—for want of a better label—were heavy on dwarves and elves.