by G. A. Aiken
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.”
“She won’t listen to reason?”
“You know, you were my sister before you were her aunt. Does that mean nothing in this family?”
“Of course it doesn’t.” Keita walked away from him, and Éibhear stared down at the floor. This was intolerable. He had his brothers constantly telling him, “You should have killed Celyn when you had the chance, you idiot,” and Morfyd petting him and telling him, “It’ll be all right, luv. Don’t you worry now.” All expected reactions, but he didn’t realize until this moment how much he needed the full balance of his kin’s reactions, including Keita’s direct but fair advice. So having her simply angry at him without talking to him or telling him how she thought he should handle things was too much. Especially since Keita was the only one of his siblings who didn’t treat him like he was stupid or made of spun glass.
Éibhear heard something scrape the floor, and he lifted his head, watching Keita drag a big chair over to him.
“Isn’t that Annwyl’s throne?” he asked, looking around for someone to be concerned.
“I’m just borrowing it.” Keita placed the throne in front of Éibhear and stepped onto the padded seat. Now that they were at eye level, she placed her hands on his shoulders. “You do know I love you, don’t you, little brother?”
“I guess. But it would be nice to hear it.”
Keita smiled, and Éibhear felt relief at the sight of it. “It may take some time—you are ridiculously stubborn like the rest of this family—but I know you’ll make this right one day. Until then”—she wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him tight—“remember that my love and loyalty always belong to you.”
“Aw. Thanks, Keita.”
She pulled back and pointed a finger at him. “But when you are rude, little brother, I will not hesitate calling you a prat!”
That part Éibhear already knew.
“Oy, you dizzy cow!” Annwyl yelled from across the hall. “What the battle-fuck are you doing with my throne?”
Ragnar stared at his kin, his mouth slightly open.
“What’s that look for?” Vigholf asked. “You said to do it.”
“Even gave a suggestion,” Meinhard tossed in.
“I thought you two were joking. Have you both lost your bloody minds?”
“We were trying to be nice,” his brother argued.
“And when that crazed human monarch cuts off the rest of your hair, I don’t want to hear any more—”
“Who did it?” Annwyl demanded from behind him.
Ragnar faced her, “My lady—”
“Who? I want to know whose idea this was”—she held up the training mace, battle ax, warhammer, and shield, perfectly sized for a two-year-old girl with both human and dragon blood—“and I want to know now!”
Vigholf and Meinhard raised their hands, and the queen’s eyes filled with tears. “This is so sweet! Thank you. Thank you both!” She hugged them, arms going wide to reach around their chests.
That’s when Ragnar let Annwyl know, “It was I who suggested the shield.”
Keita slid in next to her sister and the duke of something or other and his boring human mate, the duchess of something else or other, and announced, “I’m going to the north to be a Battle Whore!”
“Maid!” Morfyd yelped. “She’s going to be a Battle Maid.” Morfyd forced a smile. “Will you excuse us?”
Morfyd grabbed Keita’s arm and dragged her across the Great Hall. “Is there something wrong with you?” she said, pushing her away once they arrived on the other side of the room. “Something that’s contagious?”
“Why are you yelling?”
“Battle Whore?”
“Whore. Maid. What’s the difference?”
“You purposely embarrass me!”
“It is a skill, but you make it so easy.”
Lips tight, Morfyd shoved Keita, and Keita shoved her back. There was a pause and then they both threw their drinks down and lunged for the other, but Dagmar stepped between them, her yummy-looking dog right by her side.
“I will not have this again.”
“She started it!” they both accused.
“I don’t want to hear it. This feast is to celebrate the birth and lives of your niece and nephew, and the least you two can do is have a little respect for their mother, who’s had to make the hardest decision any female can make. How hard do you think this night is for her? And you two fighting like cats?”
Realizing the tiny barbarian was right, Keita looked at her sister and said, “Sorry.”
“Aye,” Morfyd replied. “Me too.”
“Thank you.” Dagmar began to walk away but was blocked by the human queen and her new squire’s seething mother.
“Are you trying to get my daughter killed?”
“Yes!” Annwyl said, spinning around to face Talaith. “That’s what I want. To get my niece killed. That’s my whole fucking goal!”
“Mum!” Izzy charged up, her giggling baby sister in her arms, her well-armed twin cousins hanging from around her neck. “You promised me you wouldn’t do this!”
“Stay out of this, Izzy. I’m talking to your betraying whore of an aunt!”
Dagmar glanced back at Keita and Morfyd. “I won’t discuss it,” she said simply. “I just won’t.”
She walked off and a few seconds later, snapped, “Canute!”
The dog pressing into Keita’s leg looked up at her with big brown eyes.
“You’d better go,” Keita whispered.
And, sighing, he walked off after his mistress. The arguing sisters-in-law and Izzy had also moved
to another spot so they could give all the guests in the Great Hall a clear view of their hysterical yelling.
“I don’t know about you,” Keita said when Briec had to rush over to help Izzy separate her mum and the human queen of all the Southlands from a rousing yelling match and slap fight, “but I’m having a most entertaining night.”
Morfyd signaled to one of the servants for more wine. “Surprisingly, sister, and perhaps for the first time in the history of all dragons—I must agree with you.”
“She’s mine, you know.”
Ragnar let out a heavy sigh. “I’m not sure The Beast would use that particular term, but all right.”
“I’m just making it clear where we all stand, Liar Monk,” Gwenvael explained. “So you’ll understand why I’ll have to kill you if you try anything.”
“You still haven’t figured out I love your sister?”
“This isn’t about Keita. This is about me.”
“I thought it was about Dagmar.”
“In relation to me.”
Unable to stand any more of this, Ragnar leaned in and whispered into the Ruiner’s ear, “I’ve heard you’re getting your hair cut. All those long, golden tresses falling helplessly to the floor…”
Gwenvael lunged away from him. “Bastard!”
Keita quickly stepped aside—the two mugs of ale she’d been carrying over nearly tragic victims to a Gold’s idiocy—and let her brother pass.
“What was that about?” she asked, handing him one of the mugs.
Ragnar stared into it. “Is this your father’s brew?”
“Don’t be weak, warlord. Swill it!”
“Perhaps later.” He placed the mug on the table behind him.
“Well?” she asked, grinning.
“Well what?”
“Did my brothers come over here and threaten you yet? Tell you if you try to take their adorable baby sister as your own, they would beat you within an inch of your life?”
“Uh…no.”
Her brows lowered. “What do you mean no?”
“I mean no. They haven’t said a word. Wait. That’s not right.” Her face lit up. “The two eldest said, ‘Move!’ and I said, ‘Piss off!’ That was about it.”
She stamped her bare foot, and he knew at some point he’d have to find out why she refused to wear shoes. “Does this family not love me at all? Do I mean nothing to anyone?”
“I—”
“Don’t say it!”
Ragnar laughed, pulling Keita into his arms.
“They threaten Brastias all the time,” she whined. “Why not you?”
“Because they know you don’t need their protection. You take care of yourself just fine.”
She sniffed. “That was actually very good.”
“I thought so.”
Smiling, Keita placed her ale on the table and put her arms around Ragnar’s neck. “Tell me, warlord, this Battle Slag—”
“Maid.”
“—position. Does it make me queen of the Northlands?”
“No.”
“Is there a throne?”
“No.”
“Shopping trips? A gold carriage? An entire troop of handsome warriors to protect me at all times?”
“That would be ‘no’ three times in a row.”
“Then what is the purpose of a Battle Trollop?”
“Maid. And, basically, you’ll get to braid my hair before I fly off into battle.”
Keita stared up at him. “You’re joking.”
“And unbraid it when I return.”
“Yes, because after more than a century of being a Protector of the Throne, I so look forward to braiding your hair for the next six or seven centuries.”
“I was desperate,” he admitted. “My cock was hard, you were wet, and I needed to come up with an excuse that would get you to travel with me. I was almost positive telling you that I love you and want you to meet my mother would not do the job.”
“And you would have been right.” Instead of running off once faced with the truth, she asked, “But what am I going to do while you’re out battling Irons? Besides sitting around looking beautiful and shaming all those pathetic Northland females?”
“Help me destroy those who would betray me and my kin?”
Keita stepped away from him. “You’d willingly put me into danger? Willingly risk my life to further your own gains?”
He shrugged, unable to lie to her. “If it got me what I wanted.”
“Gods,” Keita said on a shaky breath, moving back into his arms and hugging him tight. “It’s like you want me to fuck you right here.”
Ragnar held her close. “Well, if you really want your brothers to beat me within an inch of my life…that would be the way.”
Epilogue
It seemed that all of Dark Plains was silent this early morning, the suns barely awake themselves as the Blood Queen came out on the steps, dressed in full battle gear. Her mate, already shifted to dragon and in his battle armor, waited for her with his kin. Their last night together had been far too short, but, by the gods, it had been memorable. And would hopefully help them both get through the time they’d be separated from one another.
She stopped and looked back at her offspring. She crouched down and held her arms open. Her children tore away from their nanny and charged over to their mother, wrapping their arms around her, hugging her tight. She kissed them both and picked them up, handing them back to their keeper.
She leaned in and whispered, “Even a hint of trouble, Ebba—”
“And I’ll take all the children and be gone, my Queen. Have no worries.”
The Blood Queen stepped back and looked at those she called her sisters. The assassin witch, the scheming warlord. They’d all had their sobbing good-byes nearly an hour ago, in private. They’d have no more here for an audience.
The queen winked at her toddler niece, the little girl waving good-bye to her.
Turning, she went down the steps and met her mate. The Dragon Prince of Dark Plains pressed his head carefully against her, the pair long ago beyond words. She kissed his snout, and walked away from him to her waiting horse. Her eldest niece, now her squire, held out her helm. The queen put it on, tossing off her shoulder the long mane of purple hair that came from the crown of her helm, winking at the Northlander all that hair had once belonged to. He smiled in return and briefly bowed his head in respect. She put her foot in the stirrup and mounted her horse.
Once settled, she took one last glance around. General Brastias would ride to her left, his second in command, Danelin, to her right. Dragon Princess Morfyd had again taken up her role as Battle Mage to Queen Annwyl and waited patiently to leave with the human troops. Her brothers, along with their youngest sister and the three Horde dragons who’d accompanied Princess Keita’s return into the Southlands, would be traveling into the north to face their enemies near the Ice Land borders.
Manning the inside and outside of the Garbhán Isle gates and the sides of the Great Hall steps were the Kyvich warrior witches. Their leader bowed her head to the queen, the black tribal tattoos on her face unable to make her look as frighteningly fierce as that one female truly was.
The Blood Queen felt confident that she could do no more to ensure her children’s safety while she was gone—except win this war. Losing had never been an option for her during any battle, but there was even more truth to that now. She’d feel no regret, no guilt, no sorrow for what she’d have to do to win.
And Annwyl the Bloody, Queen of Dark Plains, knew that when this was all over, when the last shield had been cleaved, the last commander eviscerated, the last body burned, either her head would be on a spike in the ruling Quintilian Provinces—or the Blood Queen would have truly earned her name and her reputation.
Did you miss the first three books in
G.A. Aiken’s fabulous dragon series?
The magic beings with
DRAGON ACTUALLY…
DRAGON ACTUALLY
It’s not always easy being a female warrior with a nickname like Annwyl the Bloody. Men tend to either cower in fear—a lot—or else salute. It’s true that Annwyl has a knack for decapitating legions of her ruthless brother’s soldiers without pausing for breath. But just once it would be nice to be able to really talk to a man, the way she can talk to Fearghus the Destroyer.
Too bad that Fearghus is a dragon, of the large, scaly, and deadly type. With him, Annwyl feels safe—a far cry from the feelings aroused by the hard-bodied, arrogant knight Fearghus has arranged to help train her for battle. With her days spent fighting a man who fills her with fierce, heady desire, and her nights spent in the company of a magical creature who could smite a village just by exhaling, Annwyl is sure life couldn’t get any stranger. She’s wrong…
[And just wait until you meet the rest of the family…]
ABOUT A DRAGON
For Nolwenn witch Talaith, a bad day begins with being dragged from bed by an angry mob intent on her crispy end and culminates in rescue by—wait for it—a silver-maned dragon. Existence as a hated outcast is nothing new for a woman with such powerful secrets. The dragon, though? A tad unusual. This one has a human form to die for, and knows it. According to dragon law, Talaith is now his property, for pleasure…or otherwise. But if Lord Arrogance thinks she’s the kind of damsel to acquiesce without a word, he’s in for a surprise…
Is the woman never silent? Briec the Mighty knew the moment he laid eyes on Talaith that she would be his, but he’d counted on tongue-lashings of an altogether different sort. It’s embarrassing, really, that it isn’t this outspoken female’s Magicks that have the realm’s greatest dragon in her thrall. No, Briec has been spellbound by something altogether different—and if he doesn’t tread carefully, what he doesn’t know about human women could well be the undoing of his entire race…