by G. A. Aiken
She was just plain old Izzy whose life was completely unraveling at the moment.
“What do you mean I can’t go?”
“Was I unclear in my wording? I’m not sending you off to war. You’re barely seventeen winters.”
“My eighteenth is a few months off.”
“Then it won’t be a painfully long wait.”
How could her mother be so flippant about this? Everything Izzy had been training for, everything she wanted to do was moments from her grasp. They wanted her to go with one of the legions to fight a baron lord near the Southland coasts. He’d created his own army and was said to be preparing to march on Dark Plains. Annwyl, as always, wanted to attack first.
Izzy’s entire training unit would be going, and it could be the perfect opportunity for Izzy to prove her worth to Annwyl. How could her mother just take that from her?
“This isn’t fair.” She hated that she sounded like a whining child, but it wasn’t fair!
Talaith sighed and faced the window, looking out over the courtyard. “The world is not fair, Izzy. But you’ll go nowhere until I give my leave. And don’t bother trying to get your father to change my mind. We went round and round about it for the last two days, and my mind is made up.”
Izzy knew if her father couldn’t convince her mum, no one could.
Tears filling her eyes, Izzy stormed out of her mother’s room and down the castle stairs. Her comrades, a few of her fellow trainees heading off to the coast in the next day or so, called to her as she quickly walked through the courtyard, but she ignored them, wanting to be away. She even heard her father call out to her, but she ignored him as well as she ran out the castle gates and toward the river. Once she reached it, she stopped at a random tree and punched it. Bark flew everywhere and the five-hundred-year-old tree jerked a bit. Then Izzy burst into tears.
None of this was fair. She was a good soldier. Very good. And she had every intention of being the best warrior. She wanted to be the Queen’s Champion. Hell, she wanted to be the Queen’s General one day. But all that took work and time. Every moment delayed seemed to take her dream farther and farther from her until it was nothing but the pipe dream of a silly girl.
“Why are you crying?”
Izzy turned toward the voice, her gaze rudely examining the girl standing in front of her. She had straight black hair that reached her shoulders and black eyes. She sported a large wound on one side of her face that appeared nearly healed up and she wore a chain-mail shirt and leggings but no surcoat. Izzy would guess they were about the same age, but Izzy damn well knew better.
“You’re a dragon.”
“I am. I’m Branwen the Black.”
And based on that wound on her face and the other bruises and scratches, Branwen the Black had been in battle.
Izzy hated her.
“I’m Iseabail, Daughter of Talaith.” The most difficult, uncaring, unfeeling mother in the world!
The girl stepped closer, not realizing how jealous Izzy was of her at this very moment. If Izzy had a temper like Annwyl’s she would have hit her by now. Oh, if only she had a temper like Annwyl’s!
“So why do you cry?” she asked.
Izzy swallowed back her tears and anger. “My mum.” She swallowed again, almost losing that battle to her tears. “She won’t let me go off to combat with the rest of my comrades.”
“How old are you?”
Izzy glared. “How old are you?” she shot back.
“Eighty-three.”
“Oh.” Damn.
Then Branwen grinned. “But for dragons that makes me about your age, I reckon. And me mum gives me such a hard time. She acts like I’m still a hatchling. She won’t let me go into any battles by myself. I always have to be by her side. My brother’s not yet a hundred and he gets to go into battle by himself. It’s not fair.”
“It’s not! But they never see that, do they?”
“No, they don’t. Becomes a real pain in the arse, doesn’t it?”
Izzy finally smiled. “It does.”
Branwen looked Izzy up and down.
“So you done crying now, Iseabail, Daughter of Talaith? Because I must tell you that from experience, tears never work with the mothers. Only the fathers. So why bother?”
Now Izzy grinned. She simply couldn’t hate Branwen. “You’re right. Why bother? And everyone calls me Izzy.”
“All right then, Izzy.”
“Oy!” a voice called from a distance behind them. “Branwen! Where are you, you dizzy cow?”
Branwen sighed. “That’s me idiot brother and me cousins.” She tugged Izzy’s arm and together they began to walk. “So what does your father say about you going off to war?”
“He fought on my behalf. I know he did. But if he can’t convince my mum…no one can.” Feeling comfortable, she added, “My father is Briec the Mighty, by the way. Not my blood father, but…you understand. My mum’s his mate.”
“Briec?” Branwen stopped and looked at her, her dark eyes wide. “You’re Briec’s daughter?”
Her sudden eagerness surprised Izzy a bit. Although Briec’s brothers and sisters had been welcoming, the other dragons—“the idiot royals,” as her grandfather would always mutter—had been tolerant of her, but she could easily tell they didn’t consider her anything but another human and a possible meal.
“Aye,” she said with a bit of confidence. “I am.”
Branwen slapped Izzy’s arm and Izzy grunted in pain. “Well then, you sobbing cow, you’re me cousin!”
Izzy blinked. “I am?”
“Aye! I’m a Cadwaladr. Briec’s cousin. Me mum is your grandfather’s sister. Which makes us second cousins…I think. Anyway, we’re kin. Ya know? Family.”
“All right then.” Izzy couldn’t ignore Branwen’s eagerness. She seemed so happy to know her.
“This is brilliant! Changes everything.”
“It does?”
Branwen threw her arm around Izzy’s shoulders. “Tell me, cousin, have you ever played Run and Jump?”
“No.”
“Well as your older cousin, it’s my right to teach it to you. That’s the beauty of blood relations.”
“Will it upset my mother?”
“Beyond comprehension, I’d wager.”
Izzy didn’t even hesitate. “Then lead the way, cousin.”
He could smell incense and herbs, fresh vegetables, and what smelled deliciously like stew.
Gwenvael slowly looked around him, confused about where he was and yet for some strange reason recognizing this place. It was a house. He’d dreamt about it long ago, yet he knew he’d never been here.
Maybe he wasn’t awake after all. He couldn’t really tell at the moment. He closed his eyes, but he caught those scents again. And, above them all, he scented her. His nostrils flared and his eyes opened again, his gaze searching her out. She was sitting at a small eating table beside the pit fire built into the wall. She had a metal cup in front of her and her head in her hands. Her head scarf and spectacles lay on the table, and her satchel was at her feet.
Seeing her there, alive and well, did more for him than anything else could.
Her head lifted from her hands and she turned in his direction. He smiled at her, but she didn’t smile back. Instead she lowered her head and squinted at him.
“If you can’t see me, you lazy sow, put your bloody spectacles on.”
Her back straightened and she glared. “I see you perfectly, which is barely at all.”
“You’re keeping me waiting?”
“Until the end of time.”
Gwenvael stuck his lower lip out, shuddered a bit. “But I’m in such pain.”
“By all reason, have you no shame?”
“Not an ounce.” He held his arm out, hand open for her to take. “Now come here.”
Putting her spectacles back on, she rose from the chair and moved across the room. She placed her hand in his, and he tugged her close until she crouched beside him.
“I’m fine.”
“Good.” He kissed her knuckles. “Where are we?”
“The Outerplains between the Southland and Northland territories. By the Aatsa Mountains.”
“How the hell did we get here?”
“You brought us here.”
“I did? I don’t remember.”
“What do you remember?”
“Kissing you.” He grinned. “In the library stacks.”
“That, of course, you couldn’t be kind enough to forget.”
“Not ever. But do tell me, Lady Dagmar, why do I hurt? Did you try to skin me alive with your hidden passion?”
“My hidden…oh. Forget it. You’ve been through hell the last few hours is what happened. Kidnapped and tortured and a pitch battle with Horde dragons.”
“Really?” He lowered his head and his voice. “Am I fiercer to you now that you’ve seen me in battle? Do you want me more than you ever thought possible? Are you ready to take me at this moment?”
“Perhaps when the scabs fall off.”
Not knowing what she meant, Gwenvael looked down at his body. Horrified, he sat up. “What is this? What’s happened to me?”
“Calm down. It’ll heal quick enough, I’m sure.”
“Heal? I’m hideous!”
“You’re alive.”
“Hideously alive!” He covered her face with his hands. “Don’t look at me! Look away!”
“Stop it!” She pulled at his hands. “Have you lost your mind?”
Gwenvael dropped back to the bed, turned his face toward the wall. “You know what this means, don’t you?”
“Gwenvael—”
“I’ll have to live alone, at the top of a castle somewhere. I’ll hide from the daylight and only come out at night.”
“Please stop this.”
“I’ll be alone but not for long because you’ll all want me more. You’ll lust for the beautiful warrior I once was and pity the hideous creature I’ve become. Most importantly, you’ll want to soothe my pain.” He looked at her again. “Don’t you want to soothe my pain? Right now? Without that dress on?”
“No. I do not.”
Dagmar tried to stand, and Gwenvael caught her hand, pulling her back down. “You can’t leave me. I’m tortured and brooding. You need to show me how much you adore me so I can learn to love myself again.”
“You’ve never stopped loving yourself.”
“Because I’m amazing.”
She yanked her hand away, but Gwenvael simply caught it again and dragged her until she was on top of him.
“Let me go!”
“Not until you kiss away my torturous brooding.”
“I’m not kissing anything away.” Dagmar froze. “And move your hands, sir.”
“But they are warm and comfortable where they are.”
He was impossible! To think she was actually worried about him. Why? What was the point of worrying about someone who was insane?
“Get your hands off my rear.”
“Not until you kiss me.”
“I’m not kissing you.”
“It’s because I’m hideous!”
“You’re not…” Why was she arguing with him? Didn’t that make her more insane than he was? “Release me.”
“Kiss me, and I will.”
“Fine.” She leaned down and planted a quick, closed-mouth kiss on his lips. “There.”
“You can do better than that.”
“No. I can’t. So just—” Dagmar gasped when his hands squeezed her rear through all her layers of gown and undergarments. And with her mouth open, he swooped in, rising up and kissing her hard. In seconds his tongue had invaded her mouth and swirled insistently around hers.
That was all it took. She melted against him, her hands reaching up to frame his face. Her stomach tensed, and everything went wet and warm between her legs.
She wanted him. Beyond reason, she wanted him. No matter how strange, demanding, or annoying he seemed to be.
His grip on her rear tightened almost to the point of pain, but she didn’t mind. Nor did she mind when he pulled her so close she could feel the hardness he had for her between his legs. Taking his time, he rocked her sex against his groin, the hands on her ass not only moving her but squeezing her cheeks each time.
She began to groan, the power of a climax beginning to grow inside her.
“What are you doing?” Strong hands grabbed Dagmar’s arm and yanked her off Gwenvael.
Stunned, panting, and incredibly aroused, she could only stare at Esyld, unable to speak.
“He’s still healing!” the dragoness chastised. “He doesn’t have the energy for all that sort of thing.”
“She was all over me,” Gwenvael chimed in, causing Dagmar’s mouth to drop open in shock. “I couldn’t stop her.”
“Honestly!” Esyld dragged her toward the door, shoved a bucket in her hand. “Go get some water from the well. Perhaps that’ll help you cool off and get some control!”
The door slammed in her face and Dagmar could only stand there, staring at it, her mouth still open.
Gwenvael grinned at the dragoness peering at him.
“Do you enjoy torturing her?” she asked.
“Depends on the torture.”
She snickered. “I assume you’re hungry, Gwenvael.”
“I am.” He inclined his head. “You look awfully familiar. Have we…uh…met?”
She rested her hands on her knees and bent at the waist, leaning in close. “Look in my face and say that again. With the same inflection.”
Gwenvael did look into her face and he knew what he saw smirking back at him.
His mother.
“I’m feeling really uncomfortable.”
“Good. You should.” She went to the pit fire and spooned stew into a bowl. “I’m your aunt Esyld.”
Gwenvael only knew of one Aunt Esyld and to this day she was still hunted by his kin.
“Then I’m eternally grateful for your help.” Gwenvael pushed himself up, his back resting against the metal rails of the bed frame. Air hissed between his teeth, the pain reminding him he had a ways to go before he was back to his old self. Tell that to his cock, though. He would have taken Dagmar right then and there if his aunt hadn’t returned. For his life, he didn’t understand that woman’s effect on him.
“Surprised I didn’t kill you in your sleep?” She handed him the bowl and a spoon.
“There’s no good answer for that. So I choose to eat instead.”
Esyld pulled a chair close to the bed and sat, crossing one leg over the other. “She said you were smart.”
“Do you mean the beautiful Dagmar?”
She frowned. “Beauti—forget it. I mean Keita.”
“My sister?” Gwenvael dropped his spoon back into the bowl with a plop. “My sister’s been here?”
“More than once. We’ve become very close.” Gwenvael didn’t like the sound of that one bit, but before he could say anything about it, “Calm yourself, Gwenvael the Gold. Your sister found me. And I can assure you I have no intention of corrupting her.”
“You’re still wanted by my mother’s court.”
“I’m well aware of that. But I have no intention of challenging your mother for her throne.”
“Why did Keita come to you?”
“Why else? Because she knew it would drive your mother insane if she ever found out. They get along as well as Rhiannon got along with our mother. Hopefully it will not meet the same end.”
Considering Rhiannon had to kill her own mother to secure her throne and protect the life of Bercelak and his family, Gwenvael didn’t much appreciate the last part of that statement. “If it does, I’ll blame you.”
“I’m sure you will. But I want nothing more than what I have, Gwenvael. I don’t want her throne or her power. I just want to be left alone.”
“If
that’s all you really want, then let me talk to my mother.”
“No.”
“You should be in the south, among your own. Not here among the barbarians.”
“That’s very sweet. And perhaps your mother would seriously consider it. But your father wouldn’t. Those kin of his still search for me. If they know I’m here, I won’t live another day. So I’d prefer they both knew nothing of my presence.”
He couldn’t argue with her; she was absolutely right. There were few dragons who took their commitments as seriously as Bercelak the Great. And he had no greater commitment than Queen Rhiannon.
“As you wish. You saved my life; I owe you at least that.”
She gestured toward his food. “It’s getting cold. Eat.”
The stew had cooled, but it was still warm enough and quite satisfying. While he ate, Dagmar returned. “That took you forever,” he said around a mouthful.
She slammed the filled bucket on the table and marched across the room. She flicked one of his still-healing wounds.
“Ow!” he cried out, pulling his arm away.
“I had no idea where the well is, you clod. So I’ve been stumbling all over the place looking for that bloody thing! I could have fallen in for all you lot care!”
“Don’t say that, Dagmar. Tonight, tomorrow…eventually we would have noticed you were gone. Ow!” he cried out when Dagmar flicked another one of his wounds. “Stop doing that!”
Vigholf the Vicious of the Olgeirsson Horde waited impatiently by the Spikenhammer Gardens. A quiet place of beauty and silence that Vigholf would avoid like the plague if he knew of any safer place to talk. But he didn’t. His father’s spies were everywhere, looking for his betraying son.
That was not Vigholf. As far as his father was concerned, Vigholf was still loyal to him. His brother had begged him to keep that illusion, although it grated on Vigholf’s nerves to do so. He was normally such an honest dragon that his mother often hit him in the back of his head with her tail and yelled at him to, “think before you speak!”