by G. A. Aiken
Talaith threw a ball of flame at the horse charging toward her. It reared up, and its rider swung off, landing on her feet. She raised both her hands, pulled them back to garner energy from the land around her, then shoved them forward. The power of the blow slammed into Talaith, and she flew back.
She knew she headed for the trees. That the probability of her slamming head or neck first into some hearty oak was quite high.
She called up a charm she’d been working on, thought it, used it, and power Talaith had never known flooded through her, rampaging into her system. Talaith stopped her body’s uncontrollable movement, suspending herself in midair. Then she rose up, her body hovering over land as if she had wings. The Kyvich stared up at her, enraged, and screamed.
Talaith screamed back and raced down to meet her. She collided into the witch, their bodies smashing to the ground and tearing across it from the momentum. By the time they rolled to a stop, they were in a pit of their own making and swinging at each other with nothing but their fists and the age-old hatred of their people.
They’d gotten her lovely ax away from her, but instead of using the many weapons they had on them to finish her off, they fought her with bare hands. That was fine by Izzy. She always did love a good bare-knuckle brawl.
She ducked a punch to the face, but not the punch to her lower back. It dropped her to her knees, but she put her hands down on the ground and brought her leg back, kicking someone in the chest. She rolled forward and up, ducked another punch to her head, and retaliated with a punch to a shoulder. Bone shattered on impact and the female’s body jerked back, but the witch used the momentum to turn in the opposite way, the back of her fist slamming into Izzy’s face. The blow sent Izzy flipping into someone else who caught hold of her by the throat and took Izzy to the ground.
Izzy swung at the hands that held her down, kicked out at the legs near her. But the one holding the blade over her chest…Izzy couldn’t avoid her.
She didn’t call for her mother or for Annwyl. They had their own fights, and she’d die knowing she had done what she could to protect her queen.
They slammed her arms down, held her legs pinned to the ground.
“Do it, bitch!” Izzy screamed, blood spitting on those who held her. “Do it!”
“As ya like.” The witch raised the blade above Izzy’s chest, and even though Izzy wanted to cringe and look away, she didn’t.
The blade swung down, and Izzy pulled her right arm one more time, taking the witch who held her by surprise and yanking her over Izzy’s chest. She was determined to take at least one of these crazed bitches with her.
“Fuck!” the startled witch cried out.
“Hold, Kyvich!” someone else called out, and the blade stopped inches from the witch’s back. She let out a breath and dropped on Izzy.
“Fuck me,” she whispered, and Izzy couldn’t agree more.
Ragnar watched as Morfyd helped her sister up, but he took Keita in his arms and nodded at Morfyd. “I’ve got her.”
Morfyd nodded, patted his arm.
Ragnar smiled down at Keita. “You do manage to find piles of shit to fall into everywhere you go, don’t you?”
Keita laughed at that. “Some might say.”
“What do you want us to do with this lot?” Briec asked, still blocking the exit with Gwenvael.
“We can’t let them go,” Keita said and when her brothers smiled and reached for their swords, “No, no! We can’t kill them either!”
“Dammit.” Briec shoved his sword back in its sheath, and Gwenvael seemed to pout.
Keita looked at Fearghus. “We need Ghleanna. She can take care of this lot. Because it’s time I told all of you the truth about what’s been going on.”
“What are you thinking?” Ragnar asked.
Reaching up, she wiped the blood from her snout. “I’m thinking we’ve run out of time.”
Ragnar gently kissed her. “I think you’re right.”
Blood covering her; her knuckles torn, battered, and broken; her nose shattered; at least one shoulder no longer in its socket; both eyes swollen along with her lips and chin; and nearly every inch of her bruised, Annwyl watched the witches who’d been fighting her back away. They kept backing up until seven of the mounted witches rode past them, the one that she’d pegged as leader in the middle.
Dressed in animal skins and with jewelry made of silver, steel, and animal parts, they truly looked like Ice Land barbarians.
Annwyl looked down and saw her sword. She reached for it, almost lost her balance, but stopped herself. She lifted the sword with both hands, planted her feet firmly, and raised the sword higher, ignoring the screaming pain coming from her damaged shoulder.
The witches pulled their horses to a stop and dismounted. They stayed at least three paces behind the one who led them, stopping completely when she was only a few feet from Annwyl.
They stood and watched her until Annwyl screamed, “Come on then! Let’s finish this! Come on!”
The leader’s head tilted to the side. “You can’t win,” she said, her voice soft, calm.
“I’ll kill you, though, cunt. I’ll make sure to kill you. So come on. Finish it.”
The witch glanced up at the sky. “Your dragon kin are coming. I can hear the flap of their wings. Don’t you want to wait?”
“I wait for no one.” Annwyl tightened her grip, dug her feet in deeper. “Raise your weapon. Come for me. We end this now.”
The leader reached for the sword tied to her back. A long sword covered in runes. The other six—three standing on each side of their leader—pulled their weapons as well. Two long swords, one short sword, one warhammer, two axes, each covered in runes, each held by females who knew how to use them.
With her sword raised, the female walked toward her.
“Annwyl!” she heard Fearghus bellow as he approached.
Annwyl smiled, for she already knew no matter what happened here, she’d meet Fearghus on the other side when his time came. They wouldn’t be apart forever.
Standing right before Annwyl, the witch raised her sword high, point down, and Annwyl pulled her weapon back a little farther, aiming right for the witch’s chest.
The witch’s sword unleashed, Annwyl watched it closely. Watched for the right time to strike, watched for the moment when she’d have her chance to—
The sword slammed into the ground in front of Annwyl, and the witch looked first to the left, then the right.
Each witch with her slammed her weapon into the ground, blade or hammer end first. Then they dropped to their knees before Annwyl.
When they were all on their knees, their leader looked back at the legion of warrior witches behind her. As one, those witches dropped to their knees while their horses lowered their heads and their dogs lay down in the dirt.
Unsure what the fuck was happening, Annwyl kept her sword raised. “What is this?” she demanded.
“We’re here for your children.”
“And you’ll not get them.”
The witch smiled at her. “We’re not here to take them. We’re here to protect them, while you lead your legions against the Sovereigns.” The witch pulled out a blade and cut her palm, stepped forward, and dragged her hand down Annwyl’s face. “Our life and blood for you, Queen Annwyl. I give you my sword.”
“My sword for you,” another said.
“My hammer for you!” another yelled out.
“My ax for you!” another screamed.
Then the entire legion was screaming, committing their weapons, lives, and souls to Annwyl and to her children.
Not knowing what the hell to do, Annwyl looked around her. As the witch had said, her dragon kin dropped from the sky, surrounding them, but it was the warlord’s small daughter she searched out. She was the one Annwyl knew would have the answers. Dagmar stood there among all those enormous dragons, Canute on one side of her and the cutest little puppy on the other. The puppy Izzy couldn’t stop playing with.
Dag
mar flicked her eyes toward the castle, and Annwyl took a step back, then another. She lowered her sword, turned, and without a single word, walked off.
Fearghus watched as his mate turned her back on a legion of warriors cheering and screaming.
Izzy, who he’d thought for sure was dead, picked herself up from the ground and walked backward away from them, her weapon retrieved and raised. Her mother did the same thing on the opposite side of the field. They walked away from the warriors they’d been fighting until they were a good distance away; then they turned and followed Annwyl.
“Go with her, Fearghus,” Dagmar whispered to him. “Go.”
He did, not bothering to keep an eye on the witches because he knew his kin would.
“We make camp here!” one of the witches yelled over the din. “Burn the bodies, a sacrifice to our gods and Queen Annwyl!”
They reached the side entrance to the castle, and Fearghus went up and over while Annwyl, Izzy, and Talaith took the door.
Annwyl was on the stairs when her legs gave way and she dropped.
Fearghus, stepping past Izzy and Talaith, caught his mate in his arms before she hit the ground. He lifted her up and smiled when she opened her eyes.
“Can’t trust you alone for five minutes, can I, wench?”
Annwyl grinned, showing bloody teeth but at least all those teeth were there. “They started it, knight,” she teased back.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Ren of the Chosen Dynasty ran across the rocky ground, Sovereign troops right on his naked ass. He’d been moving in and out of this territory undetected for two days, but the eldest daughter of Overlord Thracius, the one they called Vateria—and who frightened Ren as no dragoness ever had before—had seen him and sent her father’s guards after him.
Knowing he’d only get one chance at this, he charged up a hill, pulling Magick from any living thing near him. Trees, water, grass, anything. As he made it to the top, he unleashed the Magick that would open a doorway. A skill gifted to his people from the gods who watched over them. Ren could travel hundreds of miles with the doorways he was able to open. His father could travel to other worlds. However, it usually took him weeks or even months to carefully calibrate where he’d end up once he went through a doorway. Too bad he didn’t have that kind of time.
Ren knew the troops were right behind him, hands and claws reaching for him, and he hoped that the doorway he’d just opened would take him to where he needed to go—and not into something much worse.
Praying for the best, Ren dove in headfirst, slamming the doorway shut behind him, and leaving the rest to his gods.
They heard the horrified and panicked screams from the courtyard below.
“Mum’s here,” Gwenvael said with his feet in Dagmar’s lap and Izzy running a brush through his hair for his nightly three hundred strokes. She was the only one among them willing to do it without complaint.
Keita didn’t know how all her siblings, their mates, their offspring, Ragnar, his brother, his cousin, Dagmar’s dog, Annwyl’s dogs, and in a few seconds, her parents had all ended up in Fearghus’s and Annwyl’s bedroom—but here they were.
Ragnar, more used to warriors than “dainty little princesses” as Gwenvael kept calling Keita when she complained about the Northlander’s rough hands, helped Annwyl get her shoulder back in its socket while Morfyd healed Keita’s damaged ribs and tended to the lacerations that could lead to unattractive scars if not carefully handled.
The door burst open, and Rhiannon came into the room, her arms spread wide. “My little ones!” she exclaimed.
Only to receive muttered, “Mum. Mother. Mumsy.” The last being from Keita and Gwenvael.
Her arms dropped to her sides. “Is that all I get?”
“I’m eating,” Briec explained around a mouthful of food.
Rhiannon walked all the way inside the room, and her mate followed behind her. As soon as Bercelak saw his youngest daughter’s face, though, Keita scrambled up out of her chair and caught hold of her father’s arm.
“Don’t, Daddy.”
“When I’m done there won’t be anything left of that green bitch for my brother to put on the pyre.”
“Ghleanna’s handling it,” she told him.
“I don’t care.”
Realizing her father was moments from walking out the door and that no one was even trying to stop him, Keita slapped one hand to her bruised side and cried out in pain.
Instantly, her father’s arms went around her. “Keita? Are you all right?”
She managed a few tears. “It hurts a bit. Take me to the chair, Daddy.”
“Of course.” He helped her inside, Keita kicking the door closed with her foot. “My brave, sweet girl,” he said. “Isn’t she amazing, Rhiannon? Facing that bitch Elestren all by herself.”
Rhiannon had picked up her youngest granddaughter, and was rubbing their noses together. “I don’t think she had much choice, my love.”
“She knew she was at risk, but she was brave to protect this family and your throne.”
Keita saw Morfyd roll her eyes and sneer. When her father turned his back to make sure he brushed off the chair before placing Keita’s delicate and perfect ass in it, Keita yanked Morfyd’s hair. Morfyd slapped at her hands, and Keita slapped back. They were in a mini-brawl before Brastias barked, “Pack it in!”
“You promised me,” Rhiannon reminded Keita, “that you’d let me know as soon as you were contacted.”
“I lied,” Keita admitted.
“Then I guess you shouldn’t be shocked you got your royal ass kicked.” Her mother pointed at the window. “And why are there scantily clad warrior women with tattoos on their faces lurking in your courtyard?”
“They’re the Kyvich,” Dagmar explained. “Sent by the gods you insist on worshipping to protect the babes. But, of course, Annwyl had to fight nearly to the death before they’d take the job. They are Ice Landers, you know. That’s their way.”
“I hate the Kyvich,” Talaith complained from her spot on the floor, tucked comfortably between her mate’s widespread legs.
“You keep saying that,” Briec pointed out, “but you haven’t explained why.”
“Because the Nolwenns hate the Kyvich.” When everyone only stared at her, “I shouldn’t have to explain myself! I just don’t want them here.”
“Well, suck it up,” Annwyl said. “I didn’t decimate wave after wave of barbarian, murdering scum in tiny little outfits so you can claim, ‘I just don’t like them,’” Annwyl finished in a high-pitched imitation that Talaith didn’t seem to much appreciate.
Making sure Keita was in the chair and comfortable—Elestren seemingly forgotten at the moment—Bercelak asked Annwyl, “Were they the ones you’d been dreaming about?”
“Aye. It was them. Down to the horses and those bloody dogs.”
“I love those dogs,” Dagmar whispered to Gwenvael. “Think they’ll lend me a breeding pair?”
Bercelak studied Annwyl. “And how did you do then?”
Annwyl’s answer was a warm smile that had Bercelak grinning back at her in return, and giving her a proud nod.
That’s when Fearghus stood up, his finger pointing between the two. “What was that?”
Annwyl quickly looked down at the floor, and their father shrugged. “What was what?”
“That look between you two.”
“And how did he know she’d been having dreams about violent warrior witches?” Gwenvael asked, ever the instigator, and earning himself a swat to the head from Izzy, who wielded a brush much like she wielded her sword. “Ow!”
“Be nice!”
“You?” Fearghus demanded of Annwyl. “You and my…father?”
“I can explain.”
“How can you explain this?”
“Maybe we should all calm down?” Morfyd begged.
“Annwyl, answer me!”
“All right, fine!” Annwyl bellowed back at her mate. “You want the truth? I’ve been t
raining with your father every day for the last year! There! Now you have the bloody truth!”
Keita looked past Annwyl’s brawny shoulders to Ragnar. She loved the adorably confused expression he wore at the moment. His brother and cousin equally lost. Finally he looked at her and mouthed, Training?
Keita quickly pressed her fingers to her lips to hold in the laughter.
“You’ve been training with him all this time,” her eldest brother demanded of his mate, “and you never told me?”
“Because I knew you’d get upset!”
Keita tugged on her sister’s sleeve. “Can this day get stranger?” she asked.
Morfyd raised a finger. “It’s about to get stranger in three seconds.”
“How do you—”
Keita abruptly stopped talking, the air in the room briefly sucked out then rushing back in as Ren of the Chosen Dynasty’s naked body sprawled in the middle of the floor.
Gwenvael tapped his niece’s arm. “That Ren always knows how to make an entrance.”
Ragnar did not, never would, and wasn’t sure he ever wanted to understand the Southland royals. That being said, he’d come to find them damn amusing, as had his brother and cousin.
Meinhard helped up the Eastlander and handed him some leggings, blocking the view from Izzy, who was trying to see around him for a better look—much to Éibhear’s growing annoyance.
“What news do you have, Ren?” Gwenvael asked while Ren pulled the leggings on.
Meinhard stepped back, and the now-dressed Ren placed his hands on his hips. “It’s as we feared. Thracius readies his Dragonwarriors and his human soldiers for a two-pronged attack on Dark Plains. Bringing his Dragonwarriors down through the Northlands.” Ren focused on Ragnar. “With the help of your cousin Styrbjörn.”
“I’m not surprised it’s him,” Meinhard remarked.
“It’s a little thing,” Ragnar said, moving to Keita’s side.
Vigholf crossed his arms over his chest. “I’ll enjoy opening him up from bowel to throat.”