by G. A. Aiken
It was true. It would have to be the Abominations Brigida worked with. Young they might be. But there was much potential there and one day they would be powerful enough to . . . to . . .
Pulling back the flap, Brigida stood in the tent opening, waiting to hear the last thud of that axe hitting flesh. But she heard nothing. She waited a few seconds longer. Still . . . nothing.
Swinging around, her hunger forgotten at the moment, she could see Glebovicha desperately trying to lower the axe. But she couldn’t finish the swing—because Annwyl’s hand now held the weapon as well.
Brigida pushed her way through the crush of lesser leaders whose tribes were too small to allow them to sit on the floor near the Anne Atli. When she reached the outer circle of seated women, Brigida planted her staff and leaned against it. Her leg throbbed horribly from the sudden move, but the blood in her veins sang with hope.
Annwyl, still bleeding profusely, was no longer weak and overwhelmed. No. She was just angry. Unbelievably, blindingly, kill-everyone-in-the-tent angry.
And she used that anger to keep hold of the axe that would have finished her off, and get to her big human feet.
Her body shook, but not from pain. Rage. Even with all that blood on her face, Brigida could see it easily in Annwyl’s eyes. Hells, she could feel it. Annwyl’s rage was a living thing.
No wonder the gods had noticed her. She must have attracted them all, human and dragon, from all the universes that surrounded this world.
Finally, after the two women stared at each other for what seemed an eternity, Annwyl opened her mouth.
Brigida would admit—she expected curses. Threats. A summation of what Annwyl planned to do to Glebovicha.
But, for once, Brigida was thinking too small. Because no words came out of Annwyl the Bloody’s mouth. Nothing logical came from her at all.
Instead, the queen opened her mouth . . . and she screamed.
Gods. She screamed with such fury, with such rage, with such insanity that Brigida could see all the powerful Riders of the Steppes recoil in fear and disgust. Because, as Brigida’s dear mum used to say, “No one wants to fight a crazy cunt, my love. Absolutely no one.”
Even better, that scream seemed to go on for an eternity. This was no tactic. This was no planned assault. To be honest, the girl wasn’t that smart.
Instead it was a simple reaction to someone threatening her children. Even now that the children were adults, she was still the mother no one wanted to challenge.
Still screaming, as if the action alone gave her strength and healed her wounds, Annwyl finally yanked that axe from Glebovicha’s grasp. She slammed the handle against Glebovicha’s face, stunning her, before sweeping her leg under Glebovicha, dropping the bigger woman to the ground like a tree stump.
Annwyl walked around until she stood by Glebovicha’s head. Her screaming finally stopped, but rage still came off her in waves.
She planted one foot by the Rider’s ear and the other on Glebovicha’s chest, pinning her to the ground. It was a strange position for Annwyl to be in and Brigida frowned in confusion, wondering what the royal was up to.
“I have decided, Glebovicha Shestakova of the Black Bear Riders of the Midnight Mountains of Despair in the Far Reaches of the Steppes of the Outerplains,” Annwyl panted out, ignoring the big hands that gripped her calf, trying to yank her off, “that you should not be a mother . . . ever again.”
Her muscles bulging, her entire body taut with strength and power, Annwyl raised the flint axe high, held it there a moment, then brought it down on Glebovicha’s cunt with such force that Annwyl hacked her way straight into the female’s belly.
The cries of horror from the tribe leaders—some jumping to their feet, others desperately looking away, almost all of them pulling their weapons and closing their legs—nearly washed out the scream of pain from Glebovicha.
Yet the Anne Atli kept her calm. Then again, one didn’t become Leader of All Steppes Tribes without being the strongest dog in the kennel.
Annwyl pulled the axe from a still screaming Glebovicha, stepped away from her, then brought the axe down again—taking the bitch’s head.
The Southlander queen reached down, picked up Glebovicha’s head—which was still twitching and trying to scream—by its hair and turned toward the tent opening. She didn’t run. She was too busy limping from whatever damage Glebovicha had done to her leg.
Abruptly, though, she stopped and looked over the horrified faces of the tribe leaders.
“Don’t,” she said, suddenly calm, her voice soft, “call my children Abominations.” She gave a stiff, awkward shrug. “It bothers me.”
With that said, Annwyl continued on, slowly limping her way toward the exit.
“Annwyl the Bloody,” the Anne Atli called out as she stood to her own towering height. Her long, blond hair reached down her back in a multitude of braids, and scars ran down her face and hands so that Brigida was sure they must cover her entire body. “Come,” she said in the common language, her accent thick. “Sit. We will eat and talk.”
Annwyl stopped, slowly turned, and faced her fellow leader. “Can I keep the head?” Annwyl asked, disturbing everyone in the room but Brigida. “I have to keep the head. Because I still need the eye.”
“It is your prize. You keep your prize.”
“All right.”
“And we will have one of our healers tend to you while we talk.”
“Why can’t she do it?” Annwyl asked, pointing at Brigida.
Anne Atli stared for a moment, then asked, “Why can’t . . . who do it?”
“Her.” Annwyl pointed again.
Brigida smirked. She still hadn’t bothered to reveal herself to the Riders since she’d had no idea how this whole thing would play out. But that was okay, because it made Annwyl appear even more insane.
“Uh . . . well . . . perhaps she does not have her healing equipment. But our healers are right here. Sooo . . .”
“Don’t touch me. I don’t want anyone to touch me,” Annwyl suddenly babbled.
“All right,” Anne Atli replied. “No one will touch you.”
With a nod, Annwyl made her way to Anne Atli’s side. There, she was given the second in command’s spot. A place of honor among the Daughters of the Steppes. The queen dropped down, carefully set her prized head off to the side, and then as everyone settled in for one of the most important discussions ever to take place between the Southlands and the Outerplains, Annwyl abruptly announced, “I have to pee.” She blinked, gazed up at the tent roof. “And I think I lost a back tooth. I hate losing teeth. . . . You need them to eat.”
And, as one, all the tribal leaders inched away from the royal. All except the Anne Atli . . . who was the strongest dog in the kennel.
Although Annwyl still held her title as the craziest.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Dagmar sat on the steps leading into the castle and waited. Her youngest daughter sat on her lap. The others surrounded her, leaned against her, their golden heads pressed against her arm or back or leg. To anyone walking by, the scene probably looked like a concerned mother keeping her daughters close. But Dagmar knew it for what it was . . . her children protecting her.
Seva pointed up at the sky. “Daddy!”
Handing her youngest child off to Izzy, Dagmar ran down the stairs and stood in the middle of the courtyard until Gwenvael landed.
As soon as his talons touched the ground, Dagmar reached for her son, but he slid off his father’s back and into her arms. Luckily Gwenvael had quickly lowered his body so that the drop didn’t kill them both.
Dagmar held her son close. He was alive.
“Are you all right?” she asked. Well, maybe she actually demanded it.
“I’m fine, Mum.”
Rather than take his word for it, she decided to look for herself.
When she began to check his teeth, Gwenvael stepped in. Now in his human form, with brown leggings and boots on, he gently wrapped his arms ar
ound Dagmar while pinning her arms to her sides.
“He’s fine,” Gwenvael soothed. “But, more importantly, he’s not a horse that’s been brought to market.”
“Quiet.”
Izzy and Frederik brought the girls over, and Izzy asked, “How is everyone else?”
Gwenvael gazed at her. “How is who?”
Izzy growled in annoyance. “Uncle Bram? The rest of the Cadwaladrs?”
“Oh, them. Well . . . I’m sure they’re fine.”
“You’re sure they’re . . . ? Are you telling me you didn’t check on them before coming back here?”
“It’s not my fault. It was that bossy, one-eyed Rider woman. She ordered me back here.”
Dagmar pulled away from Gwenvael and again put her arms around her son and hugged him tight. She did it because she needed to hug him and to prevent a slap fight between him and Arlais. Because that was about to happen. She could see it in their eyes.
“What are you talking about?” Dagmar asked Gwenvael.
“Var wasn’t with Bram. I found him with the Rider. She was taking him to safety. Protecting him with her life from what I could see.”
Dagmar’s eyes narrowed. “That does not change how I feel about her whore sister.”
“Completely understandable. But since she did protect our boy, perhaps we could use the term ‘whore sister’ a little less. Just a suggestion, mind. But still . . . seems in poor taste, considering.”
“Elina said I had nothing to fear, Mum. That she’d protect me. And you should have seen the way she rode her horse,” Var gushed. “And she still shot her arrows while her horse was moving. She can turn all the way around in mid-gallop so she can shoot whatever’s behind her.”
“Oooooh,” Arlais sang. “Someone’s in lo-oo-ve.”
Var pushed his sister to the ground and she let out an ear-deafening screech.
“You fool! Auntie Keita gave me this dress! Now there’s dirt all over it!”
“Oh, stop whining!” Var shot back. “You already have blood on the front of it.” Var stopped. Blinked. “Wait. Why do you already have blood on the front of it?”
“Inside!” Dagmar ordered. “Everyone inside!”
“Mum? What’s going on?”
“I’ll tell you inside,” she whispered to her son. “Now take your sisters and go.”
Var helped his still-complaining sister up and dragged her into the Great Hall. Izzy and Frederik followed behind with the rest of the girls.
Once they were gone, Dagmar wrapped her arms around Gwenvael’s waist and hugged him.
“Thank you,” she said. “Thank you for bringing my son home to me.”
Gwenvael hugged her and admitted, “I had little choice. That Rider woman made it very clear she wanted the world to be safe. And the only way to do that was to get your son back to you. I definitely heard fear in her orders.”
“You heard nothing of the kind. Not from a death-welcoming Rider.” She lifted her chin, resting it against his chest. “But she was right. If you hadn’t brought my son back to me alive and well, I would have destroyed everyone and everything.”
Gwenvael laughed and kissed her nose. “I’ll keep that in mind. Now, I have a question for you.”
“Of course.”
“Where’s your dog, Dagmar? Adda is never far from you.”
“She was . . . hurt. Badly. Éibhear was heading to Bram’s castle to get Var when communication opened up again. He knew you had Var and that his cousins were protecting Bram, so he came back here and rushed Adda to the kennel master, but I have no idea if she’ll survive her injuries. . . .”
Unable to go on, Dagmar held Gwenvael tighter.
“You need to tell me what happened with my daughters.”
“I will. I’ll tell you everything. When we’re alone . . . and absolutely no one in this world can hear a word we say. Ever.”
“Well . . . that sounds ominous.”
Those sent to Bram’s castle had returned and now sat at one table in the Great Hall, mostly silent.
Although Bram and Dagmar had survived the day, Gwenvael and his siblings had heard from Rhiannon that quite a few other peacekeepers—dragon and human—had not. Within the same hour, it seemed, they’d all been assassinated by people or fellow dragons they thought loyal to them or, at the very least, loyal to the queens.
Things had changed in a most sudden and brutal fashion, but none of that would stop Gwenvael’s kin. Gods knew, his siblings and the Cadwaladrs loathed change like horse shit caught between one’s talons. But that would never stop them from fighting. From defending what belonged to them.
There was just one hindrance to moving forward on any bold plans they could come up with . . . Annwyl.
She was still missing; even Fearghus and Briec, who’d missed all the action while searching, had been unable to track her down.
Even more terrifying, they were all sure that Annwyl had gone off with Brigida the Foul. Once the spell that had blocked communications between kin had been removed by Rhiannon, and Morfyd and Talaith had found out that Annwyl had gone missing, they’d quickly used magick in an attempt to track the errant queen down. They found the last place she’d been in Garbhán Isle just before she’d entered some mystical doorway and disappeared. Opening doorways, they explained, was bloody hard work and often took weeks if not months of preparation. But this doorway had been opened suddenly and with no warning by a great power. A power they could only assume came from Brigida.
And if Annwyl and Brigida were together? Well, that was something that could only end badly. And that such a She-dragon might have her talons dug deep into Annwyl the Bloody of all beings . . . ? Gods.
What else did this day hold?
Izzy, sitting on Éibhear’s lap, straightened her spine, and looked around the table. “Well I guess the Rebel King won’t be asking us to protect his sister again.”
“I don’t know why he asked us to do it in the first place,” Briec grumbled. “Her flame nearly burnt out the valley.”
Celyn winced. “What is that flame she has? Me ankle still hurts where her damn flame hit me.”
“Your whining sickens me,” Elina stated, her gaze locked on the wall behind the table.
And Gwenvael had to know . . . what was she always looking at over there?
“I’m a dragon,” Celyn shot back. “Flame should never hurt me. I should bathe in it. Like lava. Her flame, though, was unholy.”
“King Gaius,” Dagmar explained, “is returning to Garbhán Isle as we speak to see his not-even-wounded sister. He is extremely upset about everything that’s transpired since he left, so I’d appreciate it if, when he gets here, you lot avoid discussing his sister’s unholy flame!”
Keita and Ragnar walked into the hall.
“Hello, family!” his sister greeted. When no one answered, she stopped and stared at them. Then she shrugged and headed up the stairs to her room.
Ragnar frowned. “Keita, shouldn’t we ask—”
“I have needs, Northlander! And no sons to interrupt us.”
“Good luck to you all,” Ragnar announced before following his mate up the stairs.
Morfyd, who’d been tearing tiny pieces off a loaf of bread she held and rolling them into balls, suddenly lifted her head, her eyes blinking wide.
“What is it?” Talaith asked.
“I . . . I think they’re back.”
And, with that pronouncement, no one moved. No one spoke. They just sat there, terrified at what they might find out.
Finally, it was the two Rider sisters who broke the silent panic.
“Are you all going to sit there like statue?” Kachka asked.
When no one replied, both sisters curled their lips in disgust, slammed their hands against the table, and stood. They were out the front door by the time everyone else got to their feet and ran after them.
As they all came down the stairs, Annwyl and Brigida appeared in the middle of the courtyard. One second they weren’t there
. . . . The next second, they were.
And while Brigida looked as horrifying as Gwenvael had always heard from his older kin . . . now, so did Annwyl.
The trip by magickal means didn’t seem to bother her much, although Gwenvael had always heard those trips could be hard on a body. But perhaps it had not bothered Annwyl because she’d clearly already been beaten within an inch of her life.
Most of her face was swollen, one eye unable to even open—gods, I hope she didn’t lose an eye, too—she could barely walk on her right leg, instead putting all her weight on her left and using only the toes of her right foot to maintain her balance as she limped forward. There were bruises and cuts all down her arms and across her throat. Blood matted her hair. Actually, blood covered most of her, soaked deep into her clothes and staining her hands and boots.
She looked like a waking nightmare, and yet . . . no one ran to her side. No one offered her assistance. They were simply too afraid to find out what had happened to do anything.
The old witch, moving even more slowly than Annwyl, followed behind the queen. She was smiling, but who the hells knew what that unholy sign meant. But Gwenvael now understood what frightened his mother and aunts and uncles. Even his father. There was just something about this She-dragon that made him feel . . . uncomfortable. An emotion Gwenvael rarely, if ever, had.
Annwyl finally reached the steps of the Great Hall and, with a sigh, she made her slow, painful way up, walking past all of them without a word. Even to Fearghus.
Finally, it was his Dagmar who couldn’t stand any more.
As she stood by the Great Hall doorway, she asked, “Annwyl, what did you do?”
Annwyl stopped and turned her head to focus on her steward and battle lord.
“I did what I had to do.” Annwyl’s voice sounded so raw, as if even her throat had been through hell.
Dagmar’s sigh was deep, long, and painful. She’d had a very hard day, and all Gwenvael wanted to do was sweep her up in his arms and carry her out of here. But that wouldn’t do for now. He’d have to wait until later.
“Annwyl . . .” Dagmar shook her head. “You may have destroyed us. We needed that alliance. More than we may have realized.”