“I wouldn’t crowd, my lord. I’ve found the females of this clan and this territory hate that.”
“I’m not crowding. I’m . . . helping.”
“I’m a Northlander, too, Vigholf. I know how the males of my country ‘help’ females. It can be smothering for some of us. I don’t know Rhona well, but if she’s like the rest of her kin . . .”
“I’m careful. It just seems like she watches out for everyone else but no one watches out for her. Besides . . . I think she likes it.”
“Really?”
“Yes. She just hasn’t realized it yet.”
“Aaah,” Dagmar said at the same moment Rhona bounded down the castle stairs, her weapons strapped to her back and wearing what appeared to be the clothes Annwyl had left behind.
“Did you eat?” Vigholf demanded as she headed out the Great Hall’s big front doors.
Rhona’s answer was to flick two fingers at Vigholf and keep going.
“See?” Vigholf pointed out with a shocking amount of confidence. “She likes it.”
Now Dagmar knew. When it came to females, Vigholf was nothing like his brother—but he
was
a true Northlander.
Sulien held up the broken spear, one piece in each hand. “A warhammer did this?”
“You saw that hammer the Lightning almost hit Addolgar with. And that’s not even the one he uses during battles. That one is bloody huge. Nearly as big as the bastard’s head.”
Her father chuckled and stepped around her. “The only purpose of this spear was to protect you—and it did. Its job is now done.”
He started to throw the pieces into a bin he kept for trash.
“Don’t you dare throw that out.”
“Why not? It’s broken, and repairing it would be useless. It’ll only break again.”
“But you made it for me.”
“You cling to what is meaningless, child. Just like your mother sometimes, only with her it’s mostly grudges.”
He tossed the spear into the trash, and Rhona had to fight every instinct she had to not dive into that bucket after it.
“Besides,” her father continued, “I have something better.”
Sulien crouched in front of a trunk, opened it. “I was going to give it to you when I saw you back at home, but this is even better.”
Her father stood and handed her a small metal stick. She’d guess it was only three feet long—and that was it.
“Oh . . . a stick. How . . . uh . . . nice.”
“Don’t be foolish, Rhona. It’s more than a stick.”
He took it from her, held it in his big hand. And Rhona smiled when a sharpened tip suddenly appeared at the end. “Oh! It’s a long knife.”
Then it extended another four or five feet, turning it into a metal spear. “Oh, Daddy! That’s—”
It extended again and grew wider, stretching to and through the opening at the top of the tent.
Eyes wide, Rhona grinned. “That’s . . .” She simply didn’t have words for what it was. There were quite a few weapons among their kind, many of them created by her father or his kin, that could extend from small to big and back again, so that the dragons using them wouldn’t have to constantly switch weapons depending on their current forms. Usually banging the weapon at a certain angle on its base extended it or a shield and they were easy enough to make small again.
But this . . .
“No matter what form you’re in, you’ve got a weapon.”
“What do I press?”
“Nothing.” The spear quickly slipped into its original size, and her father handed it to her.
“But . . .” After years of training by her father’s side, before she’d joined Her Majesty’s Army, Rhona knew what was needed for their weapons to work. “Don’t you need a chant? A spell? Something?”
“Only in the creation of it.” He leaned in. “Want me to show you?”
“Are you joking?
Yes!
”
He laughed. “Go on and try it first. See what it can do.”
Rhona held the weapon in her hand. It seemed so . . . ordinary. A metal stick. Nothing more. But then she called for the tip and it was there. She used her free hand to touch it.
“Careful,” her father warned. “It’s bloody sharp.”
It was. And Rhona was delighted.
She called forth the spear, and the weapon lengthened and grew. It was the perfect height for her, too. As tall as her with the tip extending just past her head.
Rhona dropped into a crouch, one leg stretched out to the side, the weapon now in both hands. A low attack.
Her father stood back and watched her, his smile warm. When she was younger and home more, they often did this. He’d create new weapons and she’d try them out for him. It was the main reason she had proficiency with more weapons than most Dragonwarriors.
She thrust the spear, stood, and swiped it through the air.
“Daddy, I love the weight.”
“Light, yeah? But combined with your strength . . . deadly just the same.”
“I love it,” she gushed. “I absolutely love it.”
“Call its full length. You can still handle it while human even at that length and width.”
Excited to try, Rhona aimed the weapon toward the exit and away from her father. She called forth the dragon-sized weapon and happily watched as it grew in her hands, the length of it reaching past the tent flaps and—
“Owwwwww!
Gods-dammit, female!
”
With a thought, Rhona retracted her weapon. A few seconds later, the Lightning stumbled into the tent, blood flowing from his shoulder, lightning sparking from his body.
“I told ya!”
he bellowed
“What happened to your spear was an accident!”
They shoved Vigholf into a chair and the two Fire Breathers leaned down to get a better look at his wound. Without much effort, he could see the resemblance between father and daughter. Although Rhona was much prettier.
“He’ll live,” the male said, appearing quite disinterested in Vigholf’s wound.
“Why is it when I come to this bloody kingdom by invitation, I’m nearly killed?”
“Luck?” Rhona asked.
Along with Ragnar and Meinhard, Vigholf had escorted Keita and Éibhear to the Southlands five years ago just before the war with the Irons began. He’d had his first introduction to the infamous Annwyl the Bloody when she’d charged him and Meinhard. Then, while they tried to keep the crazed monarch at bay, she’d gone for Vigholf’s head—and took his hair instead. When it happened, it had been humiliating. A shame he was sure he’d never recover from. But as Vigholf got to know Annwyl better, he quickly realized that he was lucky to have kept his head at all.
Rhona’s father leaned in to take a closer look at the wound. “I can fix this.” He reached for him, and Vigholf couldn’t help but scramble out of the chair that held him.
“No offense if I’d rather not be tended to by a blacksmith.”
“Don’t be such a baby,” Rhona chastised. “Me da’s good with a needle and thread.”
“Your da can keep his needle and thread to himself, thanks.”
Rhona folded her arms over her chest. “So what are you going to do? Wander around all evening bleeding like a stuck cow until you pass out and die and we’re forced to quickly burn your remains so the stink of your corpse won’t bother the children?”
“Your concern for my well-being overwhelms me, Sergeant.”
“You shouldn’t have been following me,
Commander
.”
“Who said I was?”
“Common sense?”
“I don’t know who that is,” he muttered, turning away and looking over the blacksmith’s work area.
“If you’re not going to let my father tend your wounds, at least see the healers by the lake. They’ll help you.”
“No need.” Vigholf, pulling off his chain-mail shirt, walked over to the forge and picked up a poker that still sat in the burning coals.
“Wait—” Rhona cried out as he pressed the poker to his open wound, sealing it closed. It hurt, but nothing he couldn’t handle. Once he knew he’d stopped the bleeding, Vigholf pulled the poker away, ignoring the bits of skin that went with it, and tossed it back into the forge. When he faced father and daughter, he found them gawking at him. Rhona’s mouth was open, but her father was grinning, even laughing a little.
“You are a mad bastard,” she whispered.
“What? It’s done, isn’t it?” He pulled his shirt back on. “Now—” Vigholf began until that familiar scent caught his attention, and he moved quickly toward the tent opening, ignoring the way Rhona scrabbled out of his way as if he was some dangerous animal.
Such an odd female.
Rhona watched the crazed male walk out of her father’s forge and she couldn’t help but follow, curious to see what had caught his relentless attention. She was taken by surprise, though, when she saw the Lightning put his arms around an older She-dragon in human form.
“Mum,” she heard him whisper.
“My dear, sweet son,” the female whispered back. “Oh, how I’ve missed you so.”
All right. That surprised Rhona. Not that the Lightning had a mother, but that he’d treat her so . . . tenderly.
Rhona’s father tapped her shoulder and she stepped back into the tent.
“You want to tell me what’s going on? Why are you
really
here?” her father asked, and all Rhona could do was shrug.
“You know me, Daddy. I follow orders and don’t ask questions. Especially when it’s all coming from the royal side of my kin.”
“Not like your mother at all.”
“As she likes to remind me.”
Her father put his arm around her shoulders. “She just doesn’t understand you. But it’s not your job to help her with that.”
“But—”
“No time to discuss.” He laughingly pushed her toward the forge. “You’ve got work to do, child. And I have much to teach you in a short amount of time. So to work with you!”
“What are you doing here, Vigholf?” his mother asked, her hand reaching up and stroking his jaw. “Is everything all right?”
“Everything’s fine, Mum. I promise.”
“Then why—”
“It’s complicated. But you,” he asked, changing the subject, “are you all right? Are you safe?”
“I’ve been treated like a princess since I’ve been here.” Davon the Elegant leaned in and whispered, “I’m considered a returned prisoner of war, so they’re all very gentle with me and give me lots of things. It’s been nice.”
“Mum.”
“Well, if it hadn’t been for my wonderful sons, it would have been horrible living with your father. But you all looked out for me. So it’s easy for me to sit back and enjoy the pity.”
“As long as you’re safe, Mum. That’s all Ragnar and I care about. That’s all we’ve ever cared about.”
She pushed long gold hair behind her ear. “I’m fine. I promise.”
He stepped back and took his mother’s hand. “Then I want you to meet someone.”
“Oh?”
“No. Nothing like that,” he laughed and pulled her toward the tent, lifting the flap so he could escort her in. But Vigholf stopped right at the entrance, his eyes on Rhona as she worked at her father’s forge with a skill he’d only seen in blacksmiths who’d been working for hundreds of years. She swung a hammer, working away at some weapon.
Yet it wasn’t just the skill that startled him. It was the joy on her face while she worked and laughed with her father. It was that
thing
that had been missing when he watched her following orders and flying into battle.
“My,” his mother murmured. “She’s quite . . . hearty.” She glanced up at him. “A Cadwaladr, I’m assuming.”
“We traveled here together.”
“And you like her.”
“Not really,” he blatantly lied. “She just needs protection and like a true Northlander, it’s my duty to protect helpless females.”
“Helpless?” His mother looked over at Rhona. The Fire Breather lifted the sword she worked on, still glowing bright from the heat. The grin on her face, the light in her eyes . . . it was a beautiful sight to behold. Rhona put the blade in water to cool and caught another weapon her father tossed at her. A good-sized battle-ax. She swung it a few times, then threw it, the blade imbedding into the stuffed head of the practice dummy standing in the corner.
His mother nodded. “Oh, yes. I see now, my son. She’s
extremely
helpless.”
Chapter 10
Rhona stopped not far from the Garbhán Isle gates. The gates lined with Kyvich witches keeping watch. She’d forgotten how imposing the human females could be.
In one lone line, they snaked around the top of the gate walls, a shorter spear called a pilum gripped in each witch’s hand. Considering it was winter, they wore little clothes. Mostly animal skins and bits of armor covering the important areas and arteries. But it was the black tattoos that marked their faces and/or necks. There was no uniformity in those markings or in the way the females dressed or looked—and yet there was no doubt they were a unified army. A deadly and well-trained one that had no mercy, no heart, and no loyalty but to those their gods had chosen for them.
“Disturbing to look at, aren’t they?” the Lightning asked as he stepped up beside her. She’d lost track of him while she’d worked in her father’s forge, learning all sorts of new and wonderful blacksmithing techniques. “They’ve been around for at least a millennia in the Ice Lands and they’ve been feared since the beginning.”
“Can they really be trusted?”
“They follow the dictates of their gods without question.”
“So then the answer is no. They can’t be trusted.”
Vigholf laughed. “Not a fan of the gods then?”
“I call them if I need them, but I’d be a fool to trust them.”
“I like the war gods.”
Rhona crossed her eyes. “Of course you do.”
“So”—Vigholf faced her—“would you like to have dinner tonight with me and my mother?”
“No.”
He scowled. “Why not?”
“Well, first off I’m having dinner with my father, and second . . . no.”
“You don’t like my mother,” he accused.
“I don’t know your mother.”
“And you never will . . . unless you have dinner with us.” His grin was wide . . . and a tad ridiculous—in an annoyingly adorable way. “Bring your father.”
“You’re getting stranger every day, I just want to make that clear.”
“That’s not a no to my dinner invitation.”
At that point, Rhona was going to walk away, but that soft sound caught her attention first. A sound they both heard.
After so much combat, it wasn’t surprising they both moved quickly, turning to face the small storage building on the left side of their path. Rhona dropped to a crouch, the tip of her wonderful new spear pointed directly in front of her. Vigholf stayed tall, his warhammer held high in one hand, a battle-ax in the other. She’d seen him use both at the same time to devastating effect for the enemy.
Vigholf motioned to her with a dip of his head and Rhona, keeping low, moved forward, the Lightning guarding her rear.
Then it came at them from the brush that lined the side of the building. Teeth snapping, small blade slashing. Reacting without thought, as Northlanders had been trained to do in combat, Vigholf stepped in front of Rhona, hammer raised high, but she slammed into his side, sending him stumbling a few feet away.
“What the holy hells—”
Rhona reached out and caught hold of their attacker, lifting it in the air, and holding it up so the Lightning could see it.
“It seems my cousin’s offspring takes after his Great-Grandfather Ailean. He liked the surprise attack as well, according to me mum.”
The boy, seeing he was well and truly caught, burst into dramatic tears and Rhona sighed. “And, sadly, he takes after his Uncle Gwenvael. This is Talan,” she reminded Vigholf. “Fearghus and Annwyl’s son who we’ve rushed here to protect.”
“I remember. But where’s the girl? Talwyn?” Vigholf demanded, his gaze searching, an air of anxiety rippling around him. “Where there’s the boy, there’s his sister.”
Rhona shook the boy she still held. “Where is she, little snake?”
He wailed louder and Rhona glanced up at the Kyvich to make sure they weren’t taking any of this seriously. And although they watched her and Vigholf closely, they made no moves to step in. Good. They knew their place. They may be protectors, but Rhona was family.
“For the love of the gods,” a voice said from behind them, “stop the wailing.”
Rhona smiled and faced the centaur. “Hello, Ebba. How’s the nanny business going for you?”
“I won’t say they’re unmanageable,” the pretty centaur told them as they slowly made their way back toward the castle. “But they are the reason I’m paid so well.” She smiled. “I’ve already bought land near the ocean. Lovely view.”
She walked a few more feet and stopped next to a tree with a large hole beside the base.
An empty hole.
“Uh-oh.”
Vigholf didn’t like the sound of that at all. “Uh-oh?”
“I left Talwyn here.”
“You left a child buried in the ground?” Rhona demanded.
“She was just buried up to her neck. Besides, I didn’t put her in there. He did.” The centaur pointed at the boy. “Didn’t you, little monster?”
Still held by the back of his trousers by Rhona, Talan grinned.
“Of course,” Ebba observed. “She’s loose now. And she’ll be coming for you, little monster.”
The boy’s grin faded.
“Are you staying long, Rhona?” Ebba asked as they continued heading to the castle.
“No. I’m leaving in the morning. Back to the Valley.”
“Good. The sooner this war ends, the sooner these little monsters get their parents back.” She lovingly smiled at the boy. “And I can finally take a bloody holiday.”
Rhona had known Ebba for years. She’d met her mother, Bríghid, when she’d taken over the care of Keita for that short time. It was strange how the much smaller centaurs made such good caregivers for young dragons, though their powers were legendary and they tolerated no fools. Although Rhona had never seen it, she’d heard that an army of centaurs could devastate kingdoms when pushed too far.
Anyone’s
kingdom. The problem, though, was to get centaurs as a group to agree on anything. So there weren’t many times that they challenged any kingdoms but their own.
They neared the steps that would lead into the Great Hall, and Rhona glanced around and said, “All this . . . preparation?”
“Our Battle Lord is quite cautious,” Ebba explained, speaking of Dagmar. “The local merchants have all been moved to nearby towns and only those who live here, are invited by those who live here, or are part of the Queen’s army are allowed entry. Everyone takes the children’s safety very seriously.” They walked up the stairs to the castle’s Great Hall. “Although I don’t know why.”
Rhona stopped right in the doorway. “Why would you say that?”
Ebba had only a chance to raise a brow before the boy was ripped from Rhona’s hand by his dirt-covered sister. She attacked silently, only growling once the pair had hit the floor in a flurry of fists and sibling rage.
The girl, glaring like Rhona’s Uncle Bercelak, got her brother on his back and head-butted him. Twice.
“Awww,” Rhona observed, feeling nostalgic. “Just like our Aunt Ghleanna.”
“I need to eat,” Vigholf announced, apparently not feeling nostalgic at all.
“He constantly needs to be fed,” Rhona complained, watching her young cousins rolling across the floor.
“Should I starve instead?”
“Yes.” She watched the twins a bit longer. “Should we separate them?”
Ebba pulled a red dress over her now-human form. “If you’d like.”
Rhona reached down and took hold of the siblings, yanking them apart. It didn’t stop them from trying to rip each other into shreds, though. “Are they like this all the time?”
“Only when they’re not torturing others.”
“Do they speak?” Rhona had yet to hear anything from the pair but snarling, snapping, and growling. It was disconcerting.
“Only to each other and only in whispers.” Ebba brushed her long, reddish brown hair from her face. “We try not to be terrified by that.”
“I need to eat,” Vigholf said again.
Rhona faced him, shaking the snarling children for emphasis. “Can you not see we’re talking?”
“About babysitting.” And he grinned at her when he said it. “Shocking.”
Her eyes narrowed, daring him to call her that blasted nickname.
There were screams from the courtyard and panicked humans running. “How nice.” Ebba took the children from Rhona’s hands. “Queen Rhiannon’s here.”
“Oh,” Rhona said. She glanced at Vigholf, but he was already staring at her. She nodded and said, “I have to go. Need to clean up, meeting my father for dinner.”
“Me too,” Vigholf chimed in. “What I mean is . . . meeting
my
father. Wait, no, he’s dead.”
“Your mother. You’re meeting your
mother
.”
“Right, right. Mum.”
And with that, they scattered. It wasn’t dignified or remotely brave, but it was necessary because neither of them wanted to face the queen.
“Ren can have the portal open in a day,” Keita explained to Dagmar, Talaith, and the Kyvich leader, Ásta.
“And then what?” Dagmar asked.
“I’m not going to—”
Dagmar raised a finger, stopping Talaith’s potential tirade. “And then what?” she asked Keita again.
“He takes them to the Eastlands. They’ll be safe there. His parents will be happy to help.” She smiled. “They adore me.”
“I’m sure they do. But that doesn’t mean they’ll adore the children.”
“While I appreciate your eagerness to help, Princess,” Ásta cut in, “I will not allow you or this foreigner to take the children from our care.”
Keita’s eyes narrowed and Dagmar warned, “Don’t you dare unleash flame in this room, Keita.”
“It won’t matter if she does,” Ásta smugly boasted. “A dragon’s flame means nothing to a Kyvich.”
Ren stepped forward; the handsome Eastland dragon looked so very tired that Dagmar worried about him. But Keita had come here with her grand ideas about rescuing her nieces and nephew, so whether she noticed the wear on her friend was anyone’s guess. “On my word and the honor of my family, those children will be protected with the dying breaths of my kin, if need be.”
“I believe you,” Dagmar said. “But Commander Ásta—”
“Their leader’s Magick is strong, but not as strong as mine.” Ren said, sounding surprisingly cocky—Dagmar assumed that was because he was too tired to hide his natural dragon-based arrogance. “And she knows it.”
“What I know,” Ásta warned, stepping closer to Ren, “is that I do not fear any dragon. Even the Snow dragons out of the Ice Lands stay out of the path of the Kyvich—and I can assure you they are stronger than you could ever dream, foreigner.”
“
I’m
the foreigner?”
Dagmar raised her hands. “If we could all calm down—”
Ásta slapped her hands together. Dagmar saw nothing, but the way that Talaith’s eyes grew wide and she pushed away from the table, Dagmar knew something Magickrelated was happening in front of her. “Perhaps it’s time you learn your place, foreigner. And remember that no one takes those children anywhere without our permission.”
Ren raised his hand and Talaith scrambled to her feet. “Stop it! Both of you!”
Dagmar still couldn’t see anything, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t be affected by it. “I’d like us all to calm down,” Dagmar began. “Before this gets out of—”
The war-room door slammed open and the Dragon Queen of the Southlands swept in. She held Talan in her arms and had Talwyn hanging from her neck. The queen seemed to be the one being who could calm the children down without doing anything. None of them, however, had figured out how she managed that.
“There you all are. I’ve been searching for you for at least two minutes! The only ones to greet me were Ebba and my darling grandchildren.” She grinned at the boy in her arms. “So adorable!”
“Mother—” Keita began.
“What’s going on?” Rhiannon asked, her eyes seeing what Dagmar’s never could. “Oh, honestly. You
children
.” She flicked the fingers of her left hand and Ásta flew back, hitting the wall hard. Ren gasped, dropping to his knees.
“Ren!” Keita ran to her friend’s side, putting her arms around his shoulders.
“It’s gone,” Ren said through hard pants. “The portal. It’s gone. She’s closed it.”
“Opening a doorway in my territory without
my
permission?” Rhiannon accused. “You should know better, Ren of the Chosen. But I’m assuming it was my daughter’s idiotic idea.”
“I was trying to help, you crazed viper!”