Authors: G. A. Aiken
Tags: #Science Fiction & Fantasy, #Romance, #dragons
One of the prisoners, a very large, swarthy fellow, slowly stood. Keita watched him, but after about three steps in her direction, he stopped, swallowed, and backed up again.
Not surprising, really. Keita had found over the years that predators knew predators. And smart predators knew when they were in the presence of something much more dangerous than they could ever hope to be.
Already bored beyond all reckoning, Keita again faced the front of the cell. She knew she could shift to her natural form and escape this dungeon. True, she was small compared to many She-dragons, but her true form would still go through at least the kitchen and servants quarters above and possibly the floor above that. Plus she’d destroy at least three of the walls around her and many humans. Not only the bastards who’d put her here, but possibly the sweet servant girl who combed her hair at night, the old baker who always made sure to set aside treats for her, and the house maid who kept her laughing with all sorts of castle gossip. Killing them would be unfair in Keita’s estimation, since their only mistake would be that they were merely in the wrong place at the wrong time.
No, Keita didn’t like that idea at all. So she’d wait. She had talked herself out of worse situations—she’d do it again.
So Keita stared through all those bars hoping to see the guards returning with something to eat. When they didn’t, she rested her hands on two of the bars and that’s when the guard dog right outside her cell leaped at her, snarling and snapping at her hands.
She immediately pulled away and watched the crazed beast attack the bars again for good measure.
Keita smiled and said, “Why…hello there, you yummy-looking little thing you.”
“Do you hope to convince me, my little rain droplet, that you’d give up your power? We both know that sometimes it’s what’s behind the throne that is the true power. But tell me, my adorable lightning strike, does your brother know he’ll be your puppet? Or is he big and dim-witted like your father?”
“Is there a reason you summoned me, Queen Rhiannon?”
“Oooh. Terse. I must have struck a barbarian nerve.”
“Your Majesty…”
She held up a white claw. “Aye. There is a reason I’ve summoned you. I have need of a favor. Two favors, in fact.”
“And they are?”
“Well, one is my son.”
“Your son?”
“Yes. My youngest?”
Ragnar stared at her.
“He’s been with you for two years? So he could learn the illustrious warrior ways of the Lightnings?”
Ragnar still stared.
“He’s very tall? Very wide…very blue?”
“Oh. Right.”
The idiot.
Well…he wasn’t exactly an idiot. Just young. Very young. Offspring in the Northlands grew up fast, usually heading into battle before they were fifty winters. But the Southlanders babied their offspring and often those spoiled creatures weren’t ready for much until a century or more passed. The queen’s youngest had that issue. But because he was Southland royalty and the fact that Ragnar’s cousin Meinhard looked out for him, the warriors left him alone. Yet that, and the fact that the young dragon was very good at quickly and efficiently clearing out trees with his bare claws, was all that kept that idiot safe from daily sound beatings. Like Ragnar, the queen’s son liked to read, but he also liked to daydream and eat. By the gods, could that dragon eat. When they had to have additional cattle shipped in, Ragnar felt it was strictly due to that damn royal. And when he wasn’t eating, reading, or daydreaming, the Blue spent the rest of his time trying to sneak off so he could indulge his ridiculous whims with the tavern girls in the human towns below. He spent a lot of his time in the human towns.
Yet Ragnar never cared about any of this. Not really. For the royal had served a purpose. He represented the goodwill and alliance of the Southland Queen during a time of war among the Hordes. So Ragnar, Vigholf, and Meinhard made it their business to ensure the young royal was kept alive and mostly intact.
“Well,” the queen went on, “I want him to come home for a family feast that will take place in the next two weeks.”
That would work. If the royal went home, perhaps he’d never return. He was no longer needed, and it would be one less thing for Ragnar to worry about.
“Of course. He has my permission to go.”
“Excellent! And when will you two leave?”
Ragnar frowned, his instincts warning him of a trap. “Pardon?”
“You’re coming with him.” Did it ever occur to these royals to
ask
rather than order? No. Probably not.
“My lady, if you are fearing for his safety, my best warriors will be—”
“You, Dragonlord.
You
will accompany my son back to the Southland.”
“And why would
I
do that?”
“Simple. Because it would be a grave mistake for you
not
to bring my son back here.”
“I was hoping we were beyond threats, Queen Rhiannon.”
She came toward him then, moving in until there was only a tail-tip length between them. She dropped several more pieces of fruit at Ragnar’s claws before reaching out and pressing her own claw against the side of his jaw, her talons caressing him there. Amazing. He was still on that freezing plateau and she was thousands of leagues away in her court, but it was easy to forget all that when he could actually feel her touch against his scales.
“We
are
beyond threats, dear boy. We are. That’s why you must do this. Leave today, tonight—and bring my son. He’ll be a good excuse of why you have to be here.”
“An excuse?”
“Trust me, Ragnar.”
It was true, Queen Rhiannon could be luring him into a trap. She could have her Dragonwarriors waiting for him as soon as he crossed into Southland territories. She could do a lot of things. And yet…he didn’t think she’d bother.
“As you wish.”
It was brief, but he saw the relief that washed over her features before she dredged up that false smile, created specifically to hide any truth she might reveal.
“Excellent. I can’t wait to see my son. I’ve missed him so.” She backed up until she could turn without hitting Ragnar with her tail and walked back to her tree.
“You said there was another favor.”
“Oh, aye. There’s a witch who lives in the Woods of Desolation in the Outerplains. A dragoness, but she lives as human.”
“Yes. I know her.”
“Of course you do. So does my son Gwenvael. And my youngest daughter.” She looked over her shoulder at him. “You remember my daughter, don’t you, my lord? Keita?”
Ragnar worked hard not to sneer. “Yes. I remember Keita.” Keita the Brat. Keita the Nightmare. Keita the Late Night Fantasy when he’d had too much to drink.
How was he expected to forget her? He was a dragon, not a saint.
“Of course you do. She’s so beautiful it’s hard for males to ever forget her. Perhaps, if you’re lucky enough, she’ll be attending the feast and you two can become reacquainted.”
“I doubt I’ll have time to stay for the feast, lady. Although I appreciate the offer.”
“I understand.” The queen watched him for a moment longer before pointing at him with one of her talons. “Do you need some ointment for that, my little rolling thunder?”
Confused, Ragnar looked down and realized he was scratching his chest again. Right on the scar that cut through his thick purple scales. The same one that spoiled royal had given him two years ago when she’d snuck up on him and stabbed him with her tail. Even after he’d rescued her useless life.
Ragnar snatched his claw back.
“No. Thank you.”
“Nasty scar. Some take forever to heal.”
“The witch in the woods, lady?”
“Oh, yes, yes. Be ever so kind and bring her to me. Alive.”
“Why?”
“Well, she is my sister and traitor to my throne, so if anyone should take her head, it should be me. Don’t you agree?”
Gods. Esyld. She wanted Esyld. A powerful witch and excellent healer, Esyld had been a part of the Outerplains as long as Ragnar could remember. And, unlike many others, he’d known for years who she was. The sister of Queen Rhiannon who’d fled the Southlands when her sister came into power. For that reason alone, and no other from what he’d been able to tell, Esyld the Beautiful had become Esyld the Traitor among those loyal to the queen.
“Or you can leave her there, Your Majesty,” he suggested. “She’s causing you no harm.”
“My, my, you do seem to know my sister well.” She chuckled. “But you’ll bring her to me.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Simple. I’ll unleash my mate’s crazed relatives on her like a pack of ravening wolves on a wounded deer. Would you prefer that?”
“When we spoke two years ago, you knew where your sister was. But you choose now to capture her. Why?”
“Because you never know…some attractive young thinker of a dragon may be able to save her useless life. But only if she makes it to me alive. And my mate’s kin will ensure that she
never
makes it to me alive. They do so loathe traitors.”
“And you’re so sure she’s a traitor?”
Her grin was cruel. “I don’t have to be sure. I’m queen. Now”—she tossed him another fruit with her tail before again focusing on her tree—“good travels, my light drizzle. I do look forward to seeing you again in person. Oh!” She held up a talon, her gaze focusing far off before she sighed, shook her head, muttered to herself something like, “That girl,” and then said to Ragnar, “And one other thing…”
“Yes?”
“Do you know a Lord Bamp…something? In the Outerplains?”
“Bampour?” She shrugged at this question. “Yes, I know him.” A very unpleasant bastard that Ragnar had only mild dealings with over the years. “What about him?”
“I wouldn’t fly
over
his territory. You might be better off walking through it.”
He normally would avoid the town and the Baron Lord’s lands altogether, but it was easiest to get to the forest where Esyld the Wise lived from there. “Why?”
“Must you question everything, my perky little downpour?”
“As a matter of fact—”
All the beauty around Ragnar shimmered, and the spell ended, taking the suns, the grass, the trees, and the unstable monarch with it.
“—yes!”
He was back on his plateau, the ripe fruit the queen had tossed at him resting by his claws. Gods. That female.
Letting out a breath, Ragnar picked up a piece of fruit and held it between his talons.
But…such power.
Yet before he could sit and ponder how she managed to do something so amazing, that damn itching started again!
Throwing down the fruit, Ragnar scratched at the healed wound on this chest. Healed it might be, but the itching. Gods, the itching! Some days it drove him mad. Especially when he had his armor on. And nothing he’d tried in the last two years had done much to stop it. He’d tried ointments, spells, creams…everything! Some days he could barely think because of the damn itching. And sometimes he forgot about the wound altogether for days, even months. But now that the damn queen had pointed it out…
Roaring in annoyance, Ragnar shifted to human, dropped to one knee, and scratched at the human flesh for all he was worth. Short of ripping his scales off—something he was loath to do—this was the only way to really scratch the damn thing properly. In fact, his human fingers scratching against his chest felt so good, he didn’t even notice the freezing cold or that he was no longer alone.
“Uh…brother?”
Ragnar’s hand stopped on his chest, but he didn’t turn around. “What?”
“The others are wondering if you’re returning. Or should I leave you to keep…touching yourself? And where did that fruit come from?”
“I am not touching—” Ragnar stopped his reply. Honestly, why bother? “Who can take over for us for the next few weeks?”
“Us?”
“You, me, and Meinhard.” Their cousin was a mighty fighter and always good backup in any situation. Plus, he was loyal—and loyalty meant all to Ragnar.
“Uncle Askel. He’s back from the Ice Land borders, and he’ll keep this rabble in line.”
“Good. We leave in two hours.”
“Leave for where?”
“The Southlands. And we’re bringing the royal. So you best fetch him.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
Ragnar nodded and stared out over his cold and brutal Northland home. He wished he could ignore the Dragon Queen’s orders, but something told him that would be a very foolish thing to do. He was never foolish. He didn’t have that luxury. So he’d return to the Southlands and risk not only his safety among the lazy Fire Breathers, but also meeting up with the one dragoness he hoped never to see again.
And as Ragnar thought of the cruel viper, his hand reached for the itchy scar on his chest once more. He stopped in mid-reach, though, when he realized he was still not alone.
“Something else, brother?” Ragnar asked.
“Well…are you going to eat all that fruit or just leave it out here to freeze into useless lumps?”
Ragnar swept up the fruit with both hands and pitched them, one after the other, at his brother’s big, fat, scale-covered forehead.
When he’d driven Vigholf back inside, Ragnar again faced the mountains he called home while his brother complained, “You could have just
handed
them to me, Ragnar!”
He was Lord Bampour now. He ruled this land. Of course, there would have to be an appropriate period of mourning, but then, once that was done, he’d take everything in hand.
But first, before he’d bother worrying about all that, he’d see his father’s killer up close.
His men had left her alone with some of the worst scum that could be found on his father’s…no,
his
lands. Not long enough to kill her, but long enough to make her realize that the days before her execution would be the worst of her life. She deserved it, of course. One, because she’d killed his father. And two, because the little whore had turned him down flat when he’d asked her to his bed. Even after he’d given her those lovely earrings.
Aye. Her last days on this earth would make her regret that decision. He’d make sure of it.
Following behind his men, Lord Bampour walked into the farthest part of the dungeon. His men had stopped a few feet away from that bitch’s cell and didn’t move.