Authors: G. A. Aiken
Tags: #Science Fiction & Fantasy, #Romance, #dragons
Filled with anticipation, he impatiently pushed past them. The little whore had her back to them, and he called out, “Well, my lady—”
Startled, she spun around, her eyes wide, her mouth still chewing, a long tail hanging from her lips.
Lord Bampour and his men looked at the spot where the vicious mongrel they kept to keep these scum in line used to sit. His long chain was still there, the last ring pulled open. As one, Bampour and his men returned their gazes to the woman. Still chewing, she held up one finger, asking them to wait. His men took a step back, but Bampour examined the cell. A leather collar, torn open, lay at her dainty bare feet. And the other murderers, rapists, and thieves who shared the cell with her were backed into one corner. Eyes wide, all of them shaking in terror, they pushed against each other—one of them even trying to claw his way out of the cell using his bare hands.
Bampour looked at her again. She sucked the tail into her mouth like a wet noodle and swallowed. “Let me explain—” she began.
Bampour shook his head. “Move back,” he ordered his men.
“Wait. I didn’t kill your father. It wasn’t me.”
“Move back!” he ordered again.
“And no one would feed me. And the dog…how many more years could he have had? I’m sure that”—she gave a delicate cough—“this is a misunderstanding that we”—another cough—“can easily clear up. If you just let me explain—”
She stopped talking, pressed her hand to her stomach, coughed…coughed again, then retched.
A good-sized skull, perfectly cleaned as if washed in acid, long fangs locked together, extended jaw and nose suggesting a snout where a wet nose once was, flew out of the woman’s mouth, hit the ground, and bounced across the floor several times before landing in front of the closed cell door.
The silence that followed was almost physically painful, and Bampour watched as small white teeth nibbled gently on a plump bottom lip until the woman finally said, “I can explain that too….”
Bampour didn’t give her a chance. He screamed. Gods in the heaven, he screamed like a woman and ran. He ran, his men right beside him, the scum they’d left behind yelling for mercy, begging to be released from their cell.
Bampour and his men didn’t stop running until they’d made it around the corner and back to the jailer’s desk. With several guards pointing their pikes at the door they’d just come through, Bampour tried to catch his breath and think.
“What do we do, my lord?” his father’s old aide asked him.
“What do you think we do? We have a battalion of my soldiers guard this dungeon, and when the executioner arrives, we kill that bitch. Understand?”
“Aye, my lord.”
Getting back his breath as well as his reason, Bampour began to relax, the entire dungeon again quiet.
Then that voice that, only a few days ago, he’d thought so alluring, called out, “And how attached to that dog could you have truly been? I mean…
honestly
?”
That was around the time Bampour pissed himself, but he felt no shame. He knew his men would always understand.
General Addolgar walked through the camp set up outside the Western Mountains. For more than two years now, he, his sister Ghleanna, and the human troops and Dragonwarriors they led had been trying to tamp down the barbarian tribes raiding the towns around this area. And, until a few months ago, Addolgar would have said they were winning the fight. But something, something had changed.
He walked into his sister’s tent. Ghleanna sat at her desk, a mug of ale within arm’s reach but untouched—a rare thing for his sister—and her eyes focused across the room.
“Sister.”
“What is it, Addolgar?”
He stood in front of her, not wanting to tell her his news but knowing he couldn’t avoid it. “The unit I sent out. To that small village outside of Tristram. They just got back.”
“And?”
Addolgar shook his head.
Her eyes closed, and she let out a breath. “Damn.”
“I know.”
“They killed everyone?”
“Aye. Everyone.” Even the children. “You still think it’s the barbarians, sister?”
“I don’t know. But if it’s not, then who?”
Addolgar placed a coin on her desk. Found under one of the bodies in the village, its markings distinct, it spoke of enemies all the Southland dragons hoped they’d never hear from again. Ghleanna barely glanced at it. “You can’t seriously think they’d dare.”
“We’d be fools to ignore this. We should send word and what we’ve found so far to Garbhán Isle.”
“Little soon for that kind of panic, isn’t it?”
“That’s not panic, sister. That’s prudent planning. Especially since you know as well as I do that”—he retrieved the coin and held it up for her to see—“they do like their misdirection. For all we know, these raids, these murders…could be just the beginning.”
Ghleanna stared up at him. “You, brother, are like a bright ray of sunshine in my life,” she told him flatly.
“And your happiness is my whole reason to live. Honestly. My concern keeps me up at night. Can’t you tell?”
Because they left the Northlands quickly and the wind was with them, they arrived in the Outerplains early afternoon.
Still that was hours—gods, so many hours—of nonstop talk from one big, blue, idiot dragon. How old was he again? Eighty-nine? Ninety? Gods, it was time for him to grow up! Or shut up. Preferably both. Meinhard, who’d watched over the hatchling for the last two years to make sure he didn’t get himself accidentally killed during a battle, had become quite adept at tuning him out. And Vigholf seemed to enjoy how much he was annoying Ragnar, so he goaded the big bastard. If he stopped talking for five minutes, Vigholf would give him something else to go on about. And on he went. He only shut up when he ate or slept. Otherwise it was a never-ending stream of thought.
As the Dragon Queen had suggested, they’d stopped outside the town that belonged to Lord Bampour, and Ragnar sent Meinhard to investigate the surrounding area. When he returned, he said, “The queen may be right. We best walk it, cousin.”
“Why?”
“They’ve got more weapons and troops than I’ve seen in a long time manning the fortress walls. Weapons that can kill from a distance.”
Ragnar frowned. “Do you think they’re expecting us?”
“No. Their weapons are pointed toward the inside of the town. But if they see us flying over…”
Ragnar agreed, glad the queen had warned him. “Good point. We’ll walk it.”
So they changed into chain-mail shirts and leggings, leather boots, and surcoats that bore the coat of arms for The Reinholdt—a little something Ragnar had taken from the human warlord on his many trips into that territory; something he’d never mentioned to the warlord’s daughter—and the four males pulled on capes with hoods that could be pulled low over their heads so as to hide their purple and, in the Southlander’s case, blue hair. Once they were ready, they headed into town. To Ragnar’s surprise, it wasn’t as busy as it usually was. Middle of the day and everything seemed to be closed down.
“Where is everyone?” Vigholf asked.
“I don’t know.”
Yet as Meinhard had said, there were troops manning the towers and fortress walls, but none of them even noticed Ragnar or his party. Unusual. If their defenses were so heightened, he’d have thought they’d definitely stop and interrogate four large armed males.
The Blue pointed to a street that led all the way across town. “I hear people down there.”
As useless as he found the royal, he did have the best hearing of anyone Ragnar had known.
Vigholf stared down the street. “Should we go around?”
Ragnar’s first thought was a definite yes, but…
“Let’s go see what’s going on. Be watchful. If the situation looks unstable, we leave. Quick and quiet.”
“What if they need our help?”
The three Northlanders turned and stared at the royal.
“If who needs our help?” Ragnar asked. “The humans?”
“Aye.”
“Why would we help them?” Ragnar had always considered himself quite benevolent for not simply crushing humans like ants when the mood struck him. And although he had to admit that some humans did serve a purpose, they didn’t serve enough of a purpose to get him to involve himself in some town drama.
“It may be a bad situation,” the Blue argued. “We can’t just…leave. What if women and children are involved?”
Not about to spend one precious second of his life dealing with this, Ragnar said, “Meinhard.”
Meinhard quickly stepped up to the royal. “Remember what we talked about before we left?”
“Aye, but—”
“And remember what you promised?”
“But I’m only saying that—”
“Remember?”
The Blue let out a sigh that made Ragnar contemplate slapping him…just to make him cry. “Aye. I remember.”
“Then do as you promised.” Meinhard patted his shoulder. “That’s a good lad.”
Ragnar headed down the street. As they got farther and farther along, they began to see more people. The biggest crowd was near the Baron Lord’s four-story castle.
“An execution,” Vigholf murmured behind him. “That explains it.”
“Good,” Ragnar said and pointed to another street shooting off from the main one. “We’ll cut around that way and head out. By the time they’re done, we’re through and out.”
Ragnar headed off, his kin and the royal following. But he kept one ear open for what was going on at the execution. Sometimes, if it was a popular local being executed, the occasional uprising might start and those could turn ugly fast. He’d prefer not to get caught in the middle of something like that. Especially with the royal do-gooder bringing up the rear.
They were nearing the corner where they would turn onto the next street when Ragnar heard whoever was running the execution say, “Do you have any last words?”
He picked up his pace, knowing that those last words could really get a riot moving along.
“Good people—” He heard the words ring out over the yard and street, and Ragnar stumbled to a stop, his chest—which hadn’t bothered him since he’d last spoken to the Dragon Queen—beginning to itch again.
His brother and cousin stopped short next to him.
“What is it?” Vigholf asked.
Ragnar ignored him and looked over at the royal with them. The Blue had stopped too, and when he saw that Ragnar’s gaze had locked on him, he cringed.
Stepping around his brother, Ragnar looked up at the executioner’s block. A fresh noose swung in the cool afternoon air, and a black-masked bull of a man stood at the ready to do his job.
And there, at the front of the block, wearing more chains than seemed necessary for someone these humans should at least
think
was also human, and with two units’ worth of men aiming pikes at her, stood one royal who didn’t know how
not
to find trouble.
With her long dark red hair blowing in the same direction as the noose behind her, and dirt on her cheeks, nose, and blue gown, she held her shackled hands out, her big brown eyes imploring as she said again, “Good people. I beg you to see the injustice you are doing here. The unfairness. For I am innocent!”
Hardly.
“What is she doing here?” Vigholf asked, his gaze fastened on the executioner’s block.
“Performing,” was Ragnar’s only answer. Because that was the only explanation. She was a dragoness for the gods’ sake! She could blast the entire town to embers without even shifting to her natural form, and yet she’d let them put her up there for execution!
What exactly is
wrong
with these Southland royals?
Keita clasped her hands together and looked up into the skies above, making sure to angle her head so the crowd could see the tears glistening in her eyes.
“I assure all you good people that I had nothing to do with Lord Bampour’s tragic death. For I—”
“Is this going to take much longer?”
Keita snapped her mouth shut and glared into the audience at her feet. She looked past all those unnecessary guards, focusing on the male who had interrupted her eloquent soliloquy.
“Sorry,” he said, the hood of his cloak covering his handsome face. “Go on.”
“Thank you,” she snipped.
Keita let out a breath, looked up at the sky again, and asked, “Where was I?”
“You had nothing to do with Lord Bampour’s tragic death,” that familiar voice offered.
“Thank you.” She cleared her throat. “I am not the one who has done this horrible deed. I am an innocent! And I beg all of you”—she brought her gaze down and opened her arms as much as the thick chain between her shackles would allow—“to save me from this horrid fate that I do not…” Keita’s words faded away, and she leaned forward a bit, trying to see beyond the crowd of men and pikes in front of her. After a moment, she asked, “Éibhear?”
Her baby brother, towering over the entire crowd, waved at her and, grinning, Keita waved back. Making sure not to hit herself in the face with that stupid chain. “Éibhear!” she cheered. “What are you doing here?”
“Just passing through,” he called back. “You all right?”
“Oh, I’m fine,” she answered honestly. “Are you going to stay for the execution?”
“I guess I better so we can bring your body back to Mum.”
“Don’t take me to her. She’ll just spit on my corpse and dance around it. And being trapped in the afterlife, I won’t be able to beat her within an inch of her miserable existence. But tell Daddy I said hi.” Keita clasped her hands together again and said, “Now, where was I?”
She heard her traveling companion clear his throat, and when she glanced over at him, he pointed to something that had pushed past all the townspeople and guards and now was right in front of the block she stood upon.
She examined the male. She could smell the lightning that came from within him, knew he was a Northlander. The blue hood of his cloak probably hid purple hair—common among the Lightnings. But his human face was surprisingly handsome for a barbarian. Sharp cheekbones, delicious-looking full lips, a strong jaw, and a once-battered nose that kept him from looking too perfect. But it was his eyes that made her think she might know him from somewhere. They were blue with shots of silver, like tiny bolts of lightning. They were as beautiful as anything she’d seen, and Keita felt sure that if she’d fucked this one, she would have remembered. She tried to be very good about that sort of thing—especially if she fucked the one-time enemies of her people, since that sort of thing brought all sorts of problems.
She pointed at him. “Don’t I know you?”
“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked, rather than answering her.
“I’m about to be wrongly executed for something I didn’t do.”
“And yet something tells me you did do it. Now get your ass down here.”
“Get my…” Keita slammed her hands onto her hips, the chain nearly not allowing it. Although she refused to believe her hips were that wide.
“You need to go away before I get angry,” Keita told him.
“I’ve seen you angry. I wasn’t impressed. Tell me, princess, did you hit at them with your tiny little fists or use that tail to ward them off?”
When Keita’s skin began to itch and the overwhelming desire to kill everything within a league of her rage flowed from her pores like honey, she knew
exactly
who this arrogant, lightning-breathing, worthless scum of a whore bastard was! “You! I should have finished you when I had the chance, warlord,” Keita told him.
“Should haves. I bet your entire life is filled with should haves.”
“Only where you’re concerned. Because I
should have
torn your feeble barbarian heart from your weak chest and I
should have
danced around you in a veritable orgy of blood and pain and suffering that would have called the dark gods to me so they could make me their
reigning queen
!”
“Keita?” her traveling companion called out lightly.
“
What?
”
When he didn’t answer, she lifted her gaze from the dragon in front of her. The entire crowd now watched her in horror.
“I could be wrong,” her friend said, “but I’m thinking the ‘good people, I have been wrongly accused’ speech isn’t going to work at the moment.”
And whose fault was that? The Lightning’s fault, that’s who!
“Finish it!” Lord Bampour yelled from the safety of the gate walls, his men scrambling to get him to safety.
The executioner grabbed Keita by the shoulders, yanking her back. The guards on the ground tried to force the Lightning back with the now screaming-for-her-blood townsfolk.
“Well, you’ve left me no choice,” Keita told the audience watching her.
“Keita, no!” Éibhear cried out. Typical of her baby brother. What would he have her do instead? Let these peasants hang her, a royal, like meat? Was that what he wanted?
The executioner reached for the noose, and Keita sucked air into her lungs. But guards were tossed aside, and Ragnar the Bastard, as she liked to call him when she thought of him at all, jumped onto the block and caught hold of the front of her dress. “Oy!” she gasped. “Watch the dress!” Ignoring her, as he always seemed to do, Ragnar hauled her forward and over his shoulder.