by G. A. Aiken
“—your mum said no. She saw me worth. For that I’m loyal to her until I breathe me last. So take your ungrateful blue ass and go home.”
The Blue studied Angor. “So you’re kicking me out then?”
“Once Mì-runach, always Mì-runach, boy. You should know that by now. But you can’t avoid your kin forever.”
“I haven’t been avoiding anything.” He gave a small smile, showing one side of his fangs. “Not anymore.”
“There’s truth to that. So go home. See your mum. Make her happy. For me.” Angor turned from the younger dragon, moving toward some Ice Land oxen he’d seen earlier. Watching his warriors kill always made him hungry.
“And my squad when we’re done in the Northlands?” the boy called out. “Should I send them on ahead to meet you?”
“Don’t you dare. Take those mean bastards with you. No other squad will have them anyway.” He flicked his claw in the air. “Go home, Éibhear the Contemptible. See your mum. See your kin. Spend some time with those who raised you. Think of it like a holiday. Then remember why you left in the first place, and return to the Mì-runach. We’ll be camped near the Western Mountains. Waiting to do what we do best.”
“Kill?” the blue dragon asked Angor.
“Some would say,” Angor muttered on a chuckle. “Some would say.”
Chapter 2
Éibhear the Contemptible—once called Éibhear the Blue—walked up to his squad. The Mì-runach were broken up into four-to-six-member squads. Angor was commander of them all, but it wasn’t a job any of them envied.
For one to become Mì-runach he not only had to be a mighty fighter, he also had to be a vicious, heartless bastard who couldn’t take basic orders. Although they’d been around for centuries in different forms, usually brought together during a specific war or battle, the Mì-runach really had come into their own when Éibhear’s grandfather, Ailean—the shining example of a dragon who couldn’t take orders but made himself worth the trouble during a battle—joined. Of course, they didn’t have a name then; instead, they were just known as those “unreliable, heartless bastards” who were too good as warriors to dismiss completely but too much of a bother to force some poor commander to have to tolerate while trying to manage scores of other soldier dragons during a heated battle.
In the Dragon Queen’s army, not taking orders made a Dragonwarrior a dangerous liability. But among the Mì-runach, where one’s strengths were used to benefit, it made that soldier a useful servant of the queen. For the Mì-runach handled that which many would not. It took some time for Éibhear to figure out exactly what that made them, but he finally did.... They were a death squad.
Like they’d just done with the Spikes, the Mì-runach would sneak in during the cover of night and slaughter soldiers in their caves. Or they’d burrow underground and strike in the middle of a battle, killing the leaders and then decimating the rest of the army, if necessary. Many dragon soldiers in Her Majesty’s Army considered this type of fighting dishonorable. But to the Mì-runach, who needed honor when there was ale? And pubs? And females to entertain? Who needed rank and orders and rules and a bunch of daily tasks when they could sleep all day and drink all night until called to do what they did best?
It wasn’t rank and power that kept the Mì-runach returning to battle day after day, night after night. The gods knew, it would never be rank. It was the love of blood and battle and destruction. It was knowing that they were the ones their Queen’s enemies feared because they had reason to fear.
“Well?” asked Aidan the Divine, a Gold whose royal family hailed from the Western Mountains.
“We’re heading out for one final task in the Northlands.”
“Oh?”
“Aye. Kill Spike leader Jorgesson’s son, since the boy seems to think he can take his father’s place.”
“Which he probably thought he had to do because we killed Jorgesson.”
“True. Once we’re done with the boy, we’re heading to Dark Plains. Angor wants me to go home for a bit.”
Aidan blinked, dropping the dragon whose neck he’d just crushed. “Home? You?”
“Why do you say it like that? You’ve been away from your kin longer than I have.”
“I loathe my kin as they loathe me.” Aidan slammed his fist into the Spike on the ground although it seemed unnecessary. “You seem to like yours, but I’m not sure you returning home will make that better or worse.”
“I do like them.” Éibhear thought on that a moment. “Well, the females. I like the females . . . mostly.”
Uther the Despicable, a cranky Brown from mountains near the port cities, grunted and snarled—as he snarled at most things—“And what are we doing while you’re playing happy families?” He gritted his fangs and pulled on the legs of the Ice Land dragon he held in his arms. The screaming during this was a tad unpleasant. “Joining another squad?”
“After what you lot did last time?” Éibhear asked.
“That was not my fault!” Caswyn the Butcher argued, yet again. “He shouldn’t have tried to push me around. I may not be some fancy royal, like you and pretty boy over there—”
Aidan grinned. “I am so very pretty.”
“—but that don’t mean some Red bastard can just walk all over me.”
“By ‘walk all over me,’” Éibhear cut in, “do you mean ask you to do your job?”
“Didn’t like his tone, did I?”
“So you tore his arms off.”
Caswyn’s head lowered a bit, his black wings bristling. “Don’t much like your tone either.”
“Yeah, but you already tried to tear Éibhear’s arms off,” Uther reminded him. “You were in a coma for weeks.”
“It was more a deep rest.”
Éibhear rolled his eyes and said, “You all will come with me.”
Uther’s head snapped up. “Will your sisters be there?”
Imitating his eager tone, Éibhear quickly replied, “They will! And so will my father!”
Uther’s face fell. “Oh.”
Reflective, Aidan stroked his chin while pounding his back claw into the head of the Spike lying in front of him. Again . . . still seemed unnecessary as that Spike was already quite dead. “How did your father not become Mì-runach? He seems ruthless enough.”
“Oh, he is,” Éibhear agreed. “But he can take orders.”
“Aaaaah,” the others said.
“So if we go with you,” Caswyn asked. “What do we do?”
Éibhear shrugged. “It’s Garbhán Isle. There’ll be drink and pussy. What more do you need?” Garbhán Isle was the seat of power for the human queen of the Southlands, Annwyl the Bloody. Insane monarch and mate to Éibhear’s eldest brother Fearghus, Annwyl was adored and loathed in equal parts, but to Éibhear she’d simply become one of his sisters.
“Nothing,” Uther said. “But that makes me sad.”
“But first we take care of the Spikes leader in the Northlands.”
His squad groaned.
“What?”
“I’m tired of snow and ice,” Caswyn complained. “I’m tired of shades of purple and white. I want to see grass again. And trees. Birds that aren’t crows.”
“We won’t be in the Northlands long. Just long enough to do a little killing. You lot like killing. Remember?”
“I do remember. But you seem to have forgotten that the Northlanders hate you,” Aidan reminded him.
“Not more than the Ice Landers do.”
“Only because you haven’t been there for the last decade. Trust me, if you had, they’d only hate you more.”
“I want to see my sister Keita. As far as I know she’s still with Ragnar in the Northlands.”
“A little elegance among the barbarians.” Aidan sighed. “I guess that’s worth something.”
“So finish killing this lot,” Éibhear said, gesturing to the Spikes trying to crawl away. He really had to work on that with his team. They disabled, sometimes tortured, then killed, but th
e disabling and torture were just time consuming. They needed to kill faster so they could move to the drinking and females quicker. Honestly, one would think they’d know that already. “Then we head out.”
Éibhear turned, saw a Spike fighting with one of the other squads. He pulled his sword and headed over to assist. Aidan caught up to him.
“Oy,” his friend said.
“What?”
“You know what might be waiting for you back at Garbhán Isle, don’t you?”
“The loving warmth of my mother, the admiration of my father, and the caring of my dear brothers?”
“Are you going to be serious about this?”
Éibhear chuckled, then rammed his sword into the side of the Spike. It was an easier way to attack an Ice Land dragon since they had those bloody spikes going from the top of their heads, down their spines, to the tips of their tails. He twisted the blade while using his free claw to push the Ice Lander down by the side of his neck.
When the dragon took his last breath, Éibhear pulled out his sword, nodded at his fellow squad leader, then faced his friend. “Yeah. I know what might be waiting for me.”
“And?”
“And nothing. That was a long time ago . . . for a human. Besides, I apologized.”
Aidan frowned. “When? You haven’t seen her in nearly ten bloody years.”
“Remember? I sent her a letter.”
“Oh. The letter. Right.” Aidan looked off. “Yeah. I remember. The letter.”
“Although she never did answer me. Rude cow.”
“Yeah. Rude.”
“But I’m sure she’s over it. There was a healthy amount of groveling in that letter. She likes groveling.”
“I’m sure she does.”
“So there’s nothing to worry about.” Éibhear patted his suddenly quiet friend’s shoulder. “We’ll go. We’ll spend some time with my kin. Then hit every pub between Garbhán Isle and the Western Mountains as we go to meet up with Angor and the other squads. It’ll be a lovely holiday that we richly deserve.”
Aidan finally looked at him. “But first the Northlands?”
“First the Northlands. Deal with the new Spikes leader for those poor Lightning bastards.”
“Can we call the Northlanders that when we see them? I’m sure they’ll just love it.”
“Then I’ll check in with Keita before we head south.”
“Check in with Keita while still in the Northlands? Sure that’s wise?”
“Come now,” Éibhear dismissed his friend’s worry. “It’s been ages. I’m sure Ragnar’s forgiven me by now.”
“Right.” Aidan snorted. “I’m sure he has.”
“We challenge you,” the Spikes’ leader had called out, bright white wings extending from his back, white spikes going from his head, down his spine, to the tip of his tail, white and silver hair braided up like a horse’s mane touching the ground. “Let’s decide this now and end it.”
So it had been agreed. The Spike’s champion against theirs. But there were rumors coming in from Ragnar’s spies that all this was merely a fancy ruse. The young leader’s idea to get the Northlanders to think the war was over and head home, so that this leader’s troops and another Spike’s legion could come over territorial lines and into the Northlands unmolested. Because unlike the Spikes, honor was all to the Northland dragons.
And it was true. Honor was all, but not stupidity. Ragnar had already sent word to his contacts in the Ice Lands to stop the second army from crossing into their territory by any means necessary. Knowing that was being handled allowed him to enjoy the champion contest currently going on in front of him.
Ragnar studied the dragon his champion was facing. He was bigger than anything Ragnar had ever seen, easily the size of two castles. Around his neck he wore a necklace made of smaller dragons’ heads and his scales had hardened into an armor of its own, the sound of his heavy breathing rattling the nearby trees. Ragnar wasn’t even sure the dragon could fly anymore. All that weight combined with the stiffness of his scales . . .
“Gods,” Ragnar’s cousin Meinhard whispered next to him. “It’s a cannibal.”
“A what?” Ragnar’s brother, Vigholf, asked.
“A cannibal dragon,” Ragnar clarified. “He eats his own kind. That’s what makes him look like that.”
The cannibal thrust his battle lance, aiming for their champion’s shoulder. There was great power behind that move. Enough to tear open a hole in a small mountain. The lance flashed in the early morning suns as the champion caught that lance in his claw, held it.
Tugging, the cannibal tried to pry it free. He became frustrated and roared. He held out his other claw and someone tossed him a sword. He caught it, swung for the champion’s neck. But the claw that held the sword was caught and held.
Strength battled strength as each male pushed back against the other, but neither budged. Yet the cannibal had no patience; he leaned in, opening his maw. The champion didn’t wait for whatever the cannibal had planned. He unleashed his own flame first, the stream hitting deep inside the cannibal’s throat, choking him. The cannibal released his weapons, and stumbled back.
The champion dropped the weapons and went for his own. A battle axe and a warhammer. He wielded both at the same time, swinging on the cannibal before he had a chance to snap back. The hammer hit him first, ramming into his head, knocking him to one side. The axe followed, attacking the same side, connecting with his shoulder. The blow knocked the cannibal to the ground, trapping several dragons beneath him.
The champion flew over to him, landing hard, and battered at him with both axe and hammer, hitting him mostly in the face and neck and chest until the cannibal roared his rage and rose, knocking the champion off him. He dragged himself up, the champion scrambling back, trying to move out of his way.
Taking in a deep breath, the cannibal again opened his mouth wide, about to unleash a weapon that had nothing to do with steel.
“Shields!” Vigholf yelled out, and they all brought their shields up or stepped in behind a comrade’s.
Ragnar watched the cannibal release neither lightning nor flame nor water nor any of the other weapons that every dragon had within it. But acid. The only other dragon with acid as its natural weapon was the Immortal dragon. The Immortals had been given their weapon by the gods, but it was said that those who ate their own were cursed with acid as their weapon. Stomach acid.
The acid sprayed out, shields sizzling as the hard steel was struck, a large ball of it hurtling toward the champion.
The champion grabbed a shield, lifting it to protect his face and chest, the power of the acid shoving him back, burning through the metal. He dropped the shield, raised his gaze, and charged at the cannibal again. But he suddenly pulled back as another dragon, one covered in the pelts of dead animals, such as Ice Landers were known to wear, dropped between their champion and the Spike’s.
Ragnar looked between his brother and cousin, but they seemed lost as well.
“The trap?” Vigholf asked.
If it was, it was a tragically premature trap. Ragnar still had a full army out here, ready to fight.
The cannibal opened his mouth, ready to unleash more acid, but the mysterious dragon dressed as a barbarian Ice Lander suddenly turned and struck. He rammed his lance into the open mouth of the cannibal, halting his ability to unleash his acid—at least for the moment.
The cannibal was battered to the ground, the stranger using only his giant forearms covered in leather gauntlets. He then raised an oversized steel axe up and over his head in one fluid movement, bringing it down with a mighty force into the cannibal’s giant neck, hacking through those thick scales. And he kept hacking until he’d separated head from spine.
The stranger picked up the head by its hair and held it high for all of them to see, slowly turning once so they could get a good look. Then he pitched it to the ground at the claws of the remaining Spikes, chuckling when the head bounced up and hit the Spike’s leader i
n the snout.
The stranger turned from the Spikes and faced Ragnar and his kin. Talons reached up and pulled the hood of the fur cloak from his head so that braided blue hair spilled out, pieces of leather and animal bone weaved throughout the strands. Just like the Ice Landers wore.
“Maybe this Ice Lander wants to immigrate,” Vigholf suggested. “Not that I blame him. . . . Are those bones in his hair on purpose?”
“I think so. Perhaps it’s a fashion thing. Like Keita and her dresses.”
“Maybe the Ice Landers make you wear bones in your hair.”
The Ice Lander walked over to Ragnar and stopped. “Oy.”
Surprised by his familiar tone, Ragnar frowned, but he quickly caught hold of Meinhard’s arm to stop his cousin from pulling his battle axe and chopping off the Ice Lander’s head for rudeness to the Dragonlord Chief.
“Yes?” Ragnar asked.
“Where’s my sister?”
Ragnar frowned again. “How the hells would I know?”
The Ice Lander blinked. “What did she do? Leave you?” He shrugged. “Well . . . you did last longer than most.”
Completely confused and annoyed, Ragnar released his cousin’s arm so that Meinhard could take the whelp’s head and they could finish this bloody battle with the bloody Spikes and get on with their bloody lives! But a female voice behind them stopped Meinhard from striking.
“Éibhear?”
Ragnar glanced back at Rhona the Fearless, Vigholf’s female, as she moved through the crowd of soldiers, removing the helmet she’d made herself as their lead blacksmith. Most blacksmiths didn’t involve themselves in battles, but Rhona was such a damn good soldier, Ragnar didn’t complain. Vigholf certainly didn’t either—he knew better.
“Éibhear’s here?” Vigholf asked. “Where?”
She pointed at the Ice Lander. “Right there.”
Shocked to his core, Ragnar looked first at his brother, then at his cousin . . . then at the boy. The useless, ridiculous, love-sick boy that they’d summarily dismissed, briefly respected, then had no longer been able to tolerate until the blue dragon’s father had him assigned to some other unit within the Dragon Queen’s army.
