by G. A. Aiken
“What’s wrong?” She gently rested her hands on his arm and he jumped back from her as if scalded. “Gwenvael, what is it?”
“Nothing. We have to go. She calls.”
“Not until we take you to a healer.”
“No human healer can help me.” He pulled her around a dark corner. “When I shift, get on my back.”
“You can’t do this here. Everyone will see.”
“They’ll only see you and only if they look hard. If we move fast enough, we can do this.”
“But Gwenvael—”
“Don’t argue with me,” he snapped, but then his voice calmed. “Please. Just do as I say.”
She had no choice. “All right.”
He walked away from her, and she watched as flames surrounded his body. When the flames died, he was dragon again.
“Now.”
She rushed to his side and grabbed hold of his mane. His tail lifted her from behind, seating her on his back. His wings moved, and they were airborne.
A few people looked up, frowning at the sight of a woman apparently flying above the city, but by the time they blinked and looked again, she’d disappeared into the clouds.
Rhiannon flipped through another ancient tome she’d found buried in the back of the royal archives. This area was for the scholars, witches, and mages. Unlike many dragons she knew, Rhiannon never cared much about learning for learning’s sake. She was a scholar only because it was necessary to be one as a witch. To be quite honest, she found this sort of research deadly boring. Yet she didn’t have much time and she knew it.
Annwyl’s body was simply not made to carry the kind of offspring she was near giving birth to. For those, like Rhiannon, who could see the tendrils of Magick wherever they looked, the power surrounding Annwyl almost blinded the Dragonwitch. For someone like Rhiannon, an actual birth of this kind would have exhausted her human body, but her natural, Magick-infused defenses would have most likely kept her healthy. But Annwyl was a true human warrior. There was absolutely no Magick inside her. No otherworldly skills that had been kept dormant until now. Her gift was her rage. The power of it was like a sudden storm that could wipe out an entire village in a night.
In the end, it was this pureness of Annwyl’s spirit and strong will that attracted those around her, from the lowliest peasant soldier to the heirs of Rhiannon’s throne.
Yet knowing all that hadn’t helped Rhiannon find a way to assist the human queen. She’d brought in the best and even the most controversial Dragonmages she knew of throughout the land. Even now, they researched and toiled in other caverns of the archives and library, trying to find a way to help Annwyl.
Rhiannon flipped to the last page and slammed the book shut. Another useless piece of Centaur crap, she thought, tossing the book into the pile on her left while her tail grabbed hold of another tome from the pile on her right.
“You’re up late this eve, my queen.”
As much as Rhiannon wanted to sigh and flop dramatically to the ground as Gwenvael always did when something bored him beyond all hope, she simply gave a small smile and answered, “Yes, yes, Elder Eanruig. Much to do.”
“Right. Before the birth of those children.” He walked across the room to one of the shelves, his tail slithering along behind him. He’d never seemed to have much control over that thing. Not the way most of her kind did. She couldn’t help but equate it to some lowly snake slithering across the ground, hoping to dine on whatever pile of shit it happened to find along the way. “We really must discuss what we’ll do with them once they’re born.”
Rhiannon looked up, not liking the sound of that statement at all. “Do with them?”
“Yes.” He grabbed something off the shelf and turned to face her, his tail scooting behind him. She was surprised it didn’t rattle as it moved. “The Elders and Your Majesty must discuss where the offspring will be taken once they’re born.”
“Taken? Why would they be taken anywhere?”
“You can’t seriously be considering allowing a human to raise them?”
“A human and my son, Elder Eanruig. And since the offspring will be both human and dragon this only makes—”
“Your son, my queen, is hardly the type to raise anyone’s offspring. Especially his own.”
The metal tip of Rhiannon’s tail that she sharpened at least once, if not twice, a day, scraped across the stone cavern floor. “I’m not sure as to your meaning, Elder.”
He walked toward her. He was an old Gold dragon, his golden hair nearly white with age, his scales no longer bright and clear but dull and worn. Though the more she’d gotten to know this dragon, the less she believed age had anything to do with it. Bercelak’s father was nearly nine-hundred years when he’d passed on and he’d been as beautiful then as he’d been when she’d first met him. He’d definitely aged, but he’d never lost his energy or his love of nearly everything. Eanruig the Scholarly, however, had none of that to lose. He lived his life in books and believed in the strict boundaries of bloodlines.
To him, her mother Queen Adienna had been perfect simply because she’d mated someone of her equal. Rhiannon lost that potential for perfection when she was Claimed by Bercelak, a low-born dragon of the Cadwaladr Clan. A breed of warrior dragon that fucked, fed, and fought. From when she was a young hatchling, Rhiannon had heard the Cadwaladrs referred to as the battle dogs of the dragon royals. And that was how Adienna had treated them. Wars in far-off lands that needed no finesse or a ready truce? Send in the Cadwaladrs! Need a siege to last until the final starving body was dragged from the fortress ten years from now? Send in the Cadwaladrs!
More importantly, though, the Cadwaladrs didn’t mind. As long as they could continue to fuck, feed, and fight, they didn’t care where you sent them or what you expected them to do.
Yet what Eanruig forgot—what all the self-important royals always forgot: never fuck with the Cadwaladrs’ kin. Their bloodline may not be royal, but they protected it as any battle dog would protect its pups.
And Annwyl and Fearghus’s offspring were Cadwaladr bloodline.
The Elder she hated above all others now stood beside her, smirking down at her.
“You know exactly what I mean, my queen. Your son has betrayed his kind by Claiming this human girl and the gods have cursed them with these…these…aberrations. Unfortunately, there is nothing we can do about that now, except take control of the situation before it gets any worse. The Council will decide the best way for those offspring to be raised.” He leaned in a bit closer, and Rhiannon fought her body’s desire to tear him apart, scale by gods-damn scale. “And I do hope you didn’t send that foolish hatchling of yours—Gwenvael, I believe—into the north simply so he can start some minor war and you can take control of the Council. I strongly suggest a move such as that would be very unwise.”
Rhiannon was moments from slapping the smirk off Eanruig’s smug face when a tail much larger and deadlier than her own slammed down between the two of them. The book in Eanruig’s claws fell to the ground, startled from his grasp. Rhiannon couldn’t hold back her smile as Bercelak’s head slowly eased around from behind Eanruig.
“Lord Bercelak.”
My, she did enjoy how weak the Elder’s voice suddenly sounded.
“Elder Eanruig. Something I can help you with?”
“No, no. Just a small chat with our queen.”
“Chat’s over, prissy tail. Piss off.”
Eanruig gave a small nod at Rhiannon. “My queen.”
“Elder.”
They watched as Eanruig slithered out of the archives.
When they knew he was gone, Bercelak turned back to her. “Why will you not unleash me on him?”
She wrapped her tail around his, tugging him closer. “Because I can’t afford for you to kill him. He’d love his death to cause a civil war among my court. I won’t let that happen. Now why are you here? You’re supposed to be in the west.”
“I was. And Addolgar and Ghleanna are coming
, handpicking the squads that will come with them. They’ll be leaving in the next day or two with Éibhear, but I wanted to be home with you tonight.”
“You left Éibhear alone with them?”
“Ghleanna’s taking care of him. Besides, it’s time he learns he won’t always have his mother around to coddle him.”
“I don’t coddle him. And Ghleanna’s mean.”
“I know.” He brushed his claw across her cheek. “You look tired.”
“I am. Eanruig took what energy I had left, right out of me.”
“Then it is time you return to our chamber.” He grabbed her claw in his and led her toward the exit. “We’ll play ‘Does my tail fit in here?’”
Rhiannon laughed. “I adore that game!”
Gwenvael heard her again, the voice soft and sweet in his head. So sweet, he could go to sleep simply listening to it. It lured him, and he no longer knew where he might be.
“Gwenvael,” she said again. “Follow my voice. Come to me, Gwenvael.”
He had the distinct feeling he wasn’t going the right way, but his eyesight seemed to be failing, which couldn’t be a good thing. Nor was he breathing too well. What made it worse was that he was thousands of leagues above the earth with a fragile human on his back.
Still that voice kept calling to him. “Gwenvael. Sweet, sweet Gwenvael.”
Those bastard Lightnings had done more to him than he’d realized. He could feel poison moving through his body like warm water.
Dagmar. He needed to take Dagmar home, where she would be safe. Yet he couldn’t ignore that voice.
“Gwenvael!”
Those weren’t the same dulcet tones luring him into a false sense of security. It was much too screechy and panicked.
“What?” he asked Dagmar.
“Mountain.”
“What?”
“Mountain! Mountain! Mountain!”
He swerved as the word Dagmar kept repeating made sense, the tip of his left wing grazing against the mountainside as he barely missed it.
Which mountains were these? If he could figure that out, he’d know where they were and the direction to take to get her home.
“You need to set us down,” she yelled over the roaring wind.
“When I get you home,” he promised. “Any idea where that is?”
“How the hell would I know?”
“That’s a bit of a problem. ’Cause right now I can’t see too well. Maybe I can borrow those spectacles of yours.”
“Blasted reason! Set us down then!”
“That would be a good idea, but…”
“But? But what?”
He didn’t answer her, simply dodged to the left, lightning strikes grazing his wing.
“Someone’s behind us!”
“I sensed that,” he said. More Lightnings, but not the ones who’d helped him from the tunnels. Who were those Lightnings anyway? And why had they helped him?
And maybe he should worry about that later when he wasn’t in the middle of a fight with a different set of Lightnings bent on killing him.
“I need you to hold on,” he told Dagmar. “Don’t let go.”
“What do you mean ‘don’t let go’?”
Again, he didn’t answer her, simply jerked around and raised himself up. Dagmar screamed in panic, and he unleashed his flame on those behind him. The Lightnings scrambled out of the way and Gwenvael moved forward, slamming himself into the closest one. Once he made contact, Gwenvael rolled against the other’s body until he felt the sheath against his arm. He reached out and grasped the blade attached to the dragon’s back. Yanking it free, he swung forward and then back. The blade, perfectly maintained and delightfully sharp, cut through the owner’s neck Lightning was released from another, and Gwenvael tucked his wings in. His body dropped and he was glad to hear Dagmar’s healthy scream again. That meant she hadn’t fallen to her death yet. He was quite relieved.
The Lightnings moved in closer and Gwenvael’s wings snapped out from his body, quickly lifting him. He let loose another round of flame and dove through it—fast enough, he hoped, to keep Dagmar unharmed—while arcing the sword up and across. The blade lodged into a Lightning’s body and stayed there, but at least the damage had been done. He let go, and the sword and body fell to the ground below.
“Gwenvael!”
He moved based merely on the way her voice sounded, twisting to his side and reaching out. His claws wrapped around the shaft of a spear but not before it tore into his chest, just below his collarbone.
Gwenvael roared in pain and fury, the spear twisting in deeper. Keeping one claw gripped onto the spear, he used his other arm and snapped the shaft in the middle. The Lightning tried to drag the broken shaft from him; Gwenvael knew well enough that would be the end of him and Dagmar. So he used what strength he still possessed and yanked the shaft from the purple claws desperately clinging to it. Once he had it in his grasp, he turned the broken end out, lowered it, and brought it up again in one swift jab.
The shaft pierced the Lightning’s soft underbelly, Gwenvael silently thanking the gods his challengers didn’t have their battle armor on.
The Lightning bellowed in pain and grabbed hold of Gwenvael’s shoulders. Desperate, Gwenvael twisted the broken shaft again and again, digging it in deeper until the Lightning dropped against him.
His strength gone, Gwenvael couldn’t even push the big oaf away from him and together they plummeted to the ground. The Lightning on top, Gwenvael underneath him.
But he somehow heard it. As his eyesight went dark and his brain struggled to think, he heard it. Screaming. A woman screaming.
Dagmar.
He was mere feet from the ground when he rolled over, the Lightning now beneath him. His tail lashed out, winding around her waist and lifting her seconds before they all crashed into the hard, unforgiving earth.
Brastias woke the second Morfyd’s body jolted beside his. He reached for her but she was already scrambling across the bed.
“No, no, no, no,” she kept chanting over and over.
“Morfyd?”
She stumbled naked to the door and pulled it open, standing there as if waiting for something. Knowing she must be freezing since she was often chilled in her human form, he grabbed a fur from the bed and moved in behind her, wrapping it around her.
“What is it, love? What’s wrong?”
The door to Annwyl’s room opened and Fearghus stalked into the hallway. For Morfyd’s sake, Brastias would normally move out of sight, but the look on the dragon’s face pinned him to the spot. The siblings stared at each other until Briec jogged up the stairs, stopping on the landing and gazing at his kin.
“Well?” Briec demanded.
Morfyd pulled away from Brastias, tugging the fur tight around her. “I don’t know.”
“How could you not know?”
“Don’t bark at her.” Fearghus went to his sister, pulled her into his arms. “I’m sure we’d all know if Gwenvael was…” He closed his eyes, kissed the top of his sister’s head. “I’m sure he’ll be fine.”
“The pain, Fearghus. He was in so much pain.”
“I know. I felt it too.” He scowled at Briec in warning, and his younger brother walked over and patted his sister’s shoulder.
“Don’t worry. He’s Gwenvael. He gets into trouble, he gets out of it.”
“All right?” Fearghus asked softly.
“Aye.” She stepped back, rubbed her forehead. “And now I’ve got Mother screeching in my head. I need some wine.” She walked past her brothers and down the stairs.
Leaving Brastias there alone, forgotten…and naked.
Fearghus noticed him first. Brastias had only seen that glower on the dragon’s face once before. When Annwyl had gone off to Devenallt Mountain for the first time and had told the dragon nothing. Brastias didn’t like the glower then, and he hated it more now.
Briec’s frown was much more threatening, somehow. Maybe because he looked so astounded as w
ell as angry. Not a good combination. Startling anything that breathes fire was always a bad idea in Brastias’s estimation.
“Our…sister?” Fearghus growled.
“Our baby sister?” Briec snarled.
“She’s two-hundred-and-fifty-two-years old.”
“Our innocent baby sister?” Briec went on, ignoring him.
Innocent? No. Probably best not to dispute them on that point.
Brastias shrugged. “I love her.”
Briec shrugged back. “Then we’re just going to have to kill you.”
Talaith walked up the stairs, stopping in the same place Briec had. She studied the three of them before asking, “What’s going on?”
“He’s defiling our sister,” both brothers said.
“Of course he is. And from what I understand, she’s enjoying every second of it, so leave him be.”
Briec glared at his mate. “You knew?”
Understanding he only had one chance, Brastias quickly cut in, “Did Briec mention he’s ready to release Izzy for combat duty?”
The brothers went rigid. Fearghus’s eyes wide, while Briec closed his own and cringed.
Talaith gaped at the three of them as her mind tried to understand his words. “They…you…uh…” She shook her head. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”
“You bastard,” Briec whispered.
“You drove me to it.”
“Briec?”
He let out a breath and faced Talaith. “I know you’re not ready to hear this, Talaith, but—well, don’t walk away!”
After Briec disappeared in pursuit of Talaith, Fearghus said, “Nicely played, human.” He headed back to the rooms he shared with Annwyl. “But once Talaith is done giving Briec a brand new anus with her fist and we know whether Gwenvael is dead or not…we’ll be back.”
Brastias didn’t doubt that for a moment.
It was his strange and invasive tail that had saved her life, holding Dagmar up and away as they crashed into the ground.
