by G. A. Aiken
As Kachka debated how to remove Uther’s human head from his human body, Brannie pulled him away by grabbing the scruff of his chain-mail shirt and yanking him off the tree stump he’d been sharing with Kachka.
“But—”
“No!” Brannie barked. “Don’t speak, Uther. Just go. Go!”
“You females,” he muttered.
“Sorry about that,” Brannie said, carefully touching Kachka’s chin and examining her cheek. “Shame Morfyd’s not here. She could have made you completely scar free.”
“If true, then why does Annwyl have so many scars?”
“Annwyl likes her scars. Fearghus likes her scars, too. They’re a unique couple.” She dropped her hand. “So . . . where are you lot off to next?”
“Do not know. We need to figure out how we move from here. Clearly the cult knows about us.” Kachka blew out a breath. “Annwyl may order us back. She will be disappointed.”
“Are you kidding?” When Kachka just gazed at her, “After the name you lot made for yourselves over the last few months? You’ve pushed the cult out of her territory”—she leaned in and whispered—“and right into King Gaius’s.”
“Name?” Kachka had to ask. She’d been out of touch with everyone from Garbhán Isle since she’d left.
“Yes.” Brannie dropped her travel pack to the ground, squatted next to it, and began digging through it. “The priests and priestesses you’ve saved have been calling you Ghost Saviors.”
Kachka couldn’t hide her disappointment. “Oh.”
“But everyone else has been calling you lot—oh! Here it is.” She stood, a small jar in her hand. “This will help with healing.” She unscrewed the top and dug a large white glob out with her finger. She came at Kachka with whatever that shit was, and Kachka pulled back.
“Come on. Give it a try. It won’t hurt.”
“The rest have been calling us what . . . exactly?”
Brannie briefly glanced away before admitting, “The Scourge of the Gods.”
“What?”
“For their great sins . . . the gods have sent you as punishment.”
“I see.”
“I wouldn’t take it personally, Kachka,” she rambled on, taking Kachka’s silence to mean she was upset and also that she acquiesced to putting that useless cream on her face. “Annwyl gets mad when they call her Annwyl the Bloody, but I don’t know why. A name like that buys one respect. Strangely, she doesn’t mind Mad Bitch of Garbhán Isle, and that one seems a tad rude to me. But,” she kept going, continuing to put that stuff on Kachka’s throbbing wound, “neither of us likes Whore Mother of the Abominations.”
“Because only women can be whores.”
“Not with dragons. We are quick to call out our male whores. Like Gwenvael. My grandfather.”
“You have many whores in your family.”
“I wish I could say we don’t . . . but I’d be lying.” She stepped back. “There. Now don’t you feel better?”
She did, but Kachka wasn’t about to admit it. Instead, she just walked away and appreciated that doing so didn’t seem to offend the She-dragon.
“The Scourge of the Gods,” Gaius said from behind Kachka. “Fancy name you’ve got there.”
“If you knew name, why did you not tell me?”
“I’m a royal. I was trained to only reveal so much excitement. But Brannie is still a young dragon. She can happily reveal all to everyone without concern. I thought you deserved that.”
“We should camp together!” Brannie suggested. She had a spear in her hands and was moving through the fallen soldiers, finishing off any who still breathed with a quick jab to the back of the neck or to the heart. “It’ll be fun! But let’s move away from this smell. It’s getting a bit over—gods! Caswyn! Stop eating! I can’t think with all that bloody crunching!”
“But I’m still hungry!”
After eating her dinner, Annwyl was lounging on her throne, deep into a fascinating book about the wars between the Southland dragons and the Irons, when she saw her daughter walk quickly into the Great Hall. Talwyn leaned down and whispered to Elina. The Rider’s eyes grew wide and she abruptly walked out; Celyn and Talwyn went after her.
A minute or so after that, Talwyn returned, quickly moving over to Dagmar. They spoke in whispers until Dagmar stood and together they rushed out, with Morfyd, Briec, and Keita right behind them—leaving a table with fresh food behind.
Dragons didn’t leave fresh food unless it was important, and Annwyl briefly debated going outside to see what was happening. If it was important, though, wouldn’t someone tell her? Of course they would. So why bother getting up?
But the voices became louder, angrier, ruining the quiet enjoyment of her book. Sighing loudly, Annwyl marked her place, set the book carefully on the floor beside her throne, and stood. She walked over to a far wall and studied her options. With a shrug, she pulled off the battle axes that once belonged to Fearghus’s uncle Addolgar. She took a few practice swings, liked the weight. This was a giant steel axe covered in ancient dragon runes that could be used by a dragon in human form. When it was hit at the right angle at the base of the handle, it would extend to a weapon that could easily be used by Addolgar in his true form.
But since one of his nieces had become an amazing blacksmith who created weapons that could go from human-sized to dragon-sized with no more than the thought of its handler, Addolgar and many of the Cadwaladrs had given Annwyl their old weapons to decorate the house walls. She liked how such mighty steel looked on her walls . . . and the very direct message they conveyed.
Now, with this battle axe in hand, she walked outside into what was quickly spiraling into a very ugly fight.
The strangers sat on their almost-too-tiny-for-their-size horses and glared down at Dagmar and Brastias, completely ignoring Elina, who stood three steps up from them. Keita and Briec stood on one side of Brastias. Keita with her arms crossed over her chest, bare toes tapping, and Briec appearing beyond bored, occasionally yawning. But both quite ready to unleash their collective flames, which could take down most of the courtyard and all the humans within it. And on the other side of Dagmar was Morfyd, appearing concerned that everything would get out of control. She hated that. She liked things nice and orderly.
And, behind them all, a getting-angrier-by-the-second Talwyn, who paced the top of the stairs like a caged jungle cat.
“You will not see the queen,” Brastias said in his best commander cadence, usually only used before he destroyed an entire village of orcs. “You will do nothing but leave. Now.”
“We do not waste time talking to something as useless as man,” the tallest of the invaders informed Brastias, dark blond and grey hair a wild riot of curls and braids that reached down her back. “Be gone from my sight before I turn you into my dog’s pet.”
“Then you will talk to me,” Dagmar informed them.
“What is tiny Northwoman doing here? Did your men free you from your bonds? Or did you sneak away like weak female you were born to be?”
“She is away from controlling Northmen for two minutes,” said another with short hair that exposed every scar on her face and neck—and wow, were there a lot. Had she purposely walked into every edged weapon she’d ever come upon? “And now she thinks she can talk to women with actual power like she has any of her own. That is funny. Laugh with me, sisters!”
“No laughing,” Dagmar ordered, “just go.”
“Nika Kolesova—” Elina began, but the lead Rider quickly cut her off.
“Elina Shestakova, we are so glad you are not dead. We were sure when your own mother ripped the eye from your head . . . you were. But your general weakness makes you unworthy of speaking to someone of our glory, so stop talking to me.”
“Oy!” Celyn barked.
The woman’s blue eyes cut over to him. Annwyl knew immediately the Rider didn’t realize that she was talking to dragons as well as humans. So when she looked at Celyn, all she saw was a man, which she m
ade clear when she told him, “And you have penis, so do not make me cut it off.”
Talwyn’s hands balled into fists at that, and she glanced at Briec, gesturing to the three Riders. “I’m going back inside to finish my meal,” she ground out between clenched teeth, reminding Annwyl of Fearghus. “Briec and Keita, kill them all. Don’t leave a mess.”
“Wait,” Annwyl stated before Briec and Keita could—because they would—kill them all. They were both already taking in breaths to unleash their flames.
“Annwyl, let us handle this,” Brastias said.
“No need, old friend.”
She walked past Dagmar and Brastias, big, long-handled axe still in her hand.
“Annwyl,” Dagmar argued, “they’re here to kill you.”
“No. They’re not.”
Annwyl walked around the horses of the three Riders to the fourteen men and young boys they had chained behind them. Men and boys whom Annwyl was sure the three Riders had picked up along the way. The way Annwyl might pick up stray puppies while on a campaign.
The males cowered away from her, and Annwyl didn’t bother saying anything to calm them down. Sadly, her reputation as a murdering queen always seemed to precede her, so she didn’t bother to argue the point these days. That always just seemed to upset people more. Instead, Annwyl gripped Addolgar’s old weapon in both hands and swung it over her head. She brought it down on the chains, breaking them.
She pointed toward one of the guard barracks. “You’ll find someone in there to remove the rest of the chains and give you fresh clothes and food. Go. Now. We’ll find a way to get you home later.”
The boys and men ran off, and Annwyl faced the Riders watching her. “First rule in my kingdom, no slaves.”
“They were not slaves. They were future husbands for our daughters and granddaughters.”
“Your daughters and granddaughters can get their own husbands. Preferably ones mutually chosen by both parties.”
“Why would we do that? As queen—if you are—you must know men are too stupid and emotional to make their own decisions.”
“No, actually, I don’t know that.”
Annwyl rested the axe over her shoulder. “Rule number two.” She gestured to Dagmar. “This is my Battle Lord, Dagmar Reinholdt.” She pointed at Brastias. “And this is my General Commander. They speak for me when I’m not available. And mostly when I’m available and don’t want to be bothered—which is kind of right now.”
“You give man position of power? And such a tiny, weak-looking woman?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because he earned it. In blood. And Dagmar Reinholdt is the Beast of the Northlands.”
The lead Rider shook her head and said to the females with her, “I do not know, sisters. Perhaps our Pee-Wee was wrong. This tiny human queen, who gives honor to worthless men and weak-armed women, cannot give us our glorious deaths on the field of battle while at her side.”
“Perhaps not,” Annwyl cut in, lifting the axe off her shoulders and slapping the other end of the handle, beneath the blade, into her free hand, “but I can give you your glorious death right here.”
“Annwyl.” Morfyd raised her eyebrows in warning. “Calm. And rational. Remember?”
Dagmar snorted and Annwyl glared at her friend. “What does that snort mean?”
“Nothing,” Dagmar stated with that wide-eyed innocence that made Annwyl want to slap her against the head! She didn’t—it would be unseemly—but gods, did she want to!
She refocused on the Riders. “Look, I understand you’re all from a different . . .” She struggled to find the right word, and Celyn provided it.
“Culture.”
“Yeah. Right. That. But that doesn’t mean you lot can come in here and start ordering everyone around like you—gods-damn it, Gwenvael!” Annwyl shouted when she heard the damn dragon climbing the side of her house, his talons crunching into the precious—and extremely expensive!—stone that she did not want to hire yet another stonemason to fix.
Eyes wide, everyone turned and looked at the house, then back to Annwyl. She knew they couldn’t see him. As Rhi had once told Annwyl when Rhi was still a young girl, “Uncle Gwenvael is a chameleon. He can blend into anything. He creeps around here all the time. So when you think you hear him and sense him moving around . . . you do. You’re absolutely not insane. No matter what Daddy says.”
So even though no one else could see him, Annwyl knew he was there. So she pointed her axe in the general direction she figured he was in, and warned, “Fuck up that stone again, and I will rip the head from your shoulders!”
Annwyl heard a repressed little chuckle and knew she was right, but she didn’t bother to explain that to her kin. What was the point? So instead she simply screamed at him, “Stop laughing at me!”
“Mum?” Talwyn asked, the Riders seemingly forgotten.
“What?”
Talwyn shook her head at Annwyl’s bark. “Nothing.”
Annwyl now pointed that axe at the three Riders, briefly wondering why they sort of leaned back in their saddles—and away from her. “Now you three, if you stay, then you follow my rules and you listen to these people when they tell you things. And yes,” she said when one of them opened her mouth, “that includes the ones with penises. And if you decide to go . . . then good day to you, it was nice having you.”
Annwyl forced a smile—Fearghus always told her she had a pretty smile—but that only seemed to disturb the Riders more, so she dropped the pretense and returned to her throne and her gods-damn book.
Dagmar wasn’t sure what the Riders would do after all that. She knew what she would have done if she didn’t know Annwyl as she did and hadn’t come to Garbhán Isle under the protection of Gwenvael the Handsome.... She would have bloody left.
But the lead Rider, the one called Nika, simply smiled at her sisters and announced, “She is quite mad, sisters! Our potential deaths will be glorious!”
“Then let us join the Mad Queen and seal our fate!” cried another.
“I am so happy we listened to our sweet Pee-Wee!” announced the third.
“Pee-Wee?” Dagmar softly asked Celyn.
“Zoya Kolesova,” he replied. “They call her Pee-Wee.”
And, as they stepped off their poor, beleaguered mounts, Dagmar understood why.
Fearghus came around the corner of the building, his attention focused on one of the scrolls in his hand. He walked between the Riders, but stopped and lifted his head. He looked at the three women before focusing on Dagmar. “When did we start inviting giants to the house?”
“Not giants. Riders. They are the—”
“I can’t,” he quickly cut in, “listen to those endless names.”
Focusing again on the scroll in his hands, he began to walk up the stairs, which was when one of the Riders leaned forward and slapped his ass.
Briec and Keita made a quick and poor attempt at stifling their laughter while Morfyd quickly rushed to her brother’s side and led him up the stairs. “Dinner’s ready, brother. Come, let’s eat.”
Fearghus looked back at the Rider and in reply, she winked at him . . . and leered. That’s when Morfyd yanked him up the stairs.
Dagmar waited until Fearghus was inside, along with the others, before she told the Riders, “And don’t do that unless the man asks you to—and I’m sure some will.”
One of the Riders snorted. “I see we will suffer like saints while we are here, sisters. Making us clean for our glorious deaths.”
“It is price we will pay for such honor,” Nika promised. She pointed at one of the stables. “Come. Let us trap the horses in that tiny box so they can eat and have water.”
Dagmar watched the Riders as they walked their horses to “that tiny box.” When they were gone, she finally looked at the stone wall of the house. “Your timing was perfect.”
Gwenvael appeared, no longer blending with the stone he gripped his talons to. “I know. Nothing makes de
ar Annwyl crazier than dealing with that poor stonemason.”
He shifted to human and landed nimbly on his big feet. Naked, he walked over to Dagmar and leaned down and kissed her. When he pulled back, he said, “She always worries me more when she’s calm and rational but still holding a weapon. She needed a little insanity to distract her from their insults. Do you think more Riders will be coming?”
“No. Zoya Kolesova—from what I heard—only told her three eldest sisters to come and fight for Annwyl. Those three are more than seven hundred years old and have nearly three hundred offspring between them.” Dagmar winced. “My womb throbs at the thought.”
“Don’t worry. I think we have more than enough offspring.”
Gwenvael glanced back at the wall and whistled. “Come on, you lot. Time for dinner.”
Like their father, The Five appeared. And, like their father, they were hanging from the wall. But they weren’t dragons; they were human and fully dressed, which meant they could appear or disappear on a whim rather than simply being able to blend into their surroundings as their father could.
The Five dropped to the ground and ran into the Great Hall. Dagmar glanced around before asking her mate, “Can Arlais do that?”
He shook his head. “No. Why?”
“Why do you think?”
“Oh, come now. I doubt she’d ever try to kill you . . . until she’s at least eighteen winters.”
“That gives me such comfort,” Dagmar growled, pushing past Gwenvael and returning to her rapidly cooling meal.
Chapter Twenty-One
The Khoruzhaya siblings hunted down several boar and, after seasoning the carcasses, Aidan cooked them with his flame.
The meal was hearty and the discussion pleasant. Even when Kachka tried to goad Gaius into a fight about returning the Quintilian Sovereigns Empire to a republic. A concept that Gaius didn’t actually hate. Although under Thracius’s rule, dragons and men had been crucified for even suggesting such a thing.
Still, no matter how hard she might try, Kachka could not get him upset. How could she when he was happy just to see her?
