Dragon’s Call: Dystopian Fantasy

by Ann Gimpel

  “We are, but probably not strong enough. All we need are a few more griffons or trolls or other monsters to crawl out of the dirt.” He blew out a tired sounding breath. “They’ll figure out damned fast we want to cut them off from their playground, and they’ll pull out all the stops to keep their portals wide open.”

  “Maybe the dragons would help—” I began.

  The doors to the council chamber slammed open. “Ye dinna strike me as someone who’d be waiting for an invitation to enter,” Gwydion said sourly.

  “We were talking,” I told him.

  He turned on his heel and stalked into the room. Despite years of disuse, it was lovely. Light reflected through crystalline windows, casting colorful shadows on an enormous marble table. Ringed by benches and chairs, it could have seated forty.

  Mother stood in her customary spot near its head, and I wasn’t surprised to see her cauldron. The thing followed her everywhere. Steam rose from it, and the hissing sound of bubbling liquid was loud in the cavernous hall.

  Bjorn and I walked into the room, pulling the great doors shut behind us. Better than three meters tall, they were carved with likenesses of animals, mythical and otherwise. When I was a child, sometimes the carvings came alive if I looked at them long enough. A great stag had started to detach once and scared the living hell out of me.

  “Did you come to any decisions?” I asked as I covered the distance to the front of the table where all of them were milling about. No one was sitting, which spoke to how exasperated everyone was.

  “About?” Arawn raised one dark brow.

  “For starters,” Bjorn took over, “since one of yours broke Midgard, what assistance are you willing to provide to at least attempt to stem the tide of wickedness?”

  “If Odin requires our assistance, he can request it.” Ceridwen glanced up from the boiling mess in front of her. It was hard for me to look at her for very long, probably because we’re so much alike. Same height. Same build. Same hair. Same eyes. She favored hunting leathers, which have never been a favorite of mine. I find them hot and itchy.

  Today, though, she was garbed in robes like the men. Hers was a deep violet shade sashed in teal. A copper ankh set with rubies hung from a golden chain around her neck, and her hair had been pulled into a simple bun low on her neck.

  “Odin doesn’t know you were behind the Breaking,” Bjorn said. “An omission I will correct as soon as I return.”

  “Ye doona want to do that, son,” Gwydion said.

  “I don’t?” Bjorn sent a “yeah right” look at the master enchanter.

  “War between us and the Norse gods willna make things better.” His words were smooth and laced with coercion.

  “Ye doona have to live here.” I mimicked his brogue. “If Midgard fails, the other eight worlds willna be far behind. The One Tree will sunder, and goddess only knows what impact that will have. Even on the distant borderworld ye call home.”

  Ceridwen had been chanting softly in the background. It was irritating as hell. I strode to where she bent over the cauldron and dropped my phony Scottish inflection. “Stop that,” I hissed.

  It took a moment for her to look up. When she did, fury shot from her eyes. “So we have come full circle, have we, child? Where ye tell me what to do? I think not.”

  “You lost the right to call me child long ago. You were a spoiled brat after you couldn’t abort me—and don’t bother to insult my intelligence by denying you tried. I’ve moved on. I don’t care about the rest of it. What did the cauldron predict? Why did Bjorn’s name send you off into a cursing fit?” I gripped the edges of the table, ready to stand there all day if need be.

  “Before you answer,” Bjorn cut in, “does Odin suspect there’s a prophecy with me dead in its center?”

  “If he does, the knowledge dinna spring from us,” Gwydion muttered.

  “Aye since we dinna know about it,” Arawn added and shot a black look Mother’s way.

  I glanced from him to Gwydion and back. “Mother parleys with Odin. She hired him to hunt me down—a bounty as it were. Once I was found, she neglected to pay him.”

  “How do ye know of this?” Gwydion’s words arrived the same moment a truth net dropped over my head.

  I welcomed it and tossed my shoulders back, standing tall. “The Hunt showed up near my home. Worked out well for Odin since he’d been searching for me. We struck a bargain, so the Hunt would leave a young witch alone. In exchange for her freedom, Odin tasked me with locating Mother, said she’d taken something that was rightfully his. He gave me two days, but I didn’t need that long. Once I found her, she dragged me back here to Inverlochy. Odin showed up and said something about the errant spawn having been located and for her to pay up. Do you need to hear more?” I asked sweetly.

  The netting shattered around me, dropping onto the marble floor with little clicking sounds. Gwydion glided to Ceridwen’s side. “What else have ye not told us, Sister?” He emphasized the last word until it sounded more like blasphemy than a familial endearment.

  “Many things. I doona answer to you.” She tilted her chin at a defiant angle.

  “Aye, but ye do when your actions bring disgrace on your Celtic blood,” Arawn’s voice was low, smooth, dangerous. “What did ye see in yon kettle?”

  “I see many things.”

  Arawn crossed to her so fast all I saw was a blur. He gripped her shoulder. “Specifically, Ceridwen, Celtic Seer, what did ye see that relates to Bjorn Nighthorse—and your half-dragon daughter?”

  I kept my expression as neutral as I could. He’d just tendered a formal request, one Celtic god to another. Mother couldn’t refuse him without penalty. Just what those consequences were comprised of had never been clear to me, but it didn’t matter. What did was Mother would be motivated to talk.

  Maybe Bjorn and I could use the information to save Midgard.

  Ceridwen took a step back from her kettle. After a wave of her hand and a power word, the large, black, cast-iron pot vanished with a cracking noise as if it had been sucked into a vacuum.

  “I may not have been a candidate for Mother of the Year,” she aimed her words at me, “but neither was I as horrible as ye’ve depicted me. After ye left, I assumed ye’d return. I gave it plenty of time. When ye dinna show any signs of reclaiming your rightful spot with the rest of us, I cast a small spell to push you in the proper direction.”

  “Small spell?” I rolled my eyes. “Like fuck it was small.”

  “Were ye always so rude? I wasna finished.”

  I clacked my teeth together to keep from blurting out no matter what weak suck excuse she came up with, I would always hold her responsible for the Breaking.

  “Please continue,” Bjorn invited in a tone that could have meant anything.

  “At least one of you has manners,” Mother muttered. “The casting got away from me.” Her nostrils flared. “Go ahead. Test my words with a truth spell. The harder I tried to regain control of it, the larger the schism grew. Finally, I gave it up for a lost cause and suggested we move the pantheon off world. No one seemed to mind.”

  “Aye, but we did,” Gwydion said. “It might have helped if ye’d been forthright about exactly how the world broke. If we’d addressed the problem with our combined magics when it was fresh, we’d have made a difference.”

  Ceridwen shrugged. “Spilt milk, Brother.”

  “Just because you did a bad thing that was far worse than your original plans scarcely excuses you,” I said.

  “Say what ye will, ’tis still spilt milk,” Mother retorted. The air around her developed a shimmery aspect.

  “You’re not going anywhere,” I said.

  “In this case, I agree with your spawn,” Arawn growled. “What did ye see in that kettle of yours?”

  “Many things I see never come to pass.”

  “I ken that part,” the god of the dead’s voice was as chilly as the souls he tended.

  “If you saw anything that relates to me, I would know w
hat it is,” Bjorn spoke firmly.

  “Ye have your own seers. Ask them.”

  “Christ, Mother. And you accused me of being rude,” I sputtered. “What is it about people befriending me? Being kind to me? Somehow it offends you, and you do your level best to shit all over them. Like the witches. They never did anything to you. For me, they provided all the things you never did. Love. Succor. Fellowship. They took me in. Accepted me without questions. Supported me.”

  I paused long enough to take a breath. My throat was unpleasantly thick, and I hated that her indifference still grated. Bjorn dropped a steadying hand lightly on my shoulder.

  “Ye are still under a geas to answer me,” Arawn told my mother. “If ye demur, ye will face the punishment of my choice.”

  She didn’t even look rattled as she arched her red brows. “Really? And what do ye have in mind?”

  “A few centuries in a cage with the dead.”

  “Where ye can visit me at will?” she sneered.

  “Ye flatter yourself. I’d not visit at all. Talk or be banished.”

  Bjorn’s hand slid down my arm until he clasped my hand, offering silent support.

  I waited, more curious than anything. What would Mother decide? She was immortal and might not mind a few hundred years underground.

  Next to me, Bjorn stiffened and angled his head to one side, listening. I pricked my ears to greater sensitivity, but nothing reached me. “Hold up,” he said in Norse. “We shall have company presently.”

  “I sense no one,” Arawn growled.

  Gwydion tapped his staff on the ground. It went from glowing white to a pale bluish tinge. “I do. Probably for the best. Odin will be here quite soon”—his eyes rounded in surprise—“with a dragon.”

  “Two dragons,” Bjorn corrected him.

  The magic shimmering around Mother swirled faster. “Don’t let her leave,” I shouted.

  Quicker than I could follow, Arawn moved behind her. When he stepped away, a finely woven silvery cord bound her wrists. I tried to find it within me to feel sorry for Mother, to have some compassion, but I came up short.

  Chapter Nineteen, Bjorn

  I’d almost forgotten sending an emergency message to Nidhogg. Apparently, it had gotten through, and he’d rounded up Odin. I was almost certain the second dragon was Ysien, and I would have given a lot to know his connection to Nidhogg. All dragons are related at some level, but there had to be a specific reason they’d paired up.

  I’d cast a few sidelong glances Ceridwen’s way. Her resemblance to Rowan was unnerving. The two women could have been twins, but the similarity crashed and burned once I moved past physical appearance. Ceridwen was cold, haughty, contemptuous. Rowan had a heart. And a damned big one. She put others before herself without a second thought.

  The smell of the sea rolled through the room, along with a thick mist. When it cleared, Odin was there looking larger than life. Unlike when he led the Hunt, his skin was intact. Dark hair braided in two thick plaits hung down his chest. Tall and broad, he wore leather breeks, a linen shirt, and a vest made from what might have been reptile hide.

  His huge battle axe, Jarnbjorn was strapped across his back, and twin drinking horns draped around his neck from leather thongs. The ravens, Huginn and Muninn, sat on his shoulders cawing like an unleashed tempest.

  Nidhogg burst through a gateway of his own, wings extended, and flew a few laps around the council chamber before landing heavily at the end of the room and regarding everyone through eyes that spun slowly and shaded from silver to green and back again.

  Odin narrowed his single fog-colored eye at Ceridwen. Sometimes, he employed a glamour to hide the fact he’d traded an eye for wisdom and magic, but he hadn’t bothered with it today. “No matter where I travel,” he growled, “I seem to fall over you.” He strode across the room and stuck a thick finger beneath her chin, forcing her to look at him. “Ye owe me, Celtic slut.”

  The ravens cawed agreement.

  “She owes a lot of us,” Gwydion muttered.

  “Aye, get in line.” Arawn inclined his head, first at Odin and then at Nidhogg. “Welcome to our council chamber. I doona recall inviting you, but your appearance is timely.”

  “Ye dinna invite me,” Odin said. “My dragon said we might be needed, and I did a bit of digging.”

  “I am no one’s dragon,” Nidhogg roared. Fire shot from his mouth, bouncing off the crystal walls.

  Odin waved a hand. “Och. Stand down. Poor choice of words.” He refocused on Ceridwen. “Rumor has it ye are the force behind the Breaking. Is this true?”

  I kept glancing about, wondering where the other dragon was. I still sensed him—her?—skulking about.

  “It might be.” Ceridwen met his single-eyed gaze directly. “What of it?”

  He snaked out a ham-sized hand and slapped her so hard the crack reverberated off the walls. Her head snapped back on her neck, but she remained silent, apparently not willing to give him the satisfaction of hearing her cry out.

  Odin bent his head so it was almost level with hers. “What of it, eh? I’ll tell you since ye’re too stupid to figure it out for yourself. I rule Nine Worlds. They are interconnected through magic and Yggdrasil. If one world sickens and fails, shockwaves travel to all the others. The One Tree’s roots link each world to it and to each other, and—”

  “I ken it well enough,” she cut in and sneered at him. “Magic got away from me. I dinna mean for it to feed on itself.”

  “Did she tell any of you what she’d done?” Nidhogg demanded in his deep growl of a voice.

  “Not us.” Gwydion shook his head. “Nay, nor any of our kin, either. News such as that wouldna have remained secret.”

  “No matter how ye regard us,” Arawn said, “had we known, we’d have gathered our forces and not rested until the damage was mitigated. We liked living on Earth. My realm remains here because the logistics of moving the dead are beyond even my magic.”

  “She’s hiding a prophecy that involves me,” I spoke up. “It was what Arawn and Gwydion were attempting to dredge out of her when you arrived.”

  Odin’s face darkened, and he drew his thick black brows into a harsh line. “What prophecy?” he thundered.

  “Most of what I see in my cauldron never comes to pass,” she hedged.

  “What prophecy?” he repeated. “If ye doona tell us—”

  “I have first rights to condemn her,” Arawn told Odin. “She will bide several centuries with the dead in my halls. Assuming she canna find her tongue.”

  “Pfft. I have a far better idea.” Odin grinned nastily. “She can be fodder for my Hunt. She likes being fucked. My men would adore passing her around. The Valkyries too.”

  I swallowed a knowing snort. The winged warrior women were supposed to be virgins, Odin’s handmaidens who escorted worthy dead to Valhalla. But I’d always suspected the maiden part was a sham. My sense of the second dragon was fading. Had it left? Or was it merely cloaking itself better?

  Rowan stood unmoving by my side, fingers tightly laced with mine. I tried to read her expression, but her face was smooth, enigmatic. Was she pissing on her mother’s grave or was her generous heart getting in the way?

  “When Bjorn requested my assistance a short while ago,” Nidhogg rumbled, “I believed our task here would be straightforward. It is past time to combine our talents into a push to salvage Midgard. If we wait, the breach will be so large no magic will be able to close it.”

  “Where does it go?” Rowan asked. “I know where it begins. I’ve kept an eye on the Breaking site almost since the beginning. Bjorn and I corralled some of the worst of the residual evil, but it’s a temporary fix at best. Where does the Breaking fissure lead, and why have my attempts to block it been unsuccessful?”

  “I have some of those answers, but not all,” the dragon replied. “First, though, I would hear of the prophecy that involves our master sorcerer.”

  I wasn’t all that sure I wanted Ceridwen to reveal it,
but that was sheer cowardice on my side. Knowledge was power. I should welcome both.

  “The gist of the seeing is about the Norse wizard and my daughter.” Ceridwen broke a lengthy silence. “The two of them must not remain together.”

  Rowan stiffened where she leaned against me. “That’s sheer crap, Mother. You made that up. You hate it when I’m happy. You resent anyone who treats me like I’m worth something.”

  “Ye’ve all been facile with truth spells.” Ceridwen had dropped all pretense of bothering to look pleasant. Her eyes had turned to slits, and she’d skinned her lips back from her teeth. “Cast one now and test my words.”

  “Lies come in many colors,” Odin said. “Ye’ve conveniently neglected to say why ye came to that conclusion.”

  “When they put their power together, it’s enough to defy any of us. Enough to break worlds—”

  Rowan burst out laughing. “That’s rich, Mother. You beat us to it.”

  “Power like yours shouldn’t exist,” she shot back. “I never should have birthed you, yet I had no choice in the matter. I couldna kill you. Whenever I tried to banish you, the verra next day, there ye’d be, back beneath my nose.”

  Rowan jerked her hand out of mine, but I made a grab for her upper arm and held fast. “Not worth it,” I told her.

  “Ye tried to kill your own daughter?” Gwydion’s question held incredulity and deep sorrow.

  “She just admitted as much,” I said. I wanted to rip Ceridwen from stem to stern with my bare hands. I wanted Nidhogg to fry her with fire. Most of all, I never wanted to lay eyes on her again, but even absent seer ability, I didn’t think I’d be that fortunate.

  “Nay, I never tried to kill her.” Ceridwen struggled against the cord binding her wrists to no avail. “I knew better. I would have failed.”

  “We made certain she remained with you,” Nidhogg said. “Ye dinna deserve such a treasure, but we kept her in a familiar place for her. Children never understand being spirited away from their home, from those who’ve raised them.”

  “Thanks for the thought,” Rowan snarled. “I would have welcomed such a change.”