Last Dragon Standing

by G. A. Aiken

  “Excellent. I can’t wait to see my son. I’ve missed him so.” She backed up until she could turn without hitting Ragnar with her tail and walked back to her tree.

  “You said there was another favor.”

  “Oh, aye. There’s a witch who lives in the Woods of Desolation in the Outerplains. A dragoness, but she lives as human.”

  “Yes. I know her.”

  “Of course you do. So does my son Gwenvael. And my youngest daughter.” She looked over her shoulder at him. “You remember my daughter, don’t you, my lord? Keita?”

  Ragnar worked hard not to sneer. “Yes. I remember Keita.” Keita the Brat. Keita the Nightmare. Keita the Late Night Fantasy when he’d had too much to drink.

  How was he expected to forget her? He was a dragon, not a saint.

  “Of course you do. She’s so beautiful it’s hard for males to ever forget her. Perhaps, if you’re lucky enough, she’ll be attending the feast and you two can become reacquainted.”

  “I doubt I’ll have time to stay for the feast, lady. Although I appreciate the offer.”

  “I understand.” The queen watched him for a moment longer before pointing at him with one of her talons. “Do you need some ointment for that, my little rolling thunder?”

  Confused, Ragnar looked down and realized he was scratching his chest again. Right on the scar that cut through his thick purple scales. The same one that spoiled royal had given him two years ago when she’d snuck up on him and stabbed him with her tail. Even after he’d rescued her useless life.

  Ragnar snatched his claw back.

  “No. Thank you.”

  “Nasty scar. Some take forever to heal.”

  “The witch in the woods, lady?”

  “Oh, yes, yes. Be ever so kind and bring her to me. Alive.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, she is my sister and traitor to my throne, so if anyone should take her head, it should be me. Don’t you agree?”

  Gods. Esyld. She wanted Esyld. A powerful witch and excellent healer, Esyld had been a part of the Outerplains as long as Ragnar could remember. And, unlike many others, he’d known for years who she was. The sister of Queen Rhiannon who’d fled the Southlands when her sister came into power. For that reason alone, and no other from what he’d been able to tell, Esyld the Beautiful had become Esyld the Traitor among those loyal to the queen.

  “Or you can leave her there, Your Majesty,” he suggested. “She’s causing you no harm.”

  “My, my, you do seem to know my sister well.” She chuckled. “But you’ll bring her to me.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “Simple. I’ll unleash my mate’s crazed relatives on her like a pack of ravening wolves on a wounded deer. Would you prefer that?”

  “When we spoke two years ago, you knew where your sister was. But you choose now to capture her. Why?”

  “Because you never know…some attractive young thinker of a dragon may be able to save her useless life. But only if she makes it to me alive. And my mate’s kin will ensure that she never makes it to me alive. They do so loathe traitors.”

  “And you’re so sure she’s a traitor?”

  Her grin was cruel. “I don’t have to be sure. I’m queen. Now”—she tossed him another fruit with her tail before again focusing on her tree—“good travels, my light drizzle. I do look forward to seeing you again in person. Oh!” She held up a talon, her gaze focusing far off before she sighed, shook her head, muttered to herself something like, “That girl,” and then said to Ragnar, “And one other thing…”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you know a Lord Bamp…something? In the Outerplains?”

  “Bampour?” She shrugged at this question. “Yes, I know him.” A very unpleasant bastard that Ragnar had only mild dealings with over the years. “What about him?”

  “I wouldn’t fly over his territory. You might be better off walking through it.”

  He normally would avoid the town and the Baron Lord’s lands altogether, but it was easiest to get to the forest where Esyld the Wise lived from there. “Why?”

  “Must you question everything, my perky little downpour?”

  “As a matter of fact—”

  All the beauty around Ragnar shimmered, and the spell ended, taking the suns, the grass, the trees, and the unstable monarch with it.

  “—yes!”

  He was back on his plateau, the ripe fruit the queen had tossed at him resting by his claws. Gods. That female.

  Letting out a breath, Ragnar picked up a piece of fruit and held it between his talons.

  But…such power.

  Yet before he could sit and ponder how she managed to do something so amazing, that damn itching started again!

  Throwing down the fruit, Ragnar scratched at the healed wound on this chest. Healed it might be, but the itching. Gods, the itching! Some days it drove him mad. Especially when he had his armor on. And nothing he’d tried in the last two years had done much to stop it. He’d tried ointments, spells, creams…everything! Someday she could barely think because of the damn itching. And sometimes he forgot about the wound altogether for days, even months. But now that the damn queen had pointed it out…

  Roaring in annoyance, Ragnar shifted to human, dropped to one knee, and scratched at the human flesh for all he was worth. Short of ripping his scales off—something he was loath to do—this was the only way to really scratch the damn thing properly. In fact, his human fingers scratching against his chest felt so good, he didn’t even notice the freezing cold or that he was no longer alone.

  “Uh…brother?”

  Ragnar’s hand stopped on his chest, but he didn’t turn around. “What?”

  “The others are wondering if you’re returning. Or should I leave you to keep…touching yourself? And where did that fruit come from?”

  “I am not touching—” Ragnar stopped his reply. Honestly, why bother? “Who can take over for us for the next few weeks?”

  “Us?”

  “You, me, and Meinhard.” Their cousin was a mighty fighter and always good backup in any situation. Plus, he was loyal—and loyalty meant all to Ragnar.

  “Uncle Askel. He’s back from the Ice Land borders, and he’ll keep this rabble in line.”

  “Good. We leave in two hours.”

  “Leave for where?”

  “The Southlands. And we’re bringing the royal. So you best fetch him.”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  Ragnar nodded and stared out over his cold and brutal Northland home. He wished he could ignore the Dragon Queen’s orders, but something told him that would be a very foolish thing to do. He was never foolish. He didn’t have that luxury. So he’d return to the Southlands and risk not only his safety among the lazy Fire Breathers, but also meeting up with the one dragoness he hoped never to see again.

  And as Ragnar thought of the cruel viper, his hand reached for the itchy scar on his chest once more. He stopped in mid-reach, though, when he realized he was still not alone.

  “Something else, brother?” Ragnar asked.

  “Well…are you going to eat all that fruit or just leave it out here to freeze into useless lumps?”

  Ragnar swept up the fruit with both hands and pitched them, one after the other, at his brother’s big, fat, scale-covered forehead.

  When he’d driven Vigholf back inside, Ragnar again faced the mountains he called home while his brother complained, “You could have just handed them to me, Ragnar!”

  He was Lord Bampour now. He ruled this land. Of course, there would have to be an appropriate period of mourning, but then, once that was done, he’d take everything in hand.

  But first, before he’d bother worrying about all that, he’d see his father’s killer up close.

  His men had left her alone with some of the worst scum that could be found on his father’s…no, his lands. Not long enough to kill her, but long enough to make her realize that the days before her execution would be the worst of her li
fe. She deserved it, of course. One, because she’d killed his father. And two, because the little whore had turned him down flat when he’d asked her to his bed. Even after he’d given her those lovely earrings.

  Aye. Her last days on this earth would make her regret that decision. He’d make sure of it.

  Following behind his men, Lord Bampour walked into the farthest part of the dungeon. His men had stopped a few feet away from that bitch’s cell and didn’t move.

  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.

  Chapter Two

  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.”