Last Dragon Standing

by G. A. Aiken

  “Can we have this discussion some other time?” asked that voice. That voice she’d worked for several days—maybe even a whole week!—to get out of her head. That voice that made her want to tear its owner’s face off with her talons—preferably while singing something jaunty.

  “You can go,” she told that voice without looking at that voice’s owner. “But as you can see, I’m in the middle of a conversation.”

  “We need to move out. Now.”

  He spoke to her like one of his barbarian Dragonwarriors. Without a bit of reverence for the fact that she was of royal blood and, more importantly, not afraid to tear his face off while singing something jaunty!

  Keita, feeling particularly difficult this day, pointedly ignored the rude bastard, but then she heard another voice.

  “Please, my lady. We should leave before those human soldiers manage to find their manhood and return.”

  Ahhh. The brother. She remembered the brother. And the cousin. She’d forgotten they’d been standing right there beside her for several minutes.

  Two years ago, Keita had easily charmed the two barbarians and their younger kin while they’d traveled from the Northlands to the South. Only the barbarian bastard had managed to ignore her. Something that bothered her much more than it should have.

  Curling her lips into an appropriate—and quite seductive—smile, Keita turned and faced the other two Lightnings.

  “By the gods,” she said, her hands to her chest. “It is you!” She quickly recalled their names and tried to place which was which. Not easy when they both looked quite similar. Both had purple hair braided into a single plait that reached to the middle of their backs, both were wide of shoulder and long of height, both had scars. So, how did she tell them apart before…?

  “Vigholf!” She hugged the one with the grey eyes and the brutal scar across his jaw. “Meinhard!” She then hugged the one with the green eyes and the brutal scar that cut from his hairline to below his eye. “How wonderful it is to see you both again.”

  She grabbed a hand from each and held them tightly. “I hope you’ve both been doing wonderfully.”

  “We have, my lady, thank you,” Vigholf said. He’d always been the more confident one when it came to speaking. Meinhard always looked cornered when she asked him a direct question, before muttering a response. Although she’d found in time that Meinhard said much with his eyes without speaking a word. A lovely trait—rare with most males.

  “And I see you’ve been taking excellent care of my brother. Thank you both for that. I don’t know what I’d do if something horrible happened to him.”

  “Meinhard’s my mentor,” Éibhear filled in.

  “And I know my brother’s learned so much from you, dear Meinhard.” She gave her most dazzling smile, and poor Meinhard appeared ready to crumple at her feet.

  That’s before the rude one stepped between them, prying her hands from his kin.

  “And what do you think you’re doing?” she asked him.

  “Moving this along.”

  “Well, if you’d bothered to ask me nicely—oh!” she gasped when he again lifted her up and tossed her over his shoulder like so much trash. “How dare you!”

  “Move out!” he ordered.

  “Are you going to let him do this?” she demanded of Ren. For many, many years they’d been traveling companions and dearest friends. He made her laugh the way Gwenvael always did but, unlike her dear brother, Ren was much more reliable. Gwenvael was a lot of things, but unfortunately, she could never call him reliable.

  “He seems quite determined,” Ren explained, his lips curled into a small smile. “Can’t you just relax until he’s done?”

  “I want you never again to ask that question of any female for as long as you live, Ren of the Chosen!” she ordered.

  Yet with no one willing to help her, Keita was forced to settle down and wait this out. Although she did use every opportunity to bring up her foot so she kicked Ragnar the Bastard in the nose with her heel.

  If nothing else, she did find that quite entertaining.

  Chapter Three

  Fearghus the Destroyer, First Born to the Dragon Queen, Heir to the Dragon Queen’s Throne, Consort to Annwyl the Bloody, Father to the Demon Twins of Dark Plains, and suspicious, jealous male of Queen Annwyl’s court sat on the stairs leading to the Great Hall of his mate’s castle and watched Annwyl walk from behind one of the guard houses. Behind her trailed the two dogs given to her by her chief battle lord, Dagmar Reinholdt. Fearghus didn’t mind the two dogs, though they did make him hungry. But Annwyl adored the beasts nearly as much as she adored her horse and Fearghus wasn’t in the mood to fight with her if she found him using one of the dog’s leg bones to remove the other bits from between Fearghus’s fangs.

  Eyes narrowing, Fearghus studied his mate. Although Annwyl had always trained hard since he’d met her, she’d been training even harder since a few months after their twins had been born. He knew what drove her, too. Fear. Not fear for herself, but fear for the safety of their twins. Fear that she couldn’t protect them. He didn’t know why she’d think that. She’d slaughtered an entire herd of Minotaur to protect their babes. But she seemed to think worse than Minotaurs was heading their way. That whatever this worse thing was, it—or they—was coming after the babes.

  And maybe she was right. Although not quite two winters old, the twins were feared by many. Demons, abominations, unholy—all words used to describe the amazing creatures upstairs with their latest nanny. A position they couldn’t seem to keep filled for long periods of time. He’d known his offspring would be different. But not this different. Not this dangerous. And gods, for something so small, they were dangerous.

  Picking sticks off the ground, Annwyl held them out for her dogs and then played tug with the beasts until they reached the Great Hall steps.

  “Oy. Wench,” Fearghus said by way of greeting.

  Annwyl looked up at him with those green eyes that still made his heart stumble a bit in his chest.

  “Oy. Knight.”

  “Where you’ve been?”

  “Training.”

  He could see that. Her body was covered in sweat, fresh bruises, and new nicks and cuts.

  “Training with…?”

  She shrugged, glanced down at her dogs, which were still fighting her for the sticks. “A few of the men.”

  And he knew she lied.

  “How did it go?” he asked, rather than accuse her of something he couldn’t yet prove.

  “It went well.” He could see the truth in that. She was getting stronger every day. More powerful. Her muscles were well-defined, and her body bore no fat. Her own men feared her strength, which was why he knew she hadn’t been training with them. And his kin feared her as well. Dragons known for fighting anyone at any time gave Fearghus’s mate the widest berth possible when she searched for a sparring partner. But someone was helping her. Someone she wouldn’t tell him about.

  “Brastias and Dagmar are looking for you,” he said

  “Oh.” Annwyl blinked a few times and said, “I should check on the babes first, though, eh? I’ll track down Brastias and Dagmar later.”

  There’d been a time when Annwyl would track down Brastias first. She’d search out fights, battles, wars, anything that hinted at a little bloodshed. But that had been before the twins. Now, she avoided her army’s general and her chief battle lord as if they brought news of the latest fashions from town. The twins, however, were merely the excuse the queen used to avoid what was closing in around her.

  Yet how much longer did she think she could continue to do that? She was queen, one of the most powerful queens in a millennium, and there were many who relied on her. True, she could be like some monarchs—his mother included—who sent out troops and supplies while staying safely in their fortress homes. That, however, was not Annwyl. That would never be Annwyl. And watching her live like this was tearing him apart.

  Annwyl made a strange clicking sound
with her tongue, and the dogs released their sticks and charged up the stairs and into the Great Hall. Annwyl followed behind them, stopping beside Fearghus.

  “You all right?” she asked.

  “I’m fine.” Paranoid, distrustful, and worried about you—but fine.

  Annwyl crouched beside him. She looked tired, dark circles under her eyes. She hadn’t been sleeping well for months, often leaving their bed before the two suns rose. It might be her dreams that drove her from their bed, for when she did sleep, she tossed and turned; Fearghus’s presence beside her not easing her as it usually did.

  Annwyl leaned in, waiting until Fearghus turned his face toward her so she could kiss him. Her lips were soft and sweet, her tongue wicked and ruthless, her mouth warm and delicious. He knew he shouldn’t be so paranoid about what she was up to when she was off training, but he couldn’t help it. Something was going on with her and she wouldn’t tell him. She used to tell him everything.

  She pulled back with a soft sigh. “I’ll see you later then?” And he heard the hopeful note in her tone.

  “You need a bath,” he told her, his gaze moving over the courtyard. “I can scrub your back, if you’d like.”

  “I never can reach it,” she murmured, her fingers trailing to his neck and across his shoulders. Fearghus closed his eyes at the feel of her hand on his bare skin and through his chain-mail shirt. Of course, those fingers felt even better against his scales and wings. “So your help will be much appreciated.”

  Then she was gone, into the Great Hall and up the stairs to see their twins.

  And Fearghus was left alone a little longer to brood and wonder what the hell was going on with his mate.

  Bare feet walked across ice; naked bodies knelt in the snow, uncaring of the violent snow and ice storm swirling around them while heads bowed in honor of the god before them. This was not all their number, merely those who would lead this mission. For their strength was not in their number, but in their power. In their rage. In their willingness to kill without question, without regret, without thought.

  Because of what they were willing to do, all in the name of their gods, they were the most feared in the Ice Lands. The most despised. But none of them cared about the outsiders. Not when they had their weapons in their hands and spells on their lips.

  Go, the harsh winds roared around them, for this god would not speak directly to them. Not like the others. Instead, the Ice Land winds would give them their mission. The hard-packed snow and ice would enhance their strength and power for the long journey ahead. And the two suns would lead them to death or glory.

  Go! the winds ordered again. Then, the screeching winds whispered, Annwyl.

  Chapter Four

  “I have to admit I’m a bit surprised, Lord Ragnar. I thought you would have killed all those humans.”

  Ragnar gulped several mouthfuls of water from his flask. They’d traveled deep into the thick forests of Outerplains, not stopping until they found a freshwater lake.

  “And I thought you wouldn’t allow yourself to be executed. Guess we were both wrong.”

  The royal rolled brown eyes. “Of course I wouldn’t allow myself to be executed.”

  “Then what were you doing exactly?”

  She shrugged and, without asking, took his flask from him rather than filling her own from the lake as he’d done. “Seeing if I could talk them out of it.”

  “Why?”

  She shrugged. “Why not?” She studied his flask before using a bit of her gown to wipe the mouth of it. He didn’t know which annoyed him more. The fact that she took his flask, the fact that she wiped it first before using it, or the fact that the gown she used was absolutely filthy.

  “It’s all a game to you, isn’t it?” he asked.

  After taking several gulps of water, she gave him that smile. She had many smiles, most of them as contrived as she was. But this one, where the left side of her mouth went up just a tad higher than the right and her eyes looked up at him through those thick lashes—this one was the true Keita. His brother and cousin refused to see this Keita.

  “Why were they trying to execute you anyway, Keita?” the Blue asked his sister.

  She handed the flask back to Ragnar. “They believed I’d killed Lord Bampour.”

  “Oh, Keita,” the Blue whined. “You didn’t.”

  “Actually, I didn’t.” When her brother raised a dark blue brow, she insisted, “I didn’t!”

  “Then why did they charge you?” Ragnar asked.

  “They found me in his room.”

  “With the body?”

  “Yes. But it wasn’t me.” Why did Ragnar feel there was a “this time” missing from that declaration?

  “What were you doing in his room?”

  She stared at Ragnar a moment, then replied, “Wishing him a good morning?”

  “Is that an answer, princess, or a question?”

  “Och!” She threw up her hands. “Does it matter? I didn’t kill him.” She pouted a little, her nose scrunching up—it looked vaguely adorable. “They wouldn’t even listen to me. Just kept insisting that I had to have done it, simply because they found me alone in his room, the body still warm, and carrying a vial of poison.”

  The males all stared at her, but when no one else asked, Ragnar knew he must. “And why were you carrying a vial of poison?”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “I’m fairly certain…quite a bit.”

  “No. It doesn’t. Because the point is—the vial was still full, which meant it hadn’t been used, which means I didn’t kill Bampour.”

  Ragnar was willing to play along. “If you didn’t kill him…who did?”

  “Some naked blond girl who was in his room when I got there.”

  “I see. And what happened to her?”

  “I threw her out the window.”

  “Of course you did.”

  “Don’t worry,” the foreigner tossed in. “I caught her and set her gently down.”

  “See?” the female said.

  “See what?”

  “I rescued her. Saved her life. And yet they wanted to execute me. How is that fair?”

  Ragnar nodded. “Let’s pretend you’re not lying.”

  “What?”

  “I’m not sure why you would rescue a murderess.”

  “Well, she was only doing the rest of the world a favor.”

  “I see.”

  “He was not a nice person.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “He had to die!”

  “And why is that? Did he not give you enough…things?”

  “Oh, but he did.” She touched the necklace around her throat. “He gave me this.” She touched the bracelet on her wrist. “And this.” She touched the earrings. “And these…oh, wait. No. He didn’t. That son of his did. Shame the little blonde didn’t get a chance to deal with that one too.”

  Ragnar gestured to the jewelry. “I’m surprised they let you keep all that.”

  “I don’t think they’d planned to. But after I ate the dog, they refused to come near me except to put on the chains.”

  “Keita!” the Blue blurted out while the foreigner laughed.

  “I was hungry! I hadn’t had first meal, they wouldn’t give me anything to eat, and…and that dog tried to bite me! It was very close to self-defense!”

  “Somehow I doubt that.”

  “You,” she said to Ragnar, “can just be quiet.”

  “All right, all right, all right,” the Blue cut in. “Let’s forget all that. The important thing is, you’re safe.” The princess smiled at that until her brother added, “And you can travel with us back to Garbhán Isle.”

  “Oh.”

  Ragnar leaned back against a tree, his arms crossed over his chest, and watched Her Royal Majesty try to work her way out of this. Because he knew, just by the look of panic in her eyes, she was desperately trying to work her way out of this.

  “Garbhán Isle. That’s an op
tion.” She glanced at her foreign friend, but he didn’t seem to be in the mood to help her either. “And…why don’t I meet you there? At some point.”

  “Meet us there? Why can’t you come back now?” her brother asked.

  “I have something to do?”

  “Is that a question or an answer?” Ragnar asked again, and the glare he received would have lacerated a lesser male.

  “But what about the feast?”

  “Feast?” She shrugged. “There’s always a feast, Éibhear. Our family does love a feast.”

  “But it’s to celebrate the twins’ birthday. I mean, I missed the first one because I was in the heat of battle—”

  Ragnar briefly but quickly moved his gaze to the ground after he heard Vigholf snort.

  “—so I can’t miss this one. But I guess since you did go to the first one, I could explain it away to the family.”

  Perhaps Ragnar was watching her too closely, but the way her face became perfectly blank, her brown eyes wide as if she was afraid the truth could be read there, had him asking, “Why don’t you tell us about that first feast, my lady? All the details. Down to the last dessert.”

  “I don’t really—”

  “Oh, come on. You must remember something. And I’ve always wondered what a Southland celebration is like. For instance, what was the human queen’s gown like?”

  “Gown? I doubt she wore—”

  “Doubt?” Ragnar asked. “Don’t you know?”

  Gods. Did she just hiss at me? Yes! I think she just hissed at me!

  “You didn’t go?” the Blue asked.

  “Éibhear, I was quite busy. I didn’t have time.”

  The Blue’s eyes narrowed, and he studied his sister for a long, painful moment. “When was the last time you were home?”

  “The Southlands are my home, Éibhear. And I’m always—”

  “Don’t play with me, Keita. When was the last time you were at Garbhán Isle or Devenallt Mountain?”

  “When you look at how long we live, time is such a transient thing.”

  Ragnar began to have an uneasy feeling, clearly remembering the look on the princess’s face when he’d released her. Not when she’d stabbed him with her tail—although that moment was etched into his memory until his last breath—but before that. When he’d told her the queen had offered nothing for her daughter’s safe return. True, royal anger eventually took over everything, but before that, he’d seen pain on her face. Acute pain.