by Denali Day
“No!”
This was not how her final hunt as a free woman was going to end. Heedless of the danger, Colette urged her mare forward, ignoring its whinnying protest. Injured, the fox wouldn’t last long, and Colette would be damned if she left its fine pelt to rot in the dirt. As she blew past the treeline, the forest’s cool shade doused her flesh, and Colette stifled a shiver.
From some distance back, Lord Potrulis shouted in frenzied alarm, begging his daughter to turn back. She ignored him, driving deeper into the outer border of the woods. A thrill of wicked satisfaction made her burst into laughter. Even now, her father was probably praising the gods that her unpredictable nature would soon be some other man’s dilemma. Fair enough.
Dodging the blackened trees and leaping over fallen branches, Colette followed the trail of blood. The air had changed, devoid of the scent of grass, blossoms, and other living things. It seemed that even the birds avoided this part of the land, the twisted canopy as silent as the bare ground below it. Colette ignored the tingling sensation at the nape of her neck, reasoning that her instincts couldn’t know how briefly she planned to stay. She only needed to reach that fox.
Relief washed over her as she burst through another line of trees and into an open field. The grass was taller here but a dull, russet color. Bright flecks of blood against the pale stalks guided her into the center of the wide clearing until, at last, she could see her fallen quarry. It lay on its side. Slinging her bow across her chest and snatching up a burlap sack, Colette dismounted her sweat-slicked mare and hurried over.
A twinge of sympathy pinched at Colette’s gut as she knelt down at the animal’s side. Its black eyes found hers, and, for a moment, she could almost feel its pain. Withdrawing her hunting knife, Colette put a swift end to its suffering. It was young and fat, its brown coat glossy even under the shaded sky. Stunning. Her brothers would be envious, indeed. Good. It would serve them right for leaving her behind. With a smirk on her face, Colette stuffed her kill into the sack and stood to call her horse.
With a prickle of surprise, Colette realized that her father and his men had not followed her into the woods. The Twist was said to be home to countless terrors. Few ever ventured within and returned to tell the tale. But it wasn’t as if Colette had embarked on some great quest. She’d retrieved her kill and now she would return. The whole affair wouldn’t have taken more than twenty minutes. Smugness flared as Colette realized she’d just accomplished something grown men weren’t willing to do. Another boast for her haughty brothers.
Pursing her lips, Colette was about to whistle when her mare bolted off in the direction they’d come. Dumbfounded, Colette could only stare. Her mount was raised and trained by the king’s own horsemaster and had never been the skittish sort. Squinting, Colette whistled, trying to bring the mare around. A rising sense of dread crept up her throat as the mare, heedless to her mistress’s call, continued on and disappeared into the trees.
Had that really just happened? Was she seriously standing alone in the middle of the Twist without a ride? Colette blinked. What in the hells was she going to do now?
Just as she was putting it together that she’d be hiking her stubborn tail back, a blast of wind bent her shoulders downward toward the brittle grass. Though the sun had been hiding behind the clouds, a darker shadow cast onto the ground, surrounding Colette in its chilling embrace. An inner voice, deep and primal, told her what was about to happen, and, before she could think on it, Colette turned her face toward the sky.
Eight ivory talons extended their razor-sharp tips above her. Colette’s scream was muffled to her own ears, drowned out by the sound of rushing wind spilling past her face. She dropped to the ground, her only instinct to get away. Before she could roll onto her stomach, she was being scooped up, dragged by the waist into the air. Her free hand sprung open, releasing bits of dirt and torn grass. She twisted her head backward and watched as the debris seemed to float back toward the rapidly departing earth. She screamed again, and, this time, she couldn’t hear at all against the gusting howl.
Vertigo, rather than calm, made her cease thrashing long enough to get a look at the creature carrying her. Pale, leathery wings with four long spines beat toward the clouds above. A mosaic of white and grey scales ran the length on a long, slender neck that ended in a head full of spikes and jagged fangs.
Skies, I’m being carried by a dragon!
Could this be real? Was she truly the prey of a legendary beast? The iron grip squeezing her torso told her it was real, and she was, indeed, at the monster’s mercy. The dragon’s hold pinched the wooden shaft of her bow into her ribs, making Colette gasp. Gripping at its talons, she realized she was still holding the burlap sack with her dead fox inside. Then something else caught her frenzied eyes. A thick leather strap circled the beast’s belly, securing what looked to be a saddle to its back.
A rider?
Could it be? The idea would have made her scoff were she not presently ensnared and being carried off to gods knew where. The calculating part of Colette’s mind began to work, temporarily muting her terror. She stilled in the monster’s claws and was relieved to feel its grip ease ever so slightly.
If the beast had a rider, then it had a master. If that was the case, then it was currently doing his bidding. What would the sort of man who could master a dragon want with her? Colette had a few ideas, none of them pleasant.
Straining to curl over the dragon’s bulky grip, Colette grabbed at the dagger sheathed by her ankle. A half-crazed grin spread across her own lips. She may have made a mistake today...
...but she wasn’t the only one.
2
Finally.
Sven the Collector hunkered upon his massive saddle, basking in the thrill of having captured his bride at last. The buxom huntress had proven elusive, requiring weeks of pursuit that may have been put to better use at home, pleasing the elders. But one look at the little temptress, even from afar, had ruined him for any other woman. He wasn’t sure if he should praise or curse Regna for his keen eyesight.
Now that he’d claimed her, he couldn’t wait to get back to his mountain home and make her his. The muscles around his stomach twitched as the realities of bonding began to set in. Like all Dokiri marriages, it would be unpleasant at first. That was unavoidable, but he’d do whatever he must to ease his little bride’s fears. Soon, she’d come to accept her new life, and he could turn his attention to grander things, like convincing the elders he was the right choice for their next chieftain. Sven was already well on his way toward that goal. He hoped his new bride would be a credit to him in the effort.
Regin, his mount, drew in massive wings, giving him a burst of speed and slinging them through a wispy cloud bank. The cool mist dampened Sven’s dark beard, sending a chill across his flesh even through his furs. Good thing his bride had been dressed for riding. Even so, by the time they landed, she’d be glad for the dry cloak and wool dress he’d packed away. Sven craned his head over his winged gegatu’s side, wanting to reassure himself that his catch was safe. His breath stalled in his lungs.
Angry stripes of bright red blood covered Regin’s underside, the wind pulling the streaks down toward the tip of his barbed tail. His bride hung limply. The back of her dangling arm was all Sven could see.
Va kreesha!
Without thinking, Sven jammed his palms into the base of his mount’s neck, urging him to dive low. Such speeds were liable to make a lowlander faint, but it couldn’t be worse than whatever was causing his bride to bleed like that.
Had Regin harmed her with his talons? Unlikely. Sven had been hunting with his beast for the better part of two years, and the gegatu had never so much as nicked any of his prey, preferring to eat his kills alive within the heights of his icy nest. Perhaps she’d harmed herself. She’d been hunting after all. Had an arrow or an unsheathed knife found its way into her flesh even as she’d been plucked from the earth? Sven gritted his teeth and pressed harder on Regin’s scales,
demanding more speed.
The gegatu shrieked and beat his wings harder.
Below, the land was still dark with tangled trees. That foul forest had sprawled in the shadow of his people’s mountain for millennia. He knew better than to descend but had little choice. Even now his bride could be dying, and he could do nothing for her from here. A narrow clearing came into focus, and Sven steered his mount with frantic purpose.
“Come on!”
A few more seconds and Sven was yanking backward on the ridges of Regin’s scaly neck. The gegatu threw open his wings. Sven didn’t wait for his mount to land. He tore off his leather gloves and began working at the bindings lashing his legs to the sides of the giant saddle. Once free, Sven heaved in anticipation, seconds scraping by like hours. Restless, he loosed his axe from its tie, ever conscious of the danger below. Almost there.
With the skill of a Dokiri warrior who flew far more than required, Sven gripped his axe and launched himself over Regin’s body before the creature had fully touched down.
He landed hard on a slope covered in brittle black stones, his axe clattering beside him. With boots any smaller, he’d have twisted his ankle on the uneven rubble. Instead, he sprang up and darted for his mount’s legs. The gegatu hopped and hovered on his empty foot, still clutching the unconscious woman with the other. Ducking low, Sven threw his hands up against Regin’s belly.
“Velsa lagi!”
Responding to his master’s voice, the beast opened its claws, and Sven was just able to throw an arm beneath his bride’s head, catching it from impact with the rocky ground. With horror, he realized the blood had, indeed, come from her. It stuck to her chest and the wide sleeves of her grey riding outfit. Where was she bleeding? Golden hair with shocks of coppery red sat in a tangled mess over the limp woman’s face. He batted it away, jabbing two fingers to her pale neck where a pulse should thrum.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
She was alive, and her heart was racing. His relief barely registered. Sven’s brows drew as his own heart continued pounding against his ribs. He was no healer. What should he do?
Stop the bleeding, you fool.
Frowning, he dropped his gaze to the front of her jacket. Instead of a broach, it was held together by round little pieces of bronze fitted into tiny slits on the garment’s opposite edge. No time to fool with that lowlander nonsense. He withdrew a knife.
The moment his blade slid out of its sheath, his bride’s lashes flew open. Grey-blue orbs stared up at him, and Sven froze, struck with a sense of awe that rapidly morphed into bewilderment. Fear dulling his senses, he spoke in his father’s tongue.
“Atu kaneri?”
Her eyes narrowed but not with confusion. Sven blinked, dimly registering the malice in his bride’s bright gaze. Something sliced across his flesh. He looked down. A red line swelled beneath the part of his tunic that wasn’t covered by his hide jacket. Dropping his knife, his palm went automatically to his chest, covering the wound. His gaze shot to her hand, locking upon the point of the tiny dagger she’d already withdrawn into the sleeve of her coat.
The little vixen had sliced him.
He dropped her. She scrambled sideways on her hands, seeming more eager to get away from his hissing gegatu than from him. Sven straightened, still not fully grasping what had just happened. The woman’s eyes darted between him and Regin, her movements slow and steady as if she were in the presence of some ferocious predator. Blinking, Sven scrutinized her. Was she really injured? She looked more frightened than pained. No. Not frightened. Furious. Then where had all that blood come from?
“Are you hurt?” he asked, this time remembering to use trade-tongue.
Rather than answer, she stood, shuffling backward so as not to turn her back on him. Instinctually, Sven lunged forward, catching her arm that shot out to strike him again. She flinched as though preparing for a blow. Crouching over her, Sven gave her a shake.
“Are. You. Hurt?”
Her face slackened in an expression of surprise that swiftly devolved into a scowl. “Worry about yourself, Barbarian.”
Some of his tension left him, and he scowled right back. He’d expected his bride to show some resistance, but pulling a knife on him? As small and defenseless as she was? Was she totally mad?
The ground began to shift. A wave of vertigo crashed over him, and his vision momentarily doubled. Sven’s stomach tightened and a light sweat broke out across his brow. Realization hit.
He snatched the dagger out of her hand and held it up between them. “What’s on this blade?”
The little she-devil actually smirked.
Va kreesha.
Was she mad? He had to act fast. He released her, shooting to his feet. Another wave of dizziness made him stagger, and he nearly ended up on his rear as he stumbled toward Regin. Could he get them both on his mount’s back in time? No. They’d need provisions. Could he, at least, remove his other weapons? His pack? The blurring at the corners of his vision told him ‘no’. His tricksy bride may have just brought the mountain down on her own pretty head. The thought made him rail.
Sven swung his arms, hissing at Regin in his language. The beast turned and growled low but opened its wings to obey its master. A cyclone kicked up around Sven as the gegatu leapt into the air and disappeared over the trees. There was one danger to his bride eliminated.
Feet going numb, Sven dropped to his knees. He scanned the slope, searching for somewhere safe to send his bride. The sound of gravel crunching underfoot drew his gaze to the side. She was standing off at a distance, arms crossed smugly over her chest. At her devious expression, it occurred to him that he might do well to be afraid for himself.
“What did you do to me?”
She stared at him with arched brows, saying nothing. Sven fell forward on his palms, desperate to stay off the ground.
“Woman! What was on that blade?” His speech began to slur as though he’d imbibed too much wine.
Still, she refused to answer. When his elbows buckled, he rolled onto his back. That crunching sound resumed, and Sven caught sight of his bride standing over him, her eyes fixed on his. He began to pant.
“Am I going to…die?”
Her full lips pursed in a pensive look. “I’m undecided.”
With that spiteful answer, everything went dark.
The brute finally succumbed, his brown eyes rolling back in his head. The nightfang oil on her blade would keep him asleep for several hours. She studied him, a giant among men. Was he even human? On second thought, someone his size might only stay down for two hours. She glanced to the blood-spattered ground where the dragon had been. The barbarian might have sent it to alert other dragons with giant riders, and it might be coming back. She wouldn’t be sticking around to find out.
She’d been so distracted during the flight that she wasn’t even certain how far she’d been carried away from her father’s land. The sun was still firmly in the east, and from it, Colette deduced that the beast had carried her south, toward the Crook-Spine Mountain range. So she turned north.
Nothing about this terrain was familiar. The trees stretched so high they completely blocked her view of the monstrous mountains that were relatively close by. Even in this clearing she couldn’t find them, only knew which direction they should be. The crooked branches were barren and black, as though they’d been singed by a long-extinguished fire. And yet, she was somehow sure that those trees were still very much alive. More than that, it was as if they diffused some dark, malevolent purpose. Colette forced herself to look away. She didn’t have time to contemplate the idea of sentient trees.
She made it all of three steps when a high pitched screeching rose over the nearby treeline. The sound made her jump, checking her firmly into the realm of reality. She was going to die out here unless she could come up with a plan. Traipsing blindly through the Twist, hoping to happen safely upon her father, didn’t qualify. Resisting the urge to run for the nearest hiding spot, Colette assessed her opti
ons.
She needed a way out of here, and a way to protect herself as she went. Her bow lay on the ground, its string snapped. She kicked a rock across the clearing. Her quiver only held three arrows anyway. Hardly enough to be useful. All she had was her hunting knife and the tiny dagger she’d used on the barbarian. She’d pulled the sneaky blade from beneath her skirts, out of the holster she always wore about her ankle. Over the years, it had served as a deterrent to those who thought her raucous reputation translated into promiscuity. How wrong those fools had been.
As she looked around, the gravity of her situation fully sank in. She was alone without a mount, decent weapons, or provisions in one of the most dangerous places in Sestoria. Certainly the most dangerous place in her country of Morhagen.
Think, Colette. Use your head.
As her mind worked, her gaze fell unwittingly to the unconscious savage lying nearby. A man strong enough to command a dragon could be a useful asset. Of course, now that she’d poisoned him, and considering he was the one responsible for dragging her into this disaster in the first place, she should probably jot him firmly into the ‘liability’ category. Not to mention the issue of how she could maintain control over him.
But then, he had seemed inordinately concerned for her wellbeing, even after she’d cut him. Perhaps he could be reasoned with. She glowered in his general direction. She was grasping, but then, desperate women couldn’t be choosy and, at the moment, Colette was feeling wretchedly desperate. Damn him.
She stalked over to the stranger and stared down at his sleeping face. His long brown hair was as dark as his eyes. He had it braided back and away from his bearded face, which revealed the deep cut of his high cheekbones and wide jaw. Aside from being tall, he was strong. She’d wager he was a fine cut beneath his hide and fur clothing. She’d never seen a man quite like this one. What a pity. Under different circumstances, she could imagine wanting to brush her fingers over those thick lashes instead of clawing out the eyes just beneath them. Colette frowned as something like lust tightened in her belly.
