Dragon’s Heir: Dystopian Fantasy

by Ann Gimpel

  Odin sliced a hand through the air. “This will stop now.” He shoved his face in front of Freya’s. “The Celts are our allies.”

  “Got it,” she said, tightlipped.

  And there it was. The problem of fighting with those you didn’t trust. Freya might have acquiesced, but her surrender had been forced out of her. Those types of capitulations didn’t mean crap.

  While I’d been stewing over potential problems, Arawn had moved to the front of the assemblage with Hel by his side. “Our strategy to deal with the dead is this,” he said.

  “We rule the dead,” Hel intoned. One of her serpents was wound around her body, up one leg and around her torso.

  “Aye, we shall spell them to follow us,” Arawn announced.

  I wanted to protest it couldn’t be that easy or he’d have recaptured his lost souls from behind the Ninth Gate.

  “To accomplish that, we must first break the hold others have on them,” Hel clarified. “That is the crux.”

  “Once the dead are out of the way,” Nidhogg said, “we must dispatch the Morrigan and Loki.”

  “How?” a dragon from the back of the room shouted.

  “What about the bastards from the outer borderworlds?” another dragon cried.

  “Aye, well, our plan is far from complete,” Nidhogg admitted. “We must first address the dead. Once that is accomplished, we can deal with the others as they appear.”

  I didn’t like anything about this. There were way too many unknowns, but while I was shuffling doubt like a bad hand of cards, Nidhogg was assigning us to groups. We’d fare better than the poor fuckers Odin had sent to do a cleanup operation, but how much better remained to be seen.

  Chapter Fifteen, Rowan

  “Ready, Momma?” Geir wrapped his talons around my forearm and tugged. He’d grown another several centimeters, and his head was even with mine.

  How to answer him? I’d rarely been less ready. I’m not a tactician, and I’d never studied battle strategy like Bjorn had, but even I recognized we were about to launch a fool’s mission. One where we were tossing shit at a wall and hoping enough stuck to make a difference.

  Was this how all wars were waged?

  I looked at my son. Really looked at him and the eagerness stamped all over his dragon features. He was excited, thrilled, exhilarated to be heading off to wage war. I wanted to tell him so many things. How what we faced would mark him, scar him. How he’d never be the same. But how did you impart those things to a child? And did I even want to?

  I remembered the first real battles I’d fought—the ones after I left the Celts and Inverlochy Castle. I’d been so scared my bones had felt liquid, but I’d found a cold, emotionless spot. One where I could shove all my qualms to a distant spot and charge forward. Years later, but well before the Breaking, when I’d been doing my damnedest to blend in with humans, I’d stumbled across a slender book about Zen mindfulness and recognized the technique I’d thought was all my own.

  Or portions of it anyway. Most importantly, the ability to live in the moment and not get too far ahead or behind. Behind was pointless. No reason to waste energy on what couldn’t be changed. Ahead wasn’t much better, particularly when there were a host of options, and my control over which path I trod was limited to circumstances well beyond my control.

  “Momma?” Geir’s expression sobered, and he unhooked his claws from my arm.

  “Yes. I’m ready,” I lied my ass off and determined who else was in our group beyond Bjorn, Zelli, and Quade. I’d nearly called them “our dragons” in my mind, but that would be a huge mistake. They didn’t answer to us. Gwydion, Bran, and Thor rounded out our small contingent.

  The Celts didn’t surprise me, but Thor did. Never known for keeping my mouth shut when I should, I looked straight at him. “Are you sure you’re supposed to be here?”

  The corners of his generous mouth twitched beneath their curtain of red whiskers. “Does my presence offend you?”

  Heat rose to my face. I’d just sunk to a new level of rudeness, even for me. “Not at all. I was just…eh, never mind.” To mask my discomfiture—as if I could do anything about my cheeks, which were probably bright red—I took a step back and surveyed the other five groups.

  Nidhogg, Arawn, and Hel led one. Dewi and Ysien another. Odin a third. Freya and a man who could have been her twin a fourth. I assumed the blond giant was her brother Frey, Norse god of many things including peace, fertility, and crops. For the first time, I noticed a shiny gold torc around Freya’s neck fairly bursting with power. Clearly an artifact of some type, it piqued my curiosity. I caught Bjorn’s eye and mouthed, “Necklace.”

  “Aye, it’s Brisingamen. Much like the amulet you no longer have, it concentrates her power.”

  His answer in telepathy told me I’d been wise not to ask her about the item. I felt certain it had always been there, but until now, she’d chosen to keep it hidden.

  The two giants I’d met in Jotunheim headed up the last group. It took me a moment to locate their names: Krivar and Brios. Garbed as they’d been the first time I saw them, they wore leather breeches topped by jackets made of furry hides. They’d traded their wooden clogs for knee-high lace-up boots.

  Krivar’s black hair tumbled around his shoulders, and dark eyes sat beneath thick, hairy brows. A broad, flat forehead, hooked nose, square chin, and blunt beige teeth gave him a doltish appearance, but Bjorn had made certain I knew the giants were far smarter than they looked. By contrast, Brios was quite fair. White hair was skinned back from his forehead and captured in a length of leather. His eyes were an unusual icy blue.

  Dragons had been evenly divided among the groups, which meant at least twenty dragons apiece. Except ours. We had two—three if you counted Geir. And yeah, an enormous part of me was still on the verge of snapping him up in a spell and making a run for it. Except I couldn’t do that to Bjorn and the dragons. They’d been decent to me. Exiting stage left and leaving Odin and the Celts holding the bag wouldn’t bother me at all.

  Well, maybe a little bit. Like I said, I’ve never been a quitter.

  Nidhogg trumpeted, and the many side conversations dropped away. Odin joined him and said, “Remain in your groups as you travel. Combine magic to ensure everyone is included. Ye and ye”—he pointed to Frey and the Jotunheim giants—“will position your troops at the barrier holding the outer borderworlds separate from other worlds.”

  “Kill everything, eh?” Krivar punched the air with an enormous fist.

  “Only those intent on fleeing,” Nidhogg clarified.

  “Aye, spare any who are stupid enough to cross into the outer borderworlds,” Odin said. “Those worlds will wither if they remain uninhabited for too long.”

  “We shall repair the breach,” Dewi spoke up. “To ensure those still in the outer borderworlds remain there.”

  “Aye, and we shall round up the dead and attempt to re-establish dominion over them.” Hel nodded Arawn’s way. “Nidhogg offered his magic to discover—and destroy—whatever is keeping the shades from accepting our summons.”

  Tension settled over my shoulders until standing straight grew hard. Two groups remained. Ours and Odin’s. And two malevolent loose ends. The one-two punch of the Morrigan, and possibly Loki, and the unknown numbers of those who’d been exiled to the outer borderworlds.

  They were a huge unknown, and one we hadn’t granted so much as five minutes of discussion. That was a problem I could address. After a brief internal skirmish about raising my hand—I decided not to—I projected my voice. “I’d like information about the inhabitants of the outer borderworlds who aren’t dead yet.”

  Odin twisted until his single gray eye burned a hole through me. “Why?” he growled.

  “I like to be prepared. Do you have any idea how many there are? What percentage of them wield magic? And how many got roped into Loki and Cadir’s scheming?”

  Odin’s severe veneer slid a notch, not much more than that, and he said, “Nay. No idea. No
estimates, either.”

  “Dragon fire will take care of them.” A green dragon from Odin’s group sounded uber-confident. But such was the nature of dragons.

  “Was Cadir the only dragon on the outer borderworlds?” The sound of Bjorn’s voice surprised me.

  “Aye. He was the only dragon ever forced out of Fire Mountain.” Ysien sounded as if he’d bitten through a box of nails.

  “Next question.” Bjorn was on a roll, but no one had told him to shut up. “Krivar.”

  The giant mock bowed. “Aye, Master Sorcerer?”

  “Has Loki escaped Jotunheim?”

  “He was still there at the point when we left,” the giant replied.

  I’d been listening with my magical senses and heard both truth and hedging in his answer. “There’s more,” I said flatly, not inclined to play games.

  “He is working up to things,” Krivar rumbled. “Each attempt brings him closer and closer to breaking his shackles.”

  “Are the elves not draining his magic?” Thor asked.

  “Aye. Daily, but it isna sufficient,” Brios said, “and they lack enough innate power to bleed him more frequently.”

  “All the more reason to hurry,” Odin said.

  For once, I agreed with the old fucker. But I also wanted time to stand still. If I could freeze-frame this moment, the one before Geir was thrust into the midst of ugliness that could never be erased, I would.

  “My contingent will float,” Odin went on. “If anyone requires additional muscle, we will pitch in.”

  “That leaves us,” Gwydion said. “I would ken your assignment.”

  “So ye can argue with it?” Odin tossed back.

  “Pfft. So I ken what your expectations are.” Gwydion stretched to his full height, impressive for a Celt, but nothing to write home about in a room full of dragons and giants. Maybe getting suckered by Yggdrasil’s spell had taken a toll on his arrogance.

  “Come on, mate. Get on with things so we can get moving.” Gwydion slammed his glowing staff down on the floor.

  Heh. Guess I’d been wrong about his run-in with the One Tree altering anything. Just as full of hubris as ever, he’d clearly blocked out the incident in Bjorn’s courtyard.

  Thinking about it brought Bjorn’s blade collection to mind. They’d been forged for a reason. He had two with him, one short and one long, but what about the others?

  Before Odin could answer Gwydion, I spoke up. “This question is for Nidhogg. You told Bjorn he needed an assortment of magic-imbued blades. Will he require the others for our upcoming endeavor?”

  The dragon lord’s whirling eyes skewered me and then moved to the scabbard and knife sheath belts circling Bjorn’s body. He tilted his head back, and I felt a primitive spell build as red- and ochre-shaded air glistened around him. The enchantment grew in strength until a great weight bore down on me. Determined not to let it push me to the ground, I widened my stance and concentrated on moving air in and out of my lungs. No small task.

  The old G-force simulators I’d read about years back couldn’t have been any more uncomfortable. No one else seemed particularly bothered by Nidhogg’s casting, or maybe I didn’t notice because I was fighting so hard not to let it get the better of me.

  A brilliant flash was followed by the clatter of steel on stones as the remainder of Bjorn’s arsenal clattered to the rocky floor.

  “Are ye quite done?” Odin asked Nidhogg.

  The golden dragon dusted his forelegs together. “Are ye finding fault with my magic? ’Twas an elegant spell. No wasted magic at all. Neat. Clean. Fast—”

  “’Twas quicker than sending the Master Sorcerer back to Vanaheim,” Odin admitted sourly and turned his attention to Gwydion. “Ye may like this. Or not. Your group is shy on dragons because your part in our task requires stealth. And a verra small dragon to take on a key job.”

  “Meeeee,” Geir squealed, bouncing from foot to foot.

  A fist squeezed around my heart so hard it may have quit beating for a moment or two before it stuttered back into action. “You could have talked with me first,” I growled.

  Bjorn closed a hand over one of my shoulders. His way of telling me to shut up. Once he was reasonably certain I had a lid on my fury—and my panic—he trotted to where the pile of blades was and sorted them, ending up with a broadsword, a long blade, and two shorter knives.

  I waited, mouth dry, heart pounding, to hear my son’s fate.

  “Because the rest of us are staging a frontal attack,” Odin went on after a pause that seemed to last years, “our enemy will not anticipate any of us behind them. Channels run through the broken places in the barrier separating the outer borderworlds from other worlds. I know because I have mapped them. ’Twas what I was engaged in these past few days. The small dragon—”

  “My son has a name,” I gritted.

  “Silence,” Odin commanded. Norse magic settled over me like a shroud. It wasn’t insurmountable, and I immediately went to work separating its fibers. I needed to listen, too, though. So it slowed my escape. Damn Odin. He hadn’t gotten to where he was by being dim-witted.

  “The small dragon, Geir”—Odin emphasized the name he’d left out—“will enter the northernmost of the channels and follow it to the largest of the outer borderworlds. Those with human forms will be right behind him. “Gwydion. Bran. Bjorn. Rowan. Thor.”

  “What makes you so certain I will fit?” Thor asked.

  “I will hollow out the tunnel and make certain.” Geir’s clear ringing voice filled me with pride. And dread. I hated enclosed spaces. Ones where you had zero maneuverability and couldn’t turn around.

  “And us?” Quade inquired in an expressionless tone.

  “This is where it gets dicey,” Nidhogg stepped in. “Ye willna fit through the channel, so ye must teleport directly to the borderworld. Along with Zelli, of course. Ye will be there when the remainder of your team emerges, and ye will guard their egress onto the borderworld. All of you. Open your minds to me, I shall share the coordinates of the exit point.”

  I sliced through the remainder of Odin’s silencing shroud, vindicated as it fell about me in streamers.

  “Not bad.” Odin cast an appraising glance my way. “I would have hoped for a few more moments of peace, but—”

  “Slight change in plans,” I cut in not caring how rude, bitchy, or overbearing he thought me. Before he could tell me to go fuck myself—or worse, encase me in a thicker spell—I plowed ahead. “I will go into the tunnel first. That way if we encounter a forward attack, Geir will not bear the brunt of it.”

  “But, Momma,” Geir began.

  “This isn’t up for discussion,” I told him and meant it.

  “Take the blades,” Ysien said.

  Confused, I looked around to figure out who the hell he was talking to. Bjorn already resembled a knight errant who’d outfitted himself from a secondhand weapons yard.

  “He means you.” Bjorn handed me a slender longsword and a dirk. About the same length as the one I always wore, but much beefier, it sported a serrated blade that looked damned lethal.

  A woman can never have too many knives, so I found ways to fasten them to my body. Both had scabbards—and belts. The two of them felt clunky, but there wasn’t a way to consolidate their straps.

  When I looked up, Odin was staring at me. “No more arguments?”

  “Not sure about arguments.” Gwydion’s tone was smooth and threaded with the same do-it-my-way castings I remembered from my childhood. After being caught up in a similarly imbued spell once, I’d given him a very wide berth. Perhaps he’d left me alone after that incident too. I’d thrown all the magic I commanded at him in my struggle to break free. And won. In retrospect, maybe a half- or quarter-dose of my power would have been enough.

  We’d never talked about it, but I was certain my ability had shocked him. Once I’d made good on my escape, I’d left him standing gape-jawed in one of Inverlochy’s many basements.

  Just another c
harming memory from my miserable childhood. I swallowed my distrust and antipathy for all things Celtic, reminding myself those days were long gone. I wasn’t a puny kid anymore. And I’d probably always underestimated my abilities—because no one believed in me until I took up with the witches.

  Thinking about them made me sad. And determined. We had to shut the breach, corral the shades, and take out their unprincipled overseers: the living who’d been thrown to the dogs on the outer borderworlds. I didn’t truly believe we could do much about the Morrigan or Loki, but maybe I was selling all of us down the river on that one.

  As long as the Morrigan was free and Loki was, well, himself, there’d be no true respite. For any of us.

  Gwydion had begun talking again. “Perhaps Bran and I could travel astride the dragons and be part of the forward guard to maintain the integrity of everyone else’s entrance onto the borderworld.”

  Bjorn didn’t wait for Odin’s pronouncement. He spun to face Gwydion, swords clanking together with his sudden movement. “No. Not just no, but hell no. My son will be in that tunnel. And my wife. What if we run into trouble?”

  “I will be there too,” Thor said softly, adding, “What kind of cowards are you?” Though his question held the same easygoing tone, it must have stung. I gloried in the expression on Gwydion’s smug face. Bran was harder to read, and I had no idea if he’d even known what Gwydion was about to suggest.

  “And then there is the small matter of dragon-riding,” Zelli said. “I dinna offer ye leave to sit astride me.”

  “Nor I,” Quade boomed.

  Gwydion shrugged. “Fine. ’Twas a bad idea.” He was doing his best to save face, but I went for the jugular.

  “None of us like enclosed spaces,” I said sweetly.

  “Ye’re scarcely trained as a warrior,” he tossed my way.

  “And just think how good a job you might have done if you’d given a shit,” I shot back. “You had access to me throughout my childhood, my formative years—”

  “Enough,” Nidhogg roared. “Ye are not helping anything.”