Last Dragon Standing

Book 4: Dragon Kin

by G.A. Aiken

Genres: Action & Adventure Romance; Shifters

Synopsis

I know what they see when they look at me. The charming, soft-spoken dragoness bred from the most powerful of royal bloodlines. A disguise stronger than any battle shield that allows me to keep all suitors at tail's length. A technique that's worked until him. Until Ragnar the Cunning, handsome barbarian warlord and warrior mage from the desolate Northlands. Unlike those who've come before him, he does not simply submit to my astounding charm and devastating smile. Instead, he dismisses me as vapid, useless and, to my great annoyance, rather stupid!



Yet I'll allow no male to dismiss me. Soon he'll learn my worth, my many skills, and the strength of my will. For this one challenges me enough to make me want to ruthlessly taunt him, tease him and, finally, when the trap is set, bring him to his knees.



Contains mature themes.

Release date: September 1, 2010

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 481

Sample

“The queen knows we have her daughter?”

Ragnar the Cunning of the Olgeirsson Horde nodded at his brother Vigholf’s question.

“And she told you to do what you want with her?”

Again, he nodded.

Vigholf shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

And neither did Ragnar. He didn’t understand any mother—royal or low-born—who seemed to have so little concern for her own offspring. Even one as annoying and devious as the royal pain in the ass currently plotting away in the cave behind them.

Wearing nothing but a gown two sizes too large for her human frame, shackles, and a Magickally infused collar that prevented her from shifting to her natural She-dragon form, Princess Keita of the House of Gwalchmai fab Gwyar had managed to enrapture nearly every male on this venture without doing much more than being a rather dim-witted beauty. She giggled, she teased, she tormented. To be quite honest, Ragnar had hoped the royal’s mother would demand her return this very evening so that he could be rid of the brat before she turned blood relation against blood relation. But the last thing Queen Rhiannon had said about her daughter would stay with him for a very long time: “Keep her. Let her go. Makes me no never mind.”

Ragnar could never imagine his own mother saying those words about him or any of his brothers and one sister. Although he could imagine his father Olgeir, Dragonlord of the Olgeirsson Horde, saying it.

“Well,” one of his cousins said, getting to his feet. They’d all remained in their human forms because it was easier to hide from the Fire Breathers that way while on Southland territory. “If they don’t want her, we’ll keep her then.”

Ragnar looked at his brother, and Vigholf quickly lowered his head to hide his laughter. He’d warned Vigholf this would happen if they spent another moment with that viperous female. “We’re not keeping her.”

“Why the hells not?”

Ragnar thought about throttling the young pup, but decided against it. “Because we don’t do that anymore.”

“But if her own mum said—”

“If you want a female, boy, you’ll have to do it like everyone else—charm her, seduce her, get her to fall in love with you.”

Ragnar’s cousins glanced back and forth between them before one asked, “And how do we do that then?”

Vigholf’s laugh exploded out of him, and Ragnar headed back into the cave, grumbling all the way.

He was exhausted, worn down, and had much more work to do before he left this overly heated land and the last thing he intended to deal with was the idiotic questions of his idiotic kin.

This had all started so simply a few days ago. News of his father having caught the foolish Southland royal on Northland territory had reached Ragnar, and with the help of his brother, he’d moved quickly. He’d planned on sneaking back into his one-time home with the help of his mother, but while on his way she’d urgently contacted him through the lines of Magick and told him that the royal had managed to escape. He’d caught the princess not far from his father’s mountain base and used the underground tunnels to bring her back to her homelands. From there, he’d planned to negotiate an alliance with the Southland Dragon Queen that would allow him to take over the Olgeirsson Horde and, should all go well, the Northland territories. Unifying the Hordes would be his first step—keeping them unified his next.

But the queen had surprised him. Not only had she known from the beginning that Ragnar had her daughter, she’d known that Olgeir had had her daughter before—and she’d done absolutely nothing about it.

Times like this he was grateful the gods had blessed him with his mother, although he did wish that the gods had given her a mate more deserving of her beauty and wisdom than Olgeir the Wastrel.

Ragnar walked down the long cavern until he reached the alcove where they’d placed the princess. He stopped right outside, his teeth gritting as he watched the oldest of his cousins, Meinhard, hold a chalice of wine up to the royal’s lips. Her dark brown eyes focused solely on the big male, Princess Keita sipped from the cup, her small fingers lying over Meinhard’s big ones. When she’d had enough, she leaned back, her tongue swiping her bottom lip, then her top.

He could hear his cousin growling from here, and Ragnar had no patience for it.

“Out,” Ragnar ordered, walking in to the alcove.

Not remotely as intimidated by him as the younger dragons, Meinhard slowly stood tall and said, “I think I’ll stay.”

Ragnar knew his kin had yet to accept him as their leader. With his father still alive and well, Olgeir’s grip tight over the Horde, it wasn’t surprising. But Meinhard, like the others, would have to learn that Ragnar brooked no disobedience.

Flicking his wrist and muttering a small chant, Ragnar sent his cousin sailing out of the alcove, the wine cup flying across the stone floor.

“You bastard!” Meinhard yelled from outside the cavern.

Ignoring him, Ragnar stepped up to the royal. He could see what had his kin so tantalized, even though it was only her petite human form they’d seen since they’d caught her escaping his father’s clutches. All that dark red hair reaching to her knees, perfectly etched cheekbones, a small nose with a light spattering of freckles across the bridge, and those amazingly full lips. But for Ragnar it was those dark brown eyes that held him in thrall. They were endless, a fathomless dark pit any male could get lost in. Too bad Ragnar had no intention of being any male—no matter how much he might wish he was at the moment.

“Well?” she asked, her voice low. “What do you intend to do with me, my lord?”

Ragnar didn’t answer right away, his mind too busy turning, wondering what the pair of them could do together with nothing more than a mattress and a week’s supply of food and water. So she yawned, using it as an excuse to lift her shackled hands over her head and stretch her entire body in one long, sinuous line. Then she smiled. The most seductive of smiles that Ragnar had ever seen. He almost hated her for that smile alone.

Ragnar waved his hand, and the shackles fell away, one of them slamming against the top of the royal’s head.

“Ow! You barbaric oaf!”

He almost laughed because there she was. The true spoiled royal, and the reason it had been necessary to shackle her in the first place. She’d tried running away several times during their journey, and Ragnar had gotten fed up with it. She had nowhere to go so far underground, so all she’d managed to do was delay them.

Ragnar turned from her and headed toward the exit. He was hungry and longed for sleep. He had a meeting with the queen in a few hours, and he needed at least a little rest.

“Wait.”

He stopped, sighed, and faced her. “What?”

She stood, pointed at the collar around her throat. “What about this?”

“It will fall off once you’re clear of this place and my kin.” The last thing he needed was for her to turn into her natural form here, now, sending his kin into new feats of stupidity once they got a good look at her tail. “Now go.”

“That’s it? But…what did you get for me?”

“Get for you?”

“From my kin? How much gold?” She lifted her chin. “I’m sure I was worth quite a lot, but that won’t protect you from my brothers when they find out what you did to me.”

“I rescued you.”

“I rescued myself. But nice try.”

Did she really think his father would have let her go? Did she really think Olgeir wouldn’t have caught her before she got off Horde territory? And Ragnar’s father did things the Old Way when challenged. Princess Keita would have lost at least one wing and been handed over to the most brutish of Ragnar’s kin as retribution for her escape. In the end, she would have ended up just like Ragnar’s mother. The only difference being that Ragnar’s mother was the epitome of class and breeding and a good mind. Princess Keita, however, was everything royals were rumored to be. Weak, silly, and a waste of Ragnar’s time and energy. No matter how gorgeous or enticing.

“Call it what you like,” he told her. “But either way, you can go.”

“Just like that?”

“Yes. Just like that.”

She went up on her toes, trying to peer around his shoulders. “Is there no one here to escort me?”

“No.” He would offer one of his cousins, but that would be a bad idea right now.

The royal studied him for several long moments until she slammed her hands on her hips. “What did that old cow give you to release me? And don’t lie, barbarian. I always know when I’m being lied to.”

She didn’t want him to lie, he wouldn’t. “She gave me nothing.”

“So no alliance?” She shook her head as if she pitied him. “You idiot.”

Ragnar blinked. “Pardon?”

“How could you be so stupid? Were you rude to her? Was that it? Gods, you really are as oafish as your father, aren’t you?”

There were no other words she could have said to cause more damage than those.

Completely oblivious, she raised her hands and said, “Don’t panic. I’m sure I can fix it. I’ll talk to my father. I’m sure I can convince him to—”

“No, no, my lady. You misunderstand.” And Ragnar couldn’t help smiling a little. “Your mother made no offer for you, but the alliance will still move forward. I meet her in a few hours to discuss details.”

Her arms fell to her sides. “The alliance is still in play?”

“Oh yes. The queen didn’t seem interested in you at all, though. Perhaps if I’d taken your sister instead. Morfyd the…White? Yes? Perhaps then things would have played out differently. But, as it is, you’ve had no effect whatsoever on the proceedings.”

The royal stared at him, her beautiful mouth opening and closing several times. Ragnar felt as if he’d struck her—and was appalled by it. Immediately he went toward her to soothe, terrified he’d see tears, and he didn’t know how to handle tears. But the royal didn’t cry…she screamed. She screamed like something that had crawled out of a demon pit.

“That vicious cunty whore!”

Shocked, Ragnar took a step back and watched the royal pace, her arms waving dramatically over her head, while she called her own mother all sorts of vile names that even the worst pirates would never use.

His kin charged into the cavern, concerned something had happened to their delicate little princess, all of them halting by Ragnar’s side.

“I’d kill the bitch myself if I actually thought she’d stay dead! But demons live forever.” She faced them. “Don’t they?”

All but Ragnar nodded at her insane bellowing, and when she swung her arms wildly at them, screaming, “All of you—out of my way!” they all did as she bade.

She stormed out, but returned a moment later, her rage seemingly—and disturbingly—gone as she asked Ragnar, “You enjoyed telling me that—about my mother. Didn’t you?”

“Yes,” he replied. “I guess I did.” How could he not enjoy it, seeing as it allowed him to reveal the royal’s true nature to his kin? Now they’d see the dim-witted princess for what she really was: a cursing, snarling, spoiled royal with the most amazing ass ever created by the gods—No, wait. What?

“Good,” she told him. “Enjoy that feeling while you can, Lord Ragnar.”

“Why? What do you think you can do to me?” And when Meinhard punched him in the back for his rudeness, Ragnar totally ignored the pain.

She smiled—his kin sighing around him—and reached up with one hand, fingers stroking Ragnar’s jaw, his neck, trailing down to a spot on his chest. When she was done, she stepped back, gave a small bow of her head. “My lords.”

Then she daintily lifted the hem of her skirt so it didn’t drag on the ground, and left them all standing there, gazing after her.

“That, lads,” Meinhard sighed after she’d gone, “is a fine lady and should be treated as such.”

And several hours later, after his father had been killed by human females, an alliance was in place with the Fire Breathers, and Ragnar was busy trying to staunch the excessive flow of blood caused by a vengeful princess, he’d remember exactly how big a lot of idiots he’d been cursed with as kin!

Two years later…

Was he supposed to be dead?

Keita the Red Viper Dragon of Despair and Death—Keita the Viper, for short—leaned in a little closer and sniffed the male human lying prone in his bed.

He definitely smelled dead. And she could hear no heartbeat, nor the sound of blood rushing through tiny little human veins. All things she could easily do when a living being was anywhere within a one hundred–foot radius of her.

But this human, the Outerplains Baron Lord Bampour that once was, was not supposed to be dead. Not yet. Not until she’d actually killed him.

Letting out a breath, Keita stood straight and placed her hands on her hips. She wore a gown given to her by the late Baron Lord, made of the finest silks gold coin could buy. She also had on the bracelet he’d given her, a thick gold bangle, and the matching necklace. She hadn’t asked for these things, but, as happened with most needy males, he’d happily given them to her. She knew why, too. In the hopes that she’d give him a lusty ride and enthusiastic cries of ecstasy…blah, blah, blah.

Males were all the same. A few compliments, a sweet smile, a little teasing, and Keita would be inundated with goods she’d never asked for and didn’t necessarily want. She didn’t mind, though. If males wanted to give her things, why should she stop them? What irritated her, though, what had always irritated her, was the belief some men had that a few gifts would somehow gain them access to her bed. They didn’t. In fact, Keita chose her bedmates as carefully as she chose the accessories for a particular gown. Males on a whole were far too irritating for her to ever think of letting those who brought nothing but gifts, and little else, into her life.

As she explained to a friend once, “I’ll take their gifts, but that doesn’t mean I’ll take their cocks.”

So she’d taken the Baron Lord’s gifts. Happily, for unlike some, he had excellent taste. She’d also put up with him for the last three weeks. Him and his son. She’d bedded neither and had had no intention of doing so. Mostly because she had no desire to, but also because Keita had come here with a purpose. For Bampour had crossed a line that made him a danger to those Keita loved. Too bad, though, someone had beaten her to the task. Especially since she was ever so good at taking care of such things.

Debating whether she should get rid of the body herself, she heard it. An extra heartbeat in the room that did not belong to the late Baron Lord since his heart had already stopped beating.

Keita looked over her shoulder, eyes narrowing on a dark corner. That’s when the human came rushing out. She wore only a sheet, blond hair loose around her shoulders, small blade slashing wildly.

Keita grabbed the woman’s wrist and twisted, putting her on her knees. She thought about breaking that wrist just because the little bitch had come dangerously close to cutting Keita’s precious face, but the banging on the door quickly pulled that option from the table.

“Open this door!”

Keita looked down at the woman. She could snap her neck and be gone, but it didn’t seem right when the blond had only done what needed to be done anyway.

“It’s your lucky day, wench,” she said over the continued banging.

Keita released the human and ran to the largest of the windows. She pushed it open. It was small but would do. “Ren!” she called out.

“I’m here.”

“Hold on then!”

The woman watched Keita rush back to her. “What are you going to—eeeh!”

Keita swung the human up into her arms, spun on her heel for a little momentum, and flung the female through the open window. Poor thing squealed until strong arms outside that window caught her.

“Got her!”

“Take her. Go.”

“What about—”

“Go!”

“Break it open!” someone yelled from the other side of the door.

A second later, the door flew open and guards marched in. The Baron Lord’s aide walked in behind the guards. He looked Keita over, his lip curling in disgust. They hadn’t liked each other from the beginning. Then he focused on the bed. He walked over quickly and pressed his fingers to the Baron Lord’s throat. “Get the Baron Lord’s son,” he ordered one guard. When the guard ran off, the aide paced in front of Keita.

“I know how this looks—” she began.

“Silence!”

Her arms crossed in front of her chest, Keita told him, “Well, you don’t have to be rude about it!”

 

Good day, my little thunderstorm!

Ragnar the Cunning of the Olgeirsson Horde sighed loudly and said without thought, “Do not call me those pet names, insolent female.”

“What?”

Shit, piss, and death. He’d forgotten he wasn’t alone. No. He was in an extremely long meeting with the representatives of the other Hordes he and his kin hadn’t crushed beneath their claws. An important meeting since the war of the last two years was nearly behind them and a time of peace was—he hoped—sometime in their future.

Then again, if the other Hordes all thought he was mad, the peace he hoped for could easily slip away.

I’m not going away, a singsong voice said in his head. She always said these things in that singsong voice. It irritated him beyond all reason, and Ragnar was all about reason.

Knowing she truly would not go away, Ragnar lifted off his haunches and said, “If you all will excuse me, Vigholf will keep things going until my return.”

Vigholf, one side of his mouth raised in a grin, nodded and returned his attention to the representatives. Vigholf knew who drove his brother insane, and he found it amusing. “She never calls to me,” he’d whined more than once, forcing Ragnar to lob a boulder at his sibling’s head. Most of the time, though, Vigholf moved out of the way fast enough to avoid any real damage.

Ragnar walked through the Olgeirsson stronghold, which had been passed down from generation to generation for thousands of years, from dragonlord to dragonlord. Yet it was rarely handed over like someone passing the cream. Instead it was usually taken. It would have been taken from Ragnar’s father as Olgeir the Wastrel had taken it from his father, but Ragnar never had the chance. His father, so determined to bring his son to heel, had stupidly followed him into the Southlands and had fallen to the swords of human females. Although Ragnar had not allowed the truth of that to spread past the Southland borders. Going against his innate sense of pride, Ragnar had claimed that kill as his own. Not because he wanted to, but because it was necessary. To be the son of a dragonlord who couldn’t fight off two women was to come from a weak bloodline, something Ragnar and his siblings simply could not afford if he hoped to calm the unrest his father had been stirring up for centuries by being a right bastard.

Through caverns and alcoves he moved, trying his best to ignore the humming inside his head. Yes. She was humming. In his head. He hated humming in general. It was one of those annoying habits many had that, to Ragnar, only proved their weakness. People couldn’t stand the silence, the quiet, so they hummed. But this female…she hummed because she knew it annoyed him. She enjoyed that it annoyed him.

“I’d have been better off selling my soul to demons from the underworld than this wench.”

What was that? I didn’t hear you clearly, my raging tsunami.

Gods, and the nicknames. He hated nicknames almost as much as he hated humming.

Honestly, Ragnar had met some brutal females over the last two and a half centuries of his existence, but none quite like this one. None who seemed as heartless as the Northlands were cold. But she’d served a purpose these last two years. A purpose that he could not now ignore because she wore at his brain the way sand wore at his scales.

Ragnar walked out onto one of the mountain plateaus. Brutal winds from the nearby ocean brought ice and snow across his field of vision and nearly froze his claws to the ground beneath him. Few of his kin knew why he came out here, where it was icy cold whether summer or winter, spring or fall. But his kin couldn’t feel the Magick that came up through this sacred space. Only he and those who studied the Magickal arts knew the true worth of a place like this, a worth that made risking the freezing winds and ice quite rational.

Ragnar closed his eyes and raised his left front claw. He called to the gods who watched over him and his Horde, who endowed him with powers that few of his kind were lucky enough to ever have. The Horde dragons, like all Northlanders, were about war and strength and battle skills. They also believed that Magick was for the old females who lived alone in caves or small houses talking to their gods, or for males not worthy of picking up a sword or a warhammer. Magick was definitely not for dragonlords who hoped to eventually rule not only one Horde but many. Perhaps all. But Ragnar never bothered to fool himself on how far he could go among his own kind. His time as Dragonlord Chief of all the Hordes would not last long. He knew that, understood it, and already had plans to transition the title and most of the power to his brother. Vigholf didn’t know that, though. Not yet. Why bother him with the little details?

And although not being Dragonlord Chief until his last breath was something that should bother Ragnar, it didn’t. He’d known from early on that his life would never be simple. If he’d chosen one path or the other, either warrior or mage, his kin would be fine with that. Yet he’d chosen both paths. Ragnar simply couldn’t imagine not getting up early in the morning, at the coldest part of the day in the Northlands, and training hard with his favorite sword and ax. He also could not imagine not going to the ocean when the moon was at its fullest, and offering up a sacrifice of his blood to the gods. All of these things were a part of him; he refused to choose one over the other.

Yet raw ambition had never been Ragnar’s goal. To see how far he could go in the shortest amount of time. What an empty, useless goal. Instead, he simply wanted more for his people. For the Horde dragons who populated the mighty Northland Mountains he wanted more than the hard life they’d all endured for so many eons. Yet that didn’t mean they needed to be as ridiculously lazy as the Southland dragons; or constantly dazzled by their own brilliance like the Eastlanders; or superior to all beings that had or ever would live, like the Iron dragons of the west; or purposely cut off and removed from everything outside their own territories like the Sand dragons. In other words, Ragnar wanted more for his kind than merely a higher level of being annoying.

The brutal winds faded away, and the warmth of the two suns beat down upon Ragnar’s head. He opened his eyes and saw her. She stood by a tree, picking the ripe fruit with her tail and watching him.

“Hello, my cheery squall,” she said, smiling. So many fangs for a dragoness not yet that old. All bright white and twinkling like stars in the sky.

Ragnar dipped his head and said, “Queen Rhiannon. You summoned me.”

“I did, Dragonlord. I did.” She pulled a fruit down and tossed it to him. Ragnar caught it, marveling at the feel of it in his claw. Gods, now this was power. She’d not only created a space for them to meet between worlds, but a space where everything felt real and was real. The grass beneath his claws, the light wind blowing against his neck, the crows and hawks playing in the trees. Ragnar could never create something like this. He wasn’t powerful enough. But he hoped to be. One day.

“So you are finally Dragonlord Chief of the Hordes.”

“At the moment.”

“Gods. Are there already those trying to take it from you? Do you Lightnings not rest?”

“It’s not that someone’s trying to take my title away. Instead, when the time is right, I plan to hand it to my brother.”

Her white head cocked to the side, her white horns glinting in the sunlight. “You’d give up your power?”

“I’d do what is best for my people, lady.”

She let out a little laugh, her white claw covering her snout. “You are just so damn adorable.”

 

“It wasn’t me, you fool,” Keita continued to argue. “I didn’t kill the old bastard. And you can’t prove otherwise.”

“Really?” The aide stopped in front of her and caught hold of her hand. He turned it, palm up, and peeled back the sleeve of her gown. “And what’s this then, my lady?” He snatched the vial she’d tied to her wrist and uncorked it. He sniffed. “Kitto Bloom.” He held up the vial. “Three drops of this on the tongue and your victim would be dead in seconds.”

“Very true. But there’d be much more blood and some suffering. Look at him. He clearly didn’t suffer. So it couldn’t have been the Kitto Bloom, which means it wasn’t me!” She smiled, proud of her logic.

“Right,” the aide said.

“Right,” Keita said, her grin growing wider.

The aide motioned to the guards. “Take this murdering bitch to the dungeons.”

“Dungeons? But I already explained that it wasn’t me. This is a complete injustice!”

Two guards grabbed her arms and pulled her out of the room.

“You’ll regret this, servant!”

They took her down the backstairs and through the kitchens. With more guards falling in behind them, they all took another set of stairs down into the bowels of the Baron Lord’s fortress.

They took Keita to a large cell filled with at least ten men.

“See how you like spending your time with these blokes, you murdering whore!”

They shoved her inside and slammed the cell door behind her.

“But it wasn’t me!” she yelled, which they completely ignored. “Well…aren’t you at least going to give me something to eat? I haven’t had first meal yet. I’m starving!”

Laughing at her, the guards locked the gate, and one of the men ordered an enormous dog with a spiked collar, “Watch her, boy. If she sticks an arm out, tear it off.” The guards laughed more and walked off.

Annoyed and truly starving, Keita stamped her bare foot and crossed her arms over her chest. “This isn’t fair. You should at least feed your prisoners.”

Hoping the guards would return with some food, she faced the other prisoners.

“I can assure you I’ve murdered no one. Today,” she told them. “Nor am I a whore. Unless, of course, you’re talking to my sister. But she doesn’t count because she’s an uptight prissy tail.”

One of the prisoners, a very large, swarthy fellow, slowly stood. Keita watched him, but after about three steps in her direction, he stopped, swallowed, and backed up again.

Not surprising, really. Keita had found over the years that predators knew predators. And smart predators knew when they were in the presence of something much more dangerous than they could ever hope to be.

Already bored beyond all reckoning, Keita again faced the front of the cell. She knew she could shift to her natural form and escape this dungeon. True, she was small compared to many She-dragons, but her true form would still go through at least the kitchen and servants quarters above and possibly the floor above that. Plus she’d destroy at least three of the walls around her and many humans. Not only the bastards who’d put her here, but possibly the sweet servant girl who combed her hair at night, the old baker who always made sure to set aside treats for her, and the house maid who kept her laughing with all sorts of castle gossip. Killing them would be unfair in Keita’s estimation, since their only mistake would be that they were merely in the wrong place at the wrong time.

No, Keita didn’t like that idea at all. So she’d wait. She had talked herself out of worse situations—she’d do it again.

So Keita stared through all those bars hoping to see the guards returning with something to eat. When they didn’t, she rested her hands on two of the bars and that’s when the guard dog right outside her cell leaped at her, snarling and snapping at her hands.

She immediately pulled away and watched the crazed beast attack the bars again for good measure.

Keita smiled and said, “Why…hello there, you yummy-looking little thing you.”

 

“Do you hope to convince me, my little rain droplet, that you’d give up your power? We both know that sometimes it’s what’s behind the throne that is the true power. But tell me, my adorable lightning strike, does your brother know he’ll be your puppet? Or is he big and dim-witted like your father?”

“Is there a reason you summoned me, Queen Rhiannon?”

“Oooh. Terse. I must have struck a barbarian nerve.”

“Your Majesty…”

She held up a white claw. “Aye. There is a reason I’ve summoned you. I have need of a favor. Two favors, in fact.”

“And they are?”

“Well, one is my son.”

“Your son?”

“Yes. My youngest?”

Ragnar stared at her.

“He’s been with you for two years? So he could learn the illustrious warrior ways of the Lightnings?”

Ragnar still stared.

“He’s very tall? Very wide…very blue?”

“Oh. Right.” The idiot. Well…he wasn’t exactly an idiot. Just young. Very young. Offspring in the Northlands grew up fast, usually heading into battle before they were fifty winters. But the Southlanders babied their offspring and often those spoiled creatures weren’t ready for much until a century or more passed. The queen’s youngest had that issue. But because he was Southland royalty and the fact that Ragnar’s cousin Meinhard looked out for him, the warriors left him alone. Yet that, and the fact that the young dragon was very good at quickly and efficiently clearing out trees with his bare claws, was all that kept that idiot safe from daily sound beatings. Like Ragnar, the queen’s son liked to read, but he also liked to daydream and eat. By the gods, could that dragon eat. When they had to have additional cattle shipped in, Ragnar felt it was strictly due to that damn royal. And when he wasn’t eating, reading, or daydreaming, the Blue spent the rest of his time trying to sneak off so he could indulge his ridiculous whims with the tavern girls in the human towns below. He spent a lot of his time in the human towns.

Yet Ragnar never cared about any of this. Not really. For the royal had served a purpose. He represented the goodwill and alliance of the Southland Queen during a time of war among the Hordes. So Ragnar, Vigholf, and Meinhard made it their business to ensure the young royal was kept alive and mostly intact.

“Well,” the queen went on, “I want him to come home for a family feast that will take place in the next two weeks.”

That would work. If the royal went home, perhaps he’d never return. He was no longer needed, and it would be one less thing for Ragnar to worry about.

“Of course. He has my permission to go.”

“Excellent! And when will you two leave?”

Ragnar frowned, his instincts warning him of a trap. “Pardon?”

“You’re coming with him.” Did it ever occur to these royals to ask rather than order? No. Probably not.

“My lady, if you are fearing for his safety, my best warriors will be—”

“You, Dragonlord. You will accompany my son back to the Southland.”

“And why would I do that?”

“Simple. Because it would be a grave mistake for you not to bring my son back here.”

“I was hoping we were beyond threats, Queen Rhiannon.”

She came toward him then, moving in until there was only a tail-tip length between them. She dropped several more pieces of fruit at Ragnar’s claws before reaching out and pressing her own claw against the side of his jaw, her talons caressing him there. Amazing. He was still on that freezing plateau and she was thousands of leagues away in her court, but it was easy to forget all that when he could actually feel her touch against his scales.

“We are beyond threats, dear boy. We are. That’s why you must do this. Leave today, tonight—and bring my son. He’ll be a good excuse of why you have to be here.”

“An excuse?”

“Trust me, Ragnar.”

It was true, Queen Rhiannon could be luring him into a trap. She could have her Dragonwarriors waiting for him as soon as he crossed into Southland territories. She could do a lot of things. And yet…he didn’t think she’d bother.

“As you wish.”

It was brief, but he saw the relief that washed over her features before she dredged up that false smile, created specifically to hide any truth she might reveal.

“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 starte. . .