The Dragon Who Loved Me

Book 5: Dragon Kin

by G.A. Aiken

Genres: Humorous Fantasy

Synopsis

New York Times and USA Today bestselling author G.A. Aiken is widely celebrated for her compelling Dragon Kin series. In The Dragon Who Loved Me, Rhona the Fearless, first daughter of a proud warrior family, resents that she's not respected for her battle prowess by the male Northland dragons. But when one barbarian dragon becomes enamored with her, she begins to relish her influence over him.

Release date: May 26, 2011

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 400

Sample

She watched them move through the trees. They nearly blended in, but not quite. Not to her eyes.

For these enemy dragons, the Irons, trying to sneak into their camp had become a weekly occurrence. Not that she could blame them. After five years of a standstill war in this valley called Euphrasia, both sides had become tired of it all. The constant but ineffectual skirmishes, the occasional attempts to poison each other’s water supply. When would it end? When would this war become something they all talked about in the past tense?

Rhona the Fearless certainly didn’t know. She was merely a soldier in Her Majesty’s Army. She received her orders from commanders and made sure those orders were executed. She killed whenever necessary, and protected those who needed it. What she didn’t do was play politician. She was never involved in decisions that affected anything beyond the general safety of her troops. As a sergeant that was all she needed to be responsible for, and she was good at what she did.

Then again, she was one of the Cadwaladr Clan. Low-born warrior dragons of the Southlands who many said were born to kill. To destroy. Rhona’s mother, Bradana the Mutilator, would say those many were right, and to prove it, she expected all her offspring to become elite Dragonwarriors of Her Majesty’s Army. And almost all Bradana’s offspring did. Except her youngest daughters, triplets who had a few more years of battle training ahead of them before they were ready, and Bradana’s eldest. Except for Rhona.

Ahhh, nothing like thinking of a mother’s disappointment to keep one warm during watch in the Valley’s winter months. Yet those were deep, slightly bitter thoughts for another day. Right now, she had to deal with what was at hand—Iron dragons.

She’d grown up hearing tales of the Irons. Steel-colored fire breathers with white horns that curved toward their mouths who believed they should rule all under the banner of the one and only god they worshipped—Chramnesind, the Sightless One. In their estimation, the entire world should be their empire and all others—dragon, human, or otherwise—should be their willing slaves, bowing down before the Overlord Thracius, sacrificing only to Chramnesind. It was a philosophy Rhona’s kind didn’t much like. They barely tolerated having a queen and Elders, much less an overlord. So the Southland Dragon Queen’s armies and the Northland Hordes, once great enemies, had joined forces to stop Thracius and his soldiers. There was just one thing none of them had planned on: that the Irons had a huge army. More dragon soldiers than Rhona had ever seen before at one time. And fresh troops kept coming. Did they have a dragon factory pumping out full-grown soldiers, ready for battle? Rhona had begun to think so. For while the Southlanders and the Northlanders had battle skills on their side, the damn Irons had numbers and the regimented, disciplined attacks of their troops.

Thankfully, though, those currently trying to sneak in didn’t have large numbers on their side. There were about ten of the enemy dragons against Rhona and her triplet sisters. The siblings had been heading to the safety of the nearby Hesiod Mountains, where the Southland and Northland dragons had set up a stronghold, when Rhona had spotted the Irons. Now the siblings stood next to trees, the four of them blending in as Rhona had been taught to do by her mother when she was still too young even to fly. It was a skill she’d passed on to her siblings.

While the Irons moved closer, Rhona raised her hand and readied to give the signal. Her sisters gripped their weapons and shields tighter, a small identical smile on each of their faces as they eagerly awaited her next order. And Rhona was moments from giving that order, her arm about to slash down in an arc, when something big and not remotely subtle crashed through the trees. A small group of Lightnings must have caught sight of the Irons as well, about three of the purple-haired and purple-scaled bastards tearing from the opposite direction, pushing the enemy dragons right into Rhona and her sisters.

Rhona waited another beat, then gave the order. Her sisters moved quickly, silently. Unlike the Lightnings, there was no inelegance. No stomping or crashing like their Cadwaladr cousins either. Rhona had trained her sisters to move with methodical precision from the day they’d fought their way out of the egg. And that’s what they did now, cutting into the contingent of enemy soldiers.

Edana, as always, struck first. Her broadsword slammed through the snout of the first dragon charging right into her. She cut through nostrils and bone, right into brain, twisting her blade once before yanking it out. Nesta spun around Edana and used her mace to crack the faceplate of the next Iron, following that up by ramming the tip of her tail into his skull while simultaneously cracking the breastplate of another and finishing him off with her mace. Breena, however, enjoyed the close-up kill. And although she had a sword, ax, and mace on her, she still used her long, curved slashing knife to finish off the job once she’d tackled her victim to the ground. Breena reminded Rhona the most of their mother.

While the triplets did what they did best, the Lightnings rushed forward—to help. To help the poor weak females.

Because after five bloody years, the Northlanders all still seemed to think that having females on the battlefield was too great a risk. A risk to the females, of course. Poor pathetic females that they were. Although after several bar fights with quite a few of Rhona’s female cousins and siblings at the heart of them, the Lightnings were now smart enough to keep that sentiment primarily to themselves. Except in situations like this when they felt females were in “grave danger.”

Yet Rhona didn’t rush in to help anyone. She knew her sisters could handle themselves. So, she waited. And, as she had come to expect lately, three Irons silently slipped through the trees on the opposite side of the fracas while the rest battled it out. These were the Elite Iron warriors. Much better trained than the foot soldiers. Smarter, faster, and excellent at ambushes.

It was too bad they made this particular move with a Cadwaladr nearby, though. As smart, fast, and sneaky as the Iron Elites might be, they still hadn’t been raised by a mother who’d taught Rhona to fly by sneaking up behind her while she quietly stood on the highest mountain in the region, grabbing her by her still-developing wings and flinging her off while yelling, “Whatever you do, luv . . . don’t look down!”

No. You’d have to be a lot craftier if you hoped to sneak by one of the Cadwaladr Clan.

Gripping her favorite spear, Rhona followed after the three Elites until she was only a few feet away from them. That’s when she allowed her tail to drag, just a little bit, behind her. The three males stopped and so did Rhona. She knew she shouldn’t enjoy this. As a soldier of Her Majesty’s Army, she should simply do her job and get back to her siblings. But she so rarely had any fun these days.

The one closest to her spun around and Rhona shoved her spear into his eye. While he screamed, she pulled the weapon out and used it to block the sword aimed for her neck. She slammed the sword to the ground and head-butted the one who wielded it. She ducked as another sword swung at her head, then slashed her tail across his face. While that one stumbled away and tried to wipe the blood from his eyes, Rhona was shoved back by the other. She hit the ground but quickly rolled to her claws, raising her spear, ready to strike.

The Iron charged forward, swinging his blade in an arc. Rhona leaned back, the blade slashing at the breastplate of her armor, but doing little more than denting the metal. But the Iron had overcompensated in his haste, his body stumbling forward. Rhona helped him along by wrapping her tail around the claw holding his sword and yanking him down.

Rhona didn’t waste time doing anything fancy once she had him on the ground. Instead she rammed her spear into the back of his neck to finish him off. Once done, she quickly moved back. Good thing too. The one whose face she’d slashed realized he hadn’t been hurt that badly and was now on the attack. She warded off his blade with her spear, but while she moved back, she didn’t have time to step elegantly over the bodies of the two others. She tripped, falling. The Iron took the advantage, coming in quickly to run her through. But Rhona shoved her tail into the ground, halting her descent, and with a good shove, she was back on her claws, her spear up and ready to strike.

But then she was falling again. A big, purple claw slamming against her chest and forcing her back.

Rhona hit the ground hard, the breath knocked out of her. But she didn’t allow herself to sit there. She forced herself up, her spear still gripped by her talons. She watched the Iron come toward her and she lifted her spear, waiting for the strike. Then she saw the giant warhammer coming from overhead. The Iron saw it, too. Caught hold of Rhona’s spear and yanked her and it forward. The hammer, so heavy it would not be easily stopped, kept coming, and Rhona quickly leaned back. But she was unable to move her spear in time and, to her absolute horror, that big, inelegant hunk of Northland steel crashed into her favorite weapon, breaking the shaft in half.

Rhona stumbled back, part of the wood shaft still clutched in her claw. The Iron fell to the ground and the Lightning turned on him, bringing his warhammer up, over, and into the head of the enemy dragon. The Iron’s scream begging for mercy quickly silenced, the Northlander slowly faced her. Dark grey eyes gazed at what was left of her weapon, and then he said with all seriousness, “And this is why females shouldn’t be out here trying to fight. That could have just as easily been your head.”

Vigholf the Abhorrent slammed the head of his warhammer into the ground and leaned against the handle.

Poor thing. She looked positively devastated by the damage to her cute little spear. Gods, a spear? He hadn’t used one of those since he’d started training at the age of six winters. His father, a bastard of a Northlander, didn’t believe that his sons should wait until they were a little older. He believed they should be able to kill with their own claws and weapons before they could even fly. In case, according to Olgeir the Wastrel, “I ever need to throw one of you little bastards into the fighting pit to make a bit of coin.” But Vigholf had grown out of that spear by the time he was ten winters, moving on to a mace, then a sword, and finally his favorite weapon, the warhammer. He had two hammers. One that he could use whether in his natural form or as human, the entire thing extending with a good slam to the base. The other hammer, which he used only when dragon, had a head big and heavy enough to crush a dragon’s skull with a single blow. Sometimes, if Vigholf was in a bit of a rush, he’d work his way through a battalion by swinging his hammer from side to side until every soldier was dead or broken enough that the rest of his troops could finish them off.

But a spear? Only a female would use that for anything other than first-wave attacks by an entire legion.

Since she was still just sitting there, staring at him, stunned by nearly being killed, Vigholf held his claw out to her. “Come on, Rhona. Let’s get you inside.”

She took his claw and he helped her rise. But halfway up, she stopped and whispered something, her pretty brown eyes downcast. Vigholf leaned in, thinking she’d been hurt during the skirmish—and that’s when the treacherous little bitch head-butted him!

Gods-damn Cadwaladrs! None—absolutely none—of them could be trusted!

Vigholf released her and brought his claws to his forehead.

“What was that for?”

She was up now, the broken staff of her spear pressed into his throat. “If you get between me and a kill again, you overbearing ox, I’ll tear out your eyes!”

“I was trying to help, you unbearable she-demon!” he snapped, fighting his desire to shove her back to the ground.

“Well, don’t! Don’t help! Don’t assist! Do nothing!”

She reached down and swiped up the other end of the spear. “My father made me this,” she told him, holding the pieces up to him. “My father!”

“Oh, Rhona.” Another Cadwaladr female, one of the pretty triplets, stepped forward. “Your spear. What happened?”

“This idiot—”

“I was trying to help!” he cut in.

“Shut up!” She cleared her throat, looked down at the ground. Vigholf knew what she was trying to do. Get control. She was Rhona the Fearless after all. The perfect soldier. Or so she believed. In her female mind, soldiers didn’t lose control, they didn’t get angry, they didn’t shout unless it was to relay an order. And all of that was true—in battle. But Rhona was like that all the time.

To be honest, he was enjoying seeing her lose control for once. Even if it was just a little bit.

Wanting to see her pissy for a few seconds longer, Vigholf helpfully added, “I’ll have another adorable little spear made just for you.”

Brown eyes locked on him. “And you can take that spear and shove it up your—”

“Rhona!” all three triplets cried out, their green eyes wide, their attempts not to laugh weak.

Snarling, black smoke snaking from her nostrils, Rhona the Fearless stalked off.

“Bring those bodies back for the commanders,” she ordered over her shoulder.

“You’re very adorable when you’re angry,” he told her.

“Shut up!”

“She’s going to kill you while you sleep,” one of her sisters—Edana, maybe?—warned once Rhona was out of earshot. “Daddy made her that spear.”

“We’re relatively sure she slept with it,” another said.

“And you went and broke it. While getting between her and a kill and taunting her.” Another observed. “It’s like you wish for an early death.”

“I was really trying to help. You lot shouldn’t be—”

“If you say as females we shouldn’t be out here—”

“—we’ll cut off your legs while you sleep—”

“—and let the forest animals have ’em for dinner.”

One of them patted his chest—Nesta? Gods, who knew—“We like you, Lord Abhorrent. Don’t make us regret that.”

And having been curious about the answer for the last five years, Vigholf asked, “Rhona likes me too, yeah?”

“Gods, no!” one said, laughing, dragging two of the bodies away by their back claws.

“And if I were you, I’d stay away from her until she gets over the loss of that spear,” said another. Vigholf honestly couldn’t tell the three She-dragons apart. “Otherwise, she just might take those pretty grey eyes.”

“I’m a Northlander,” he reminded them. “I don’t have pretty eyes.”

The triplets laughed.

“At least you have them, Lightning. Keep getting between me sister and her glory in battle and you won’t for long.”

Vigholf grinned, watching the three females drag six of the bodies away.

“You better get her a new spear,” a low voice muttered behind him.

Vigholf glanced over at his cousin Meinhard. “Why?”

“Because I don’t feel like leading you into battle because you’re missing your eyes.”

“She wouldn’t hurt me. She’s too nice.”

Meinhard studied the bodies the female had left behind. “I think, cousin, that she’d cut your throat, then go have ale with her kin and not give you another thought.”

“The Babysitter?” It was his nickname for Rhona the Fearless, who seemed to make it her lot in life to watch out for anyone under the age of one hundred and fifty.

“Babysitter to those she cares about.” Meinhard grabbed hold of several bodies by their tails. “But a cold-blooded soldier to those she doesn’t. And the gods know, Vigholf, that female doesn’t care about you.”

“Wrong. Right now she hates me. That is a form of caring, which could easily, with some skill, turn to love and eventually adoration.”

Shaking his head, Meinhard headed off. “My mum was right. You are thick as two planks.”

“Your mum loved me, too.”

“Only ’cause she felt sorry for you.”

“See?” Vigholf laughed. “With some skill, comes the love and adoration!”

For five long years the war had raged on. For five long years, Rhona had been dealing with the Lightnings on a daily basis. But not as the enemy she was raised to loathe. Instead they were now the allies of her kind. Strange how everything could change so. Rhona’s mother and her aunts and uncles had made their names and reputations by decimating the Lightnings in battle. Her royal cousins, the Dragon Queen’s three eldest sons, Fearghus, Briec, and Gwenvael, had also faced the Northlanders in war, earning them respect beyond their royal titles. So Rhona had always assumed that one day she’d go talon-to-talon against the Lightnings just as her kin had before her.

Instead, Rhona was forced to endure their presence as allies. Forced to forget how Lightnings used to kidnap Southland She-dragons and force them into being their mates. The more difficult ones losing a wing to keep them trapped in the harsh lands of a foreign country with males they loathed. Yet, as the Northlanders were quick to remind anyone who mentioned their past, that had been a long time ago. Now that the older, more heartless Horde leaders had died off, the new regime didn’t allow this practice anymore. They were a new, kinder Horde that still couldn’t manage to believe a female could protect herself during battle.

And, honestly, on days like today, tolerating the Northlanders’ new and kinder image was nigh-on impossible. Then again, maybe Rhona’s problems weren’t with tolerating the Northlanders as a whole but tolerating one of them. Vigholf the Abhorrent or, as she liked to call him, Commander Pest.

Yet by the time Rhona had made it deep into their mountain stronghold and she knew she was officially off duty for the rest of the day, she pushed all thoughts of annoying, closed-minded Northlanders from her mind and decided she desperately needed a bath. She’d found a lovely little lake with a waterfall deep inside the mountain. Only a few of them knew about it and they kept it secret from all the others.

Yet Rhona found that her plans rarely if ever played out exactly as she saw them because something—or someone—always got in her way.

“Oy, Rhona.”

Rhona stopped, her body tensing at the sound of that voice, rough-hewn thanks to a knife to the throat a few centuries back, and faced one of the commanding officers. “General, sir!”

“Can’t you just call me Mum?”

Gods. When her mother said, “Can’t you just call me Mum?” it was a warning to Rhona. As bright and clear as a battle cry from a mountaintop. The first time Bradana the Mutilator had asked Rhona to call her Mum she’d shoved a freshly hatched Delen the Blue into Rhona’s arms and said, “You’re not too busy to take care of your new sister, are you?” Then Bradana went to war—for nearly four years.

Rhona had been mostly responsible for raising her siblings ever since.

“Mum.”

“Heard you ran into a spot of trouble.”

“Aye, but nothing we couldn’t handle. Had the triplets with me.”

“They’re growing into right little brawlers, my girls, eh?”

Rhona cringed at the description because she didn’t raise brawlers. She raised warriors. Yet her mother saw it as a compliment, so Rhona didn’t argue with her.

“They are. Getting better every day.”

“Your Uncle Bercelak will probably want them to go to Anubail Mountain next year.”

“Great. I can’t wait for them to go.” All right. She was outright lying now. And it wasn’t that she didn’t want her sisters to go and follow the path of the Dragonwarrior as their other siblings had. But of all Bradana’s offspring whom Rhona had raised over the years, she’d become closest to her youngest sisters. Of course she’d actually been there when they’d battled their way out of their egg, head-butting and biting and lashing each other with their tails. Her mother usually stayed around for the hatching, but just before the triplets came along she’d rushed off to raid some traitor dragon’s fortress, thinking she’d be back in time—she wasn’t.

“And,” her mother continued, scratching the vicious scar across her throat with the tip of her tail, “you can go with them. You all can train together. Won’t that be fun?”

Tricky. Her mother was definitely tricky. Bradana knew how much the triplets meant to Rhona and clearly she wasn’t above using that love to get what she wanted. And what she wanted was for Rhona to take the path of the Dragonwarrior. Like all her other offspring and like most of the Cadwaladr Clan. There was just one problem with that plan—Rhona had no desire to become a Dragonwarrior. Much to her mother’s annoyance, Rhona was perfectly satisfied with what she was doing. She was a soldier and a damn good one.

Why did her mother have such an issue with that?

So Rhona said, “I’m sure they’ll be fine. Without me.”

“Your Uncle Bercelak is offering you an opportunity.”

“And I appreciate that. But I don’t need it.”

Rhona turned to go, needing that bath more and more.

“I didn’t dismiss you,” her mother snapped and Rhona rounded on her.

“Which is it, Mum? Are you my mother at this moment or my commanding officer? Because I can walk away from me mum!”

“I’m both!”

“Can’t be! One or the other! Pick!”

“Don’t snarl at me, you viperous little—”

Rhona raised a talon, cutting her mother off, and looked behind her. “You lot,” she snapped at the three soldiers standing behind her, one of which was nursing his right forearm. “What happened?”

“His arm. It got crushed in the tunnels.”

Turning away from her mother, Rhona went to the young soldier. “That’s broken. You.” She pointed at the gold dragon. “Take him to the healer. And you”—she pointed at the Lightning—“back to the tunnels. The commanders need all available troops working there. Now go.”

Rhona faced her mother and asked, “So where were we? Oh. Yes. I’m a viperous little . . . what was the rest of it?”

Slamming down her tail, her mother marched off. Rhona knew this argument wasn’t over, though. Not when it had been going on since the first time Rhona turned down her Uncle Bercelak’s offer to train at Anubail Mountain. As consort of Her Majesty, the Dragon Queen, and commander of the Queen’s armies, Bercelak the Great did not offer the chance to be one of the legendary Dragonwarriors lightly. In fact, Rhona’s mother had actually left mid-battle to seek out her daughter and tell her what an idiot she was being by turning Bercelak down. But Rhona would not let her mother bully her, cajole her, or finesse her into changing her mind. Rhona prided herself on knowing her strengths and weaknesses. Her strength was being as stubborn as her mother. And her weakness was not wanting to be a Dragonwarrior. All right. Perhaps not a true weakness, but her mother seemed to think it was.

“You all right?”

Rhona looked at her younger sister Delen.

“Aye. Just the same damn argument. How can she never get bored with it?”

“The beauty of Mum is that she never gets bored. She can kill and kill for days at a time without ever feeling boredom. I think that’s a foreign word to her. Like rational. Or caring.”

Rhona laughed with her sister, putting her arm around her shoulders. “Excellent point. And how are you doing?”

“Fine. I’ll be working in the tunnels the next couple of days with my troops. I’m hoping to push them along to get the tunnel done. Sooner we can get under those mountains, the sooner we can wipe out the Irons and go home. Unlike our mother, I do get bored. Now”—her sister patted Rhona’s shoulder with her tail—“why don’t you go on and take your break. You’ve been working nonstop for days. You’re no use to any of us if you’re asleep once we hit the other side.”

Rhona chuckled. “Good point.”

“You going for a bath?” her sister whispered.

“Trying to.”

“Take that exit.” She pointed at a narrow tunnel cut through the cave rock. “You’ll have to go outside for a bit, but you’ll avoid Mum.”

“Thanks, luv.”

Rhona slipped away without being noticed and eased through the narrow tunnel until she found herself on the mountain’s summit. She stopped, gazing out over Euphrasia Valley. A stretch of land caught in the middle of the Northland territories, the Western Mountains, and the Southlands. A rough and dangerous valley with thick, almost junglelike forests during the summer and brutally cold winds and ice storms during the winter. It was surrounded by a ring of mountains in varying sizes. They’d made the Hesiod Mountains their stronghold while the Irons were directly opposite from them using the Polycarp Mountains as their protection. Could be worse, though. At least they had access to fresh water and supplies.

“Nice, yeah?”

Rhona’s shoulders slumped, her eyes closing. “I can’t get a break,” she sighed.

“Now what did I do?”

She didn’t bother facing the Lightning. What was the point?

“Nothing.” She started to walk across the ridge of the summit, but the Lightning cut in front of her.

“What if I bought you a long sword?”

“What?” What was he babbling about? Gods! She only wanted a bath!

“A long sword. To replace your spear.”

“I don’t need you to buy me anything. Especially weapons.” She took a step, but he stepped with her.

“I can teach you to use it if that’s your concern.”

Rhona’s front claws curled into fists. “I don’t need you to teach me how to use a sword.”

“You shouldn’t use one unless you know how.”

“I know how.”

“Then why were you still using a spear?”

“Because I like them. Because my father made it for me. And why am I discussing this with you?”

She took another step and he stepped with her.

“What about an ax?” he asked. “A small one. With a weight you can handle.”

And that’s when Rhona became a little cranky.

Gods, she was such a pretty little She-dragon. A bit scarred for his usual tastes but still . . . very pretty. He’d thought so from the beginning, from the first time he’d seen her all those years ago. A brown-scaled She-dragon with shoulder-length brown hair that she kept in simple warrior braids, and dark brown eyes that were bright and lively—when they weren’t glaring at him. Something that had become rare these days. She seemed to always be glaring at him. He could only imagine it was the strain of the war on her. She was a Southlander and a female, after all. Northlanders knew nothing but war, so five years in battle was no real strain for them.

Although she wasn’t just some Southland She-dragon, was she? She was a Cadwaladr. They bred nothing but unstable females from that bloodline. But Rhona wasn’t much like the others. She’d kill, but it didn’t seem as if she enjoyed it too much. Not like Rhona’s mother, who only smiled when she was sawing someone’s head off. No. Rhona the Fearless was different, so Vigholf had taken it upon himself to keep an eye on her. A sweet thing like her could easily fall prey to the more forceful of his brethren, which was why he’d warned them off. Strongly. And it’s not like he followed her around or anything. Just . . . watched out for her.

Although it seemed sometimes that the biggest problem in Rhona’s life was that mother of hers.

Vigholf nearly shuddered at the thought of that particular female—if you could call her that. Yet she had mostly pleasant offspring. Rhona, the triplets, and a few of her other daughters and sons. Then again, Vigholf had heard that Rhona had raised the lot of them, which explained much in his estimation.

“I don’t need an ax,” Rhona snarled between clenched teeth.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of. They’re easy enough weapons to handle.”

“I know how to handle an ax, foreigner. I don’t need lessons from you. Why don’t you just accept the fact that you destroyed a beloved . . .