The Dragon Who Loved Me Read online

  “YOU ALL RIGHT?” VIGHOLF ASKED.

  Rhona nodded. “The universe began to spin, so I decided to sit until it stopped.”

  “Good plan.”

  Since he didn’t know how long she’d need to sit, Vigholf sat beside her. He carefully took her raised finger and tucked it back into her fist.

  “Thank you. I didn’t seem to have control of that talon.”

  “Finger.”

  “Whatever.” She smiled a little. “You can let go of my hand.”

  “I could, but probably won’t. What with your universe spinning and all.”

  “Any opportunity. You Lightnings take any opportunity.”

  “There’s truth to that, I’m afraid.”

  “You are, however, surprisingly light of touch.”

  “Pardon?”

  “The way you’re holding my hand. I always thought you’d be more of a mauler. Like a diseased wolf chewing the knuckles off me fist.”

  “That’s very nice.”

  “Not really.”

  “I was being sarcastic.”

  “Oh. I see.” Rhona gazed off for a moment, then asked, “Where are we?”

  “Okay. That’s it. I’m taking you to bed . . .”

  More from G. A. Aiken

  DRAGON ACTUALLY

  ABOUT A DRAGON

  WHAT A DRAGON SHOULD KNOW

  LAST DRAGON STANDING

  And find her stories in this anthology

  SUPERNATURAL

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  THE DRAGON WHO LOVED ME

  G.A. AIKEN

  ZEBRA BOOKS

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  “YOU ALL RIGHT?” VIGHOLF ASKED.

  Title Page

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Teaser chapter

  Copyright Page

  Prologue

  The girl slept. Not hard, though. She no longer slept hard—or without a weapon. Too many times there were attacks on their camp in the middle of the night. Too many times she’d found fellow soldiers trying to sneak into her bed, hoping to get out of her what they couldn’t afford to buy from the camp girls. Those who survived were usually sent back to their homes. Not because of what they’d done, but because the body parts they were now missing made it impossible to expect much out of them during battle.

  Yet she’d never be able to say whether it was her light sleeping or her much-more-honed instincts that told her she needed to be awake and moving. Silently stepping past the other sleeping squires, she eased into the night and followed where her instincts led, to a copse of trees right outside the camp. That’s where she found her. The woman sneaking out of the camp without her guards, troops, or horse, carrying only one travel bag, her two swords strapped to her back. Going alone. Because she was brave. Because she was desperate. Because, on a good day, she was more than a little crazy.

  Without saying a word, the girl ran back to her tent and grabbed her own travel pack, her own sword and battle-ax, her warmest boots and cape. She returned to the woman’s side, smiled.

  “You didn’t think I’d let you go without me, did you? My place is by your side.”

  “And your death may well be by my side if you come with me. I can’t allow it.”

  “You leave without me—and in seconds rather than days everyone in this camp will know that you’re gone.”

  Bright green eyes glared and, after five long years of seeing that look on a daily basis, the girl no longer recoiled in fear. Then again, over the many years this war had been going on, she’d learned how far she could push—and how far she couldn’t.

  “I’ll not be responsible for you, little girl. You’ll have to keep up.”

  “When don’t I?” the girl lashed back.

  “And watch your tone. I’m still your queen.”

  “Which is why you need me. No war queen should be without her squire.”

  “Squire? When was the last time you washed my horse?”

  “When I couldn’t get anyone else to do it for me.”

  The queen grinned, the scar she’d received in battle four years ago crinkling across her face. It went from her right temple, down across her forehead, the bridge of her nose, her cheek, finally slicing into her neck. The blade had missed major arteries and, with stitches, had healed well enough. But the scar remained and the queen left it there. To the enemy, it seemed to suggest that the rumors of her being the undead were true—for how could someone survive such a cut? As for how the queen felt about her scar . . . well, she never looked in a mirror that much anyway.

  “Let’s be off then, squire, before they realize we’ve gone.”

  They headed deeper into the forest surrounding their camp, but were forced to stop after a few minutes when they found the human body of a young dragoness passed out in front of them, the victim of too much drink.

  “What should we do with her?” the queen asked.

  “Can’t just leave her here. Besides, it would be good to have a dragon by our side should we need one.”

  “Good point.” They picked the dragoness up, let her vomit up whatever she’d drunk, then began walking with her until she could walk on her own.

  After some time, the dragoness asked, “Where are we going?”

  “Into the west,” the queen answered.

  “Our enemies are in the west.”

  “ Aye.”

  “They’ll kill us all if they find us.”

  “ Aye.”

  “But torture us first.”

  “ Aye.”

  “So I’m guessing you have a plan.”

  “Not really.”

  The dragoness let out a sigh. “I kind of knew I’d regret drinking with the Eighteenth Battalion tonight—I just had no idea how much.”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll either stop this war in its tracks or become martyrs to it.”

  “I’m a dragon, my lady. Dragons don’t become martyrs. We create them.”

  “Well then . . .” Annwyl, the Mad Queen of Garbhán Isle, patted the She-dragon on her back as they headed farther into the west. “. . . now you have a goal.”

  Chapter 1

  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. The
n 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.