Last Dragon Standing Read online

  Having grown up with a father who enjoyed picking his other sons over “that weak, strange one” for important Horde business, Ragnar knew how much a careless action from a parent could hurt their offspring. He’d realized later that the queen had said such things because she’d known, as only a true witch could know, that Ragnar would never harm her daughter. He’d never drag Keita off against her will. Not after what had happened to his own mother. Not after watching her trapped in a life she’d never wanted with only one wing and a dragon mate she detested. Ragnar had grown up under his mother’s avid protection, his father deciding early on that he loathed the hatchling who spent most of his days in books and learning. She’d watched over Ragnar, raised him to think and reason while teaching him the Magickal arts and, finding a caring soul in Meinhard’s father, had asked the warrior to train her son without Olgeir’s knowledge. Ragnar owed his mother so much and was grateful to her for the very air he breathed, because without her, he wasn’t sure he’d have survived into his twentieth winter.

  And although Ragnar used to think about going off by himself and living the life of a hermit dragon deep in the mountains near the Ice Lands, his mother’s words always stopped him. “You can’t live alone in this world, my son. You need your family. And one day, they will realize how much they need you.”

  As always with his mother’s wisdom, her words were true for him, but they were even truer for Princess Keita. She adored her kin and had talked about them incessantly when they were bringing her back to the Southlands. Mostly, she spoke of what her brothers would do to him when they got their claws on him, but Ragnar knew love when he heard it.

  So the thought that Keita had cut herself off from her kin all this time because of that last discussion did not sit well with Ragnar at all.

  Even now, she was still trying to wiggle out of returning to Dark Plains with them, and the Blue seemed to be buying into her half-truths. The boy simply didn’t know how to ask a direct question, which was a problem since his sister seemed quiet adept at sidestepping anything but direct questions.

  So Ragnar asked the direct question himself, knowing he’d make her angry and not much caring since this would all be over soon enough, and he’d never see her again anyway. “Have you even seen your niece and nephew, Princess Keita?”

  Grateful she had no real Magickal skills that could kill him at a distance, Ragnar met her glare and held it.

  As he realized the truth, the Blue’s giant human head nearly exploded. “You haven’t seen the twins?”

  “Éibhear—”

  “At all?”

  “You’re being un—”

  “What about Talaith’s daughter? Have you not seen her either?”

  The fight seemed to go out of her, her hatred for Ragnar alone, Keita stated, “I was planning to see them soon—when I have time.”

  “You have time now.”

  “Actually, I don’t.”

  “Make some.”

  “And if I don’t want to come home?”

  “What does what you want have to do with family?”

  “Oh, well, when you put it like that—”

  “Good!”

  “I was actually being sarcas—”

  “Because I’d hate to drag you back there by your hair.”

  “—tic,” she finished.

  “So we’re all settled then?”

  She let out a long, weary sigh. “It would seem so.”

  “Good.” He suddenly walked off into the woods. “I’ll be right back.”

  Dark brown eyes seared Ragnar where he stood; then she marched off in the opposite direction from her brother.

  Ragnar caught Vigholf’s attention and motioned for him to check the area. Meinhard went about getting more water for their trip, leaving Ragnar and the foreigner.

  He faced the Eastlander, completely unclear on the relationship this strange-looking dragon had with the royal.

  The foreigner’s smile was small when he said, “I’m not sure she’ll ever forgive you for that, Northlander.” His smile widened a little bit when he added, “But perhaps that’s what you’re hoping for.”

  Appearing to be following after the princess, the Eastlander stopped in front of Ragnar and pointed at him, asking, “Do you need some ointment for that?”

  Ragnar curled his fingers in and pulled his hand away from his chest and that damn scar he’d been scratching—again! “No.”

  The foreigner shrugged. “As you like.”

  As he’d like? Somehow Ragnar doubted he’d have what he’d like for at least the next few days.

  “Keita, wait.”

  “Go away, Ren. Let me seethe in peace.” Keita spotted a squirrel not far from her and opened her mouth to unleash a line of flame. But a hand covered her mouth and her friend shook his head.

  “Must you take your anger out on that poor squirrel?”

  She slapped his hand off. “I’d take it out on you, but you’d only enjoy it. And what’s the good of that when I want to make something miserable?”

  “Your suffering doesn’t give you the right to make others suffer.”

  Keita rolled her eyes. “You with your deep philosophical ramblings.”

  “You like my deep philosophical ramblings.”

  “Not when they interfere with my ridiculous rages. It’s extremely hard to flounce away with any dignity when you’re so busy rationalizing.”

  “No one can flounce anywhere with dignity. It’s a law.”

  Keita pressed her lips together to keep from laughing. This was why she adored Ren. Because no matter the situation, no matter how annoying or brutal or horrible things might be, he always made her laugh.

  He put his arm around her shoulders. “My dearest, loveliest Keita.”

  “I like when you add the ‘loveliest’ part.”

  “You are the loveliest.”

  “Adore. You.”

  “So what’s really bothering you, my friend?”

  “Can’t you tell?”

  “Is it the current width of your brother’s neck?”

  “No. Although that is disconcerting.” She leaned her head back, and looked up at her friend. “I’d like to know why those Lightnings are taking my brother back to Dark Plains.”

  “To ensure he gets home safely, I’d assume.”

  “Well, of course, as a royal he’d need an escort. I’m not questioning that. But Ragnar the Cunning? Current Dragonlord Chief? And his second in command, Vigholf? Meinhard and a few of their warriors would have ensured the same thing.”

  “I see your point. Your mother then?”

  “Most likely, which makes me nervous. Mother doesn’t call on foreign dragons for no reason.”

  “Think Éibhear will know the answer?”

  Keita smiled and petted Ren’s cheek. “That’s so cute you’d think that.”

  Ren laughed. “Not one for questioning the obvious, is our Éibhear?”

  “Hardly. He still thinks the best of everyone.” Keita stepped away from Ren and smoothed her dress down. “I’ll need to find out the answer myself. And since I’m forced to endure that bastard barbarian’s presence until we get back to Devenallt Mountain, I might as well get what information I can.”

  Ren brushed his finger against Keita’s cheek, his teasing gone. “Are you all right, luv? Seeing him again?”

  It had been Ren that Keita initially ran to when she’d left Ragnar the Cunning alone and bleeding in the forests outside Garbhán Isle. It had been Ren who listened to her rage until the cave walls around them shook. And it had been Ren who suggested that Keita go to Anubail Mountain to get some much-needed training in the fine art of fighting while human—the fact that that situation didn’t turn out well at all was, of course, not Ren’s fault. But that had been two years ago, and to be honest, Keita had sort of…well…

  “You forgot about him, didn’t you?” Ren demanded.

  “I had other things on my mind.”

  “How do you do that? How do you just…l
et it go?”

  Keita lifted her hands and dropped them. “What can I say? I’m much too beautiful and benevolent to hold grudges. Besides”—she took her friend’s arm—“isn’t being mad at a Northlander like being mad at a stampeding bull or a rabbit that keeps breeding or a startled bear that mauls?”

  Ren gazed down at her. “Are you actually comparing a fellow dragon to dumb, mindless animals?”

  Keita’s grin was wide as they headed back to the Northlanders. “Why yes, Ren. Yes, I am. And that’s what makes me so lovely—because I accept them despite their faults.”

  “By the gods of thunder, Keita—you are giving.”

  “I know!”

  Chapter Five

  Several hours later they landed in a dense forest in the Outerplains. An area Keita knew quite well. Too well. It was the place her aunt had chosen to live quietly and anonymously the last few centuries. The aunt her mother and court still considered a traitor.

  Feeling a tinge of panic, she glanced at Ren, who could only shrug.

  “Are we camping here for the night?” she asked the warlord while her baby brother went off in search of something warm and bloody for them all to eat. And, for the first time since they’d taken off from outside Bampour’s lands, Ragnar spoke to her. “Not unless we have to.”

  “We’re just taking a break here then?”

  “Yes.”

  She waited for something more, but he ignored her after that, and began whispering to his brother. When he was done, Ragnar walked off, and Keita did not like the direction the Lightning went in.

  Keita brushed up against Ren, appearing impossibly playful, her tail tugging with his. But as she giggled and teased, she leaned in and whispered, “Do you see where he’s headed?”

  “Aye. I do.”

  “I’ll kill him. You take care of the other two.” She started to follow after Ragnar, but Ren pulled her back.

  “Are we still forced to have this conversation?”

  “What would you suggest then, Duke No-Kill?”

  “You delay King Big Head. I’ll take care of the rest.”

  “Fine.”

  Ren kissed her cheek and backed away from her. He moved around until he caught the attention of the other two Lightnings. It wasn’t hard—they’d been watching Ren with something very close to fear since they’d first seen him. At least, as much fear as any Northlander was willing to show. All they knew was that Ren was different; and clearly different made them nervous.

  While they watched, Ren leaned up against a small hill—and vanished.

  “What the bloody—”

  Knowing the Lightnings would spend ages searching for him, Keita followed after Ragnar.

  Dagmar Reinholdt, also known as The Beast among her Northland kinsmen, went to the kennels to do a midday check on all the dogs. Her latest batch of puppies were doing well, and the men she’d handpicked to train and work the dogs during battle were better than she’d hoped.

  Always thinking ahead, Dagmar planned to be prepared with strong battle dogs for the Southland Queen and her troops.

  She ensured they had been fed, that all were looking healthy, and that they all had fresh water in their runs. Once she’d done all that, she walked down the line, speaking to each animal while noting any changes and thinking about their training.

  But as she reached the last cage, the barking dogs, always so chatty when she was around, suddenly fell silent, and Dagmar felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise up the slightest bit.

  “I wish you wouldn’t do that,” she said after a moment.

  “Do what?”

  She faced the god behind her. Many gods enjoyed visiting her now, no matter how annoying Dagmar found their presence or how inane their conversation, but Eirianwen, human god and consort to dragon father god, Rhydderch Hael, liked to call Dagmar her “friend.” Which was strange since Dagmar still didn’t worship any god. They were simply too annoying to be worshipped. “Do not sneak up on me.”

  “I’m a god, Dagmar. I don’t sneak up on anyone. It’s not my fault I can simply appear wherever I’d like.”

  Dagmar’s head tilted to the side. “Where’s your arm?”

  Eir examined her left shoulder. “Oh. Right. Lost it in a fight.” She shrugged with her right shoulder. “It’ll grow back.”

  “How nice for you.”

  Not the most pleasant thing to see before luncheon. Of course, it could be worse. A few months back, the god had shown up missing half her head. After Dagmar finished retching, though, they had a very nice conversation.

  “So how goes it?” Eir asked.

  “Well enough.”

  “And your queen?”

  Dagmar knew the sneaky cow wasn’t here merely to check up on her. “She’s fine.”

  “Liar.”

  “But you already knew that about me.”

  “Excellent point.” Eir walked over, a trail of shit and blood and mud left in her wake. She must have come right off a battlefield somewhere by the looks of her. “I thought I made it clear to you, my friend, that your queen needs to toughen up.”

  Annoyed the god had the nerve to say that, Dagmar replied, “If she were any tougher, she’d be nothing but muscles, eyes, and a sword.”

  “I don’t mean physically, and you know it.”

  “She’s doing the best she can. You can’t actually blame her for worrying about her children. Not after what your consort did.”

  “Don’t blame him.”

  “Why not? This is his fault.”

  “You still haven’t forgiven him, have you?”

  “After throwing me to Minotaurs? You must be joking.”

  “You humans take everything so damn personally.”

  “When I’m thrown to Minotaurs—you’re right.”

  “Fine. Be that way.” The door behind Dagmar opened, and Eir walked out, brushing past her.

  Dagmar watched her and finally asked, “And where’s Nannulf?” She couldn’t think of a time that she’d seen the goddess without her loyal wolf-god companion.

  “Off taking care of something.”

  Crossing her arms over her chest, Dagmar scowled. She didn’t like the sound of that whatsoever.

  Ragnar tromped through the trees toward Esyld’s house. He hated doing this. He hated being the one to bring her back to Dark Plains. But he already had a plan.

  Initially, he’d thought of telling Esyld to run and then reporting to Rhiannon that she wasn’t at her house. Yet he had a feeling the queen would never believe it and he still didn’t think the Horde was ready to get on her bad side. Plus, there was the risk that Esyld wouldn’t run. She had that air about her. As if she was determined to stand her ground. He admired that about her.

  So his next option wasn’t perfect but better than nothing. He’d offer to argue her case before Rhiannon and the Southland Elders. He knew a bit of Fire Breather law, and with a good friend’s help—at least he hoped they were still friends—Ragnar felt certain he could build a solid case that would protect Esyld.

  Yes, it seemed the most fair and logical thing to do, and all he needed was for Esyld not to worry. Not easy, he was sure, but he would do everything he could to keep her safe. Because if Rhiannon really did want her sister dead, she would have sent her mate’s kin to retrieve Esyld rather than him.

  Confident in his decision, Ragnar tromped on.

  Near the clearing that led to Esyld’s house, Ragnar stopped. He had been walking for little more than ten minutes, but still…

  Turning his head, Ragnar looked over his shoulder. She sat in the middle of his back on her rump, her tail and wings hanging over one side, her crossed back legs over the other. She used a metal file to sharpen her talons—and she hummed.

  How long has she been back there?

  Ragnar had always prided himself on the sharpness of his senses. Hearing a rabbit’s twitching nose a mile away, spotting a hawk twenty miles above, or scenting fresh cattle a hundred miles off. But how could he not know th
at a spoiled royal was using him like a beast of burden? How could he not hear that gods-damn humming?

  He geared up to shake her off, but she asked, “Where are we going?”

  “I have some business to take care of.”

  “Business? Out here? By yourself?” She lifted her claw and blew on her talons.

  “I was coming right back.”

  “Yes, but you might be in danger. I could help.”

  Right. Of course you could. “It would be better if you return to my brothers.”

  She slid off his back, her tail taking an enormously long time to slide up and over him as she walked around.

  “Lord Ragnar, may I ask you a question?”

  “If you’d like.”

  “Do you not like me?”

  Unsure where this might be going, Ragnar simply stated, “I thought our relationship was decided two years ago, princess.”

  “But that was such a long time ago. There’s no reason for us not to be friends now.”

  “Friends? You and I?”

  She stroked her claw along his shoulder, down his chest, her talons scraping against the scar her tail had left. Part of Ragnar wanted to break every talon she had out of pure spite. Yet another, weaker, part of him wanted to close his eyes and moan.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” she said, her talons now concentrating on that scar. “That I’m too good for you. And, of course among some circles, you’d be absolutely right. But I’m a very progressive royal and I don’t let little things like unimpressive bloodlines and barbaric tendencies stop me from having the friends I want.”

  “That’s very big of you.”

  “I’ve always thought so.” She pressed her claw to his chest, the damn scar under it angrily throbbing to life. “I’ve always thought it’s more important to have friends you can trust,” she murmured, “than friends who are merely your equal in every other way that matters.”