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, fal ing. 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 fal ing 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 al ow herself to sit there. She forced herself up, her spear stil 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 stil clutched in her claw. The Iron fel 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 al 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 kil 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 final y 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 skul 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 stil just sitting there, staring at him, stunned by nearly being kil ed, 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 kil again, you overbearing ox, I’l 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.
“Wel , 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 al . 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 al 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 helpful y added, “I’l 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!” al 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 kil 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 kil and taunting her.” Another observed. “It’s like you wish for an early death.”
“I was real y trying to help. You lot shouldn’t be—”
“If you say as females we shouldn’t be out here—”
“—we’l 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 tel 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 skil , turn to love and eventual y 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 skil , comes the love and adoration!”
Chapter 2
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 al ies 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 al ies. 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 al ow this practice anymore. They were a new, kinder Horde that stil 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 cal him, Commander Pest.
Yet by the time Rhona had made it deep into their mountain stronghold and she knew she was official y off duty for the rest of the day, she pushed al 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 waterfal deep inside the mountain. Only a few of them knew about it and they kept it secret from al 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 cal me Mum?”