“After what you lot did last time?” Éibhear asked.
“That was not my fault!” Caswyn the Butcher argued, yet again. “He shouldn’t have tried to push me around. I may not be some fancy royal, like you and pretty boy over there—”
Aidan grinned. “I am so very pretty.”
“—but that don’t mean some Red bastard can just walk all over me.”
“By ‘walk all over me,’” Éibhear cut in, “do you mean ask you to do your job?”
“Didn’t like his tone, did I?”
“So you tore his arms off.”
Caswyn’s head lowered a bit, his black wings bristling. “Don’t much like your tone either.”
“Yeah, but you already tried to tear Éibhear’s arms off,” Uther reminded him. “You were in a coma for weeks.”
“It was more a deep rest.”
Éibhear rolled his eyes and said, “You all will come with me.”
Uther’s head snapped up. “Will your sisters be there?”
Imitating his eager tone, Éibhear quickly replied, “They will! And so will my father!”
Uther’s face fell. “Oh.”
Reflective, Aidan stroked his chin while pounding his back claw into the head of the Spike lying in front of him. Again . . . still seemed unnecessary as that Spike was already quite dead. “How did your father not become Mì-runach? He seems ruthless enough.”
“Oh, he is,” Éibhear agreed. “But he can take orders.”
“Aaaaah,” the others said.
“So if we go with you,” Caswyn asked. “What do we do?”
Éibhear shrugged. “It’s Garbhán Isle. There’ll be drink and p**sy. What more do you need?” Garbhán Isle was the seat of power for the human queen of the Southlands, Annwyl the Bloody. Insane monarch and mate to Éibhear’s eldest brother Fearghus, Annwyl was adored and loathed in equal parts, but to Éibhear she’d simply become one of his sisters.
“Nothing,” Uther said. “But that makes me sad.”
“But first we take care of the Spikes leader in the Northlands.”
His squad groaned.
“What?”
“I’m tired of snow and ice,” Caswyn complained. “I’m tired of shades of purple and white. I want to see grass again. And trees. Birds that aren’t crows.”
“We won’t be in the Northlands long. Just long enough to do a little killing. You lot like killing. Remember?”
“I do remember. But you seem to have forgotten that the Northlanders hate you,” Aidan reminded him.
“Not more than the Ice Landers do.”
“Only because you haven’t been there for the last decade. Trust me, if you had, they’d only hate you more.”
“I want to see my sister Keita. As far as I know she’s still with Ragnar in the Northlands.”
“A little elegance among the barbarians.” Aidan sighed. “I guess that’s worth something.”
“So finish killing this lot,” Éibhear said, gesturing to the Spikes trying to crawl away. He really had to work on that with his team. They disabled, sometimes tortured, then killed, but the disabling and torture were just time consuming. They needed to kill faster so they could move to the drinking and females quicker. Honestly, one would think they’d know that already. “Then we head out.”
Éibhear turned, saw a Spike fighting with one of the other squads. He pulled his sword and headed over to assist. Aidan caught up to him.
“Oy,” his friend said.
“What?”
“You know what might be waiting for you back at Garbhán Isle, don’t you?”
“The loving warmth of my mother, the admiration of my father, and the caring of my dear brothers?”
“Are you going to be serious about this?”
Éibhear chuckled, then rammed his sword into the side of the Spike. It was an easier way to attack an Ice Land dragon since they had those bloody spikes going from the top of their heads, down their spines, to the tips of their tails. He twisted the blade while using his free claw to push the Ice Lander down by the side of his neck.
When the dragon took his last breath, Éibhear pulled out his sword, nodded at his fellow squad leader, then faced his friend. “Yeah. I know what might be waiting for me.”
“And?”
“And nothing. That was a long time ago . . . for a human. Besides, I apologized.”
Aidan frowned. “When? You haven’t seen her in nearly ten bloody years.”
“Remember? I sent her a letter.”
“Oh. The letter. Right.” Aidan looked off. “Yeah. I remember. The letter.”
“Although she never did answer me. Rude cow.”
“Yeah. Rude.”
“But I’m sure she’s over it. There was a healthy amount of groveling in that letter. She likes groveling.”
“I’m sure she does.”
“So there’s nothing to worry about.” Éibhear patted his suddenly quiet friend’s shoulder. “We’ll go. We’ll spend some time with my kin. Then hit every pub between Garbhán Isle and the Western Mountains as we go to meet up with Angor and the other squads. It’ll be a lovely holiday that we richly deserve.”
Aidan finally looked at him. “But first the Northlands?”
“First the Northlands. Deal with the new Spikes leader for those poor Lightning bastards.”
“Can we call the Northlanders that when we see them? I’m sure they’ll just love it.”
“Then I’ll check in with Keita before we head south.”
“Check in with Keita while still in the Northlands? Sure that’s wise?”
“Come now,” Éibhear dismissed his friend’s worry. “It’s been ages. I’m sure Ragnar’s forgiven me by now.”
“Right.” Aidan snorted. “I’m sure he has.”
“We challenge you,” the Spikes’ leader had called out, bright white wings extending from his back, white spikes going from his head, down his spine, to the tip of his tail, white and silver hair braided up like a horse’s mane touching the ground. “Let’s decide this now and end it.”
So it had been agreed. The Spike’s champion against theirs. But there were rumors coming in from Ragnar’s spies that all this was merely a fancy ruse. The young leader’s idea to get the Northlanders to think the war was over and head home, so that this leader’s troops and another Spike’s legion could come over territorial lines and into the Northlands unmolested. Because unlike the Spikes, honor was all to the Northland dragons.
And it was true. Honor was all, but not stupidity. Ragnar had already sent word to his contacts in the Ice Lands to stop the second army from crossing into their territory by any means necessary. Knowing that was being handled allowed him to enjoy the champion contest currently going on in front of him.
Ragnar studied the dragon his champion was facing. He was bigger than anything Ragnar had ever seen, easily the size of two castles. Around his neck he wore a necklace made of smaller dragons’ heads and his scales had hardened into an armor of its own, the sound of his heavy breathing rattling the nearby trees. Ragnar wasn’t even sure the dragon could fly anymore. All that weight combined with the stiffness of his scales . . .
“Gods,” Ragnar’s cousin Meinhard whispered next to him. “It’s a cannibal.”
“A what?” Ragnar’s brother, Vigholf, asked.
“A cannibal dragon,” Ragnar clarified. “He eats his own kind. That’s what makes him look like that.”
The cannibal thrust his battle lance, aiming for their champion’s shoulder. There was great power behind that move. Enough to tear open a hole in a small mountain. The lance flashed in the early morning suns as the champion caught that lance in his claw, held it.
Tugging, the cannibal tried to pry it free. He became frustrated and roared. He held out his other claw and someone tossed him a sword. He caught it, swung for the champion’s neck. But the claw that held the sword was caught and held.
Strength battled strength as each male pushed back against the other, but neither budged. Yet the cannibal had no patience; he leaned in, opening his maw. The champion didn’t wait for whatever the cannibal had planned. He unleashed his own flame first, the stream hitting deep inside the cannibal’s throat, choking him. The cannibal released his weapons, and stumbled back.
The champion dropped the weapons and went for his own. A battle axe and a warhammer. He wielded both at the same time, swinging on the cannibal before he had a chance to snap back. The hammer hit him first, ramming into his head, knocking him to one side. The axe followed, attacking the same side, connecting with his shoulder. The blow knocked the cannibal to the ground, trapping several dragons beneath him.
The champion flew over to him, landing hard, and battered at him with both axe and hammer, hitting him mostly in the face and neck and chest until the cannibal roared his rage and rose, knocking the champion off him. He dragged himself up, the champion scrambling back, trying to move out of his way.
Taking in a deep breath, the cannibal again opened his mouth wide, about to unleash a weapon that had nothing to do with steel.
“Shields!” Vigholf yelled out, and they all brought their shields up or stepped in behind a comrade’s.
Ragnar watched the cannibal release neither lightning nor flame nor water nor any of the other weapons that every dragon had within it. But acid. The only other dragon with acid as its natural weapon was the Immortal dragon. The Immortals had been given their weapon by the gods, but it was said that those who ate their own were cursed with acid as their weapon. Stomach acid.
The acid sprayed out, shields sizzling as the hard steel was struck, a large ball of it hurtling toward the champion.
The champion grabbed a shield, lifting it to protect his face and chest, the power of the acid shoving him back, burning through the metal. He dropped the shield, raised his gaze, and charged at the cannibal again. But he suddenly pulled back as another dragon, one covered in the pelts of dead animals, such as Ice Landers were known to wear, dropped between their champion and the Spike’s.
Ragnar looked between his brother and cousin, but they seemed lost as well.
“The trap?” Vigholf asked.
If it was, it was a tragically premature trap. Ragnar still had a full army out here, ready to fight.
The cannibal opened his mouth, ready to unleash more acid, but the mysterious dragon dressed as a barbarian Ice Lander suddenly turned and struck. He rammed his lance into the open mouth of the cannibal, halting his ability to unleash his acid—at least for the moment.
The cannibal was battered to the ground, the stranger using only his giant forearms covered in leather gauntlets. He then raised an oversized steel axe up and over his head in one fluid movement, bringing it down with a mighty force into the cannibal’s giant neck, hacking through those thick scales. And he kept hacking until he’d separated head from spine.