“Izzy! Stop!”
She ignored the command and swung the blade again. A big gloved hand reached out and shoved her back.
“Gods-dammit, Izzy! It’s me!” He yanked the hood of his cape back, revealing his handsome face and dark blue hair. Some of it in braids with leather strips, feathers, and small animal bones tied throughout. “It’s Éibhear.”
“Yeah,” Izzy answered honestly. “I know.”
Then she pulled back her arm and threw the sword she held directly at his head.
Éibhear knew that because of his size, it was believed he was quite slow. Lumbering was a word he’d often heard used by those seeing him doing nothing more than standing. Yet at that moment when he saw the short sword coming right at him, thrown by a woman who clearly knew what she was doing, Éibhear would say he’d never been so grateful that everyone was wrong. He was fast. Very fast. And it was that speed, being able to drop to the ground in seconds, that really saved his life.
Once he hit the ground, he looked up and saw that Izzy was running right at him. He wasn’t sure if she was coming to finish him off or just kick the shit from him, but the thought of batting her away or blasting her with his flame—stupidly—never entered his head.
He would never know why.
When Izzy reached him, she snatched his short sword from his belt and leaped up, one foot landing on his shoulder. She used that foot to launch herself, lifting her body and spinning in the air. Éibhear turned over and watched as Izzy raised the sword that most human males couldn’t lift and shoved it into the nine-foot ogre that had stood behind Éibhear. He’d been so focused on Izzy, he hadn’t even been aware of the big bastard wearing a human skull on a chain around his neck.
But even with the sword buried in the top of his head, the ogre wasn’t dead yet. He was snarling and snapping at Izzy as she hung there, and that’s when she spoke to the green bastard. Éibhear had no idea what she said, but he was positive the ogre did. And the words were so guttural, so vile-sounding that he knew she was speaking the ancient language of the ogres.
When Izzy finished, she released her hold on the sword and dropped to the ground. With one good kick to the ogre’s stomach, she knocked him on his back and walked around until she was able to look him in the eye. Gripping in both hands the club she still held, she raised it above her head and brought it down once, smashing the ogre’s face in.
It was then that Éibhear realized this must be the ogre leader because all the surviving ogres stopped fighting and began to turn and run back toward the mountains in the distance, probably to choose another leader and regroup. Izzy seemed to know that as she yanked Éibhear’s blade from the dead leader’s head.
“All of you!” Izzy called out while walking back toward Éibhear. “Don’t let them reach the caves. Kill them all! Now move!”
Izzy stopped by Éibhear’s side, looked him over. “Why are you here?” she asked.
“To bring you home.”
“Can’t.” She dropped the blade over his stomach, Éibhear barely catching it before the blade possibly cut something vital. “Not done.”
She turned away from him, dismissing him without a backward glance. “Lieutenant Alistair.” A full-human male rode up to her.
“General!”
“Rally the men. Pull several to get the wounded to healers. We’ll deal with the dead later. I want those ogres meeting their green-skinned ancestors in hell before the moon’s high in the sky. Do you understand?”
“Aye, General.”
“Go.”
He rode off and another female rode to Izzy’s side.
“Fionn. How are we looking?”
“Good, Iz. But there’s still some fight left in the South Valley.”
“Take a contingent and strike them down.”
“Your arm, General,” the woman, Fionn, pushed.
“Yeah, yeah. I know, Colonel. I’ll deal with it.” She laughed, waved the woman away.
Then, without even looking at him again, Izzy walked off, leaving him lying there.
“I don’t know why you look so shocked,” a voice said from beside him and he looked up into the face of his cousin Branwen. “What did you expect her to do? Drop to her knees and suck your c*ck right here?”
Well . . . it had crossed his mind.
Chapter 4
Izzy walked into her tent, her squire right behind her.
“What do you mean you don’t know?” Samuel demanded. “How do you lose a two-ton animal?”
She shrugged at his question, amused by his usual outrage and annoyance. Reaching for a carafe of fresh water, she added, “She went off with Macsen.”
“You let our horse go off with that vile, disgusting beast? Alone?”
“That’s my dog you’re talking about.”
“I don’t know what that thing is, but it ain’t no dog I’ve ever seen.” Sam looked her over and winced. “For someone so good at fighting, you do get hit a lot.”
“You know, I could have you flogged for insubordination and being a right prat.”
“Really? And who are you going to get to replace me?”
“Well—”
“That’s what I thought.” He unbuckled the leather straps holding on her steel breast plate. “You’ll need another one of these before you return to combat.”
“Well—”
“I’ll take care of it. Marcus still refuses to deal with you.”
“For a burly blacksmith, he’s awfully sensitive.”
Sighing in disgust, Sam added, “And someone will need to sew up that arm. I’ll get the healer.” He headed to the exit but stopped before walking out and glared at Izzy. “Don’t move until I return.”
Of course, when he turned his back, Izzy began to shimmy, stopping when he looked at her over his shoulder.
She could see him trying not to laugh and she winked at him before he walked out to get her fresh armor.
Stretching her tired shoulders, Izzy first poured herself a mug of water to drink, then another to pour over her bleeding arm. It hurt, and she was becoming concerned about the amount of blood she seemed to be losing, but then she decided that instead of worrying about that, she would pour herself a mug of ale. Perhaps the ale would help the wound.
With drink in hand, she headed toward her favorite chair, her mind already plotting her next moves to finish off the ogres in this region while simultaneously attempting to force out the image of one big, blue, idiot dragon flat on his back and looking gods-damn delicious.
The bastard. What was he doing here anyway? After ten years of never seeing him, he suddenly appeared. Back in her life. How bloody annoying!
She turned, about to drop into her chair when she abruptly realized she was no longer in her tent. In fact, she could be wrong, but she felt relatively certain she was no longer in her world but rather in the most beautiful glen she’d ever seen. But she wasn’t alone.
“Hello, little Izzy.”
Slowly, Izzy turned and faced what was behind her. And what was behind her was a god. A dragon god, specifically. With black scales, twelve horns on his massive head, and long black hair streaked with every color in the dragon pantheon. She wished she could say he was an ugly demon from the underworld, but he was, as always, beautiful.
“Your arm,” he noted, pointing a talon at her wound. “You’re losing much blood.” When she didn’t say anything, he drew his talon down her arm and she knew immediately that he’d healed her.
“Better?” he asked. When she didn’t respond to that either—“Izzy? Have you nothing to say to me?”
Did she have anything to say to him? Well, since he’d asked . . .
“Where is she?” Éibhear asked his cousin and, in answer, Branwen crossed her arms over her chest, pursed her lips, and snorted.
“I want an answer, cousin.”
“And I want a longer tail, but we can’t always get what we want, now can we?”
Éibhear’s eyes narrowed. His cousin had passed the Trials three years ago, officially making her one of the elite Dragonwarriors. And since then, it seemed, she’d become quite the snobby cow.
“Maybe you’d like me and my mates to tear your human camp apart until I find her?” Éibhear asked. “Because you know I will.”
“Your mates,” she sneered. “The Mì-runach.”
“The tone seems unnecessary,” Aidan joked.
“Shut up, royal.”
“Éibhear’s a royal, too.”
“He’s kin so I overlook the flaw.”
“I’m not a royal.” They all looked at Uther and he shrugged. “Well . . . I’m not.”
Brannie sighed and focused back on Éibhear. “What are you doing here, Éibhear?”
“That’s for me to discuss with Izzy.”
Brannie’s pursed lips returned, one foot tapping. Knowing how stubborn the females in his family could be, Éibhear grabbed one of the human soldiers by the throat, ignoring the man’s panicked scream, and held him up in front of his cousin’s face.
She snorted. “If Izzy wants to see you—”
Éibhear tightened his grip and the soldier began kicking and trying to pry Éibhear’s fingers off his throat.
Disgusted, Brannie snarled, “You have become such a mean bastard.”
“Izzy. Now. Take me to her.”
“Put him down first.”
Éibhear flung the soldier away and gestured for his cousin to move. She did, but not before tossing over her shoulder, “You’ve become just like your father!”
He stared after Brannie. “Well, that was just mean.”
“And then,” Izzy went on while pacing in front of the god, “you not only impregnated Annwyl against her will, but you also deserted her when she needed you most!”
By now Rhydderch Hael had rolled to his back, his gaze up at the big sky, annoyed sighs echoing throughout the world he’d dragged her to.
“I mean, who does that?” she demanded. “And then you planned to take Annwyl’s twins away from her rather than bringing Annwyl back from the dead, which we both know you could have done, but when my dear sweet Aunt Dagmar pissed you off, you tossed her and the children into a pit with Minotaurs!”
“You know, Izzy, my memory’s excellent. I remember all—”
She pointed a finger at him. “You wanted me to talk . . . so I’m talking!” She began to pace again and continued, “And then . . .”
Éibhear followed Brannie into a tent, but he took one look around and raised his arms. “Where the hells is she?”
“I don’t know.”
He tilted his head and she held up her hands. “I’ll find her. I’ll find her.” She pushed past him. “Mean,” she snapped before she walked out.
Letting out an annoyed sigh, Éibhear walked around the tent. It seemed Izzy was still a messy female. She had weapons everywhere. And every kind. She didn’t just have one battle axe, but battle axes from all the different armies she’d faced off against. Plus an array of long swords, short swords, curved swords, serrated swords . . . the woman liked swords. Blood-and-gore-covered clothes littered the floor and lots of missives from her queen and other generals in Annwyl’s army were scattered about. Yet there was only one book, on the floor, right by the head of the bed. It was a history on the first war against the Iron dragons in the west led by Éibhear’s royal grandfather.