Last Dragon Standing
Page 137

After that, cousin, there was no going back. Not for anyone. Not for you.” Keita stood again. “Although it has been said that sometimes war just can’t be avoided.” She smiled, making sure to use her prettiest one. “But don’t you worry, cousin. With the help of my friends and kin, I have come up with the loveliest idea to get everything started just right!”
The crowd roared as the two gladiators circled each other. It was the last day of the games, and now Vateria, eldest daughter of Overlord Thracius, was officially bored beyond anything she could remember. In fact, when she felt that slight earthquake under her feet, she hoped it might get bigger and open a chasm to swallow up all these boring beings tainting her and her father’s world. Anything to end the tedium.
Then she heard the gasps and saw her noble father lean forward in his chair. She focused again on the battle, but the gladiators had stumbled back.
Not from each other’s blows, but from whatever had suddenly formed in the middle of the field.
A mystical doorway. She’d heard of this kind of Magick but had never met anyone who could actually perform it.
It was a small dragoness in human form who stepped out. A Southlander, from the look of her. She gazed up at the now-silent crowd until her eyes locked on Vateria’s father.
“Overlord Thracius,” she called out. “A gift from my queen, in honor of her father, my grandfather.”
Then she tossed something away from her, and it rolled and bumped along, until it came to an abrupt stop on the field.
Vateria’s father shot to his feet, but by then what had been thrown had changed from human to dragoness. Vateria recognized her mother even from this height.
Thracius gripped the railing, his gaze moving back to the Southlander.
“And this is a little something from me.”
She reached back into that doorway and yanked three males out. Two old dragons and an elf.
“If it’s war you want, Overlord,” the Southlander shouted up to him,
“then war you shall have!”
Then she was gone. Leaving Vateria’s raging father, who’d just lost his mate, and three quaking foreigners in the middle of his gladiator ring.
Well, if nothing else, everything had just gotten a lot more interesting.
Annwyl waited in the war room, her rear resting against the table filled with maps and correspondence from her commanders, her arms crossed in front of her chest. Behind her stood Dagmar and Talaith.
Brastias opened the door and let in the two women.
“General Ásta and her second in command, Bryndís,” he announced.
Once they were inside, he closed the door and came to stand close by Annwyl, big arms folded over his chest, his steady gaze on the ones who’d challenged his queen.
The second in command, Bryndís, dropped to one knee, her ax slamming into the floor, her head bowed. Ásta, however, merely bowed her head. But she kept it bowed, waiting for Annwyl to acknowledge her.
Before she did, Annwyl motioned Dagmar over and whispered in her ear, “Why can’t I get this kind of bowing and scraping from you lot?”
“Because you’d force us to kill you in your sleep if you tried,” her battle chief whispered back; then she winked.
Annwyl grinned, but cut it short, getting a good scowl in place before focusing her attention on the two women.
“So you’re here”—Ásta raised her head as Annwyl spoke—“to protect my twins.”
“That is the task we’ve been given. That is the task we’ll carry out.”
“And what if I tell you I don’t need you? What if I tell you to go?”
“Then we’ll go. Our orders are to follow your orders. That is what we’ll do.”
Annwyl briefly glanced back at a practically snarling Talaith, and asked, “We have a Nolwenn babe here as well. Will she be safe around you?”
“We have never harmed a Nolwenn not of age. We will not start now.
We are not here to cause any harm, Queen Annwyl. Or take your children.
You have met us in direct combat and have earned our respect. We will carry out our orders to the best of our abilities. We will protect your children with our lives. Our very souls if need be.”
“Why?”
“Because you are all that stands between a world of many leaders, many cultures, many gods—and a dictator. War calls for you, Queen Annwyl. You must answer.”
Before Annwyl could reply, a knock came at the back door to the room and Ebba entered. She walked on two legs and wore a dress, coming to Annwyl’s side, and whispering in her ear, “You wanted me to tell you when I was putting the babes down for the night.”
“Thank you,” Annwyl replied, but then she saw the witch, Ásta, watching the centaur and smirking. The other, Bryndís, was still down on one knee, head bowed. “This is Ebba,” Annwyl told the witch. “The babes’
nanny.”
The two females sized each other up until the witch said, “A centaur.
We once hunted your kind for sport.”
Ebba smiled. “And we used to devour your kind as snacks. Don’t cross me, Kyvich, or I’ll leave nothing for your sisters to mourn but what I pick out from between my teeth.” Then, with a nod to Annwyl, Ebba walked out.
Annwyl again leaned down to Dagmar and whispered in her ear,
“Adore. Her.”
Rhiannon watched from her throne as her offspring approached, her sister held in Gwenvael’s arms. Beside her was what remained of the Elders.