The Dragon Who Loved Me
Page 27
“Then why—”
“It’s complicated. But you,” he asked, changing the subject, “are you al right? Are you safe?”
“I’ve been treated like a princess since I’ve been here.” Davon the Elegant leaned in and whispered, “I’m considered a returned prisoner of war, so they’re al very gentle with me and give me lots of things. It’s been nice.”
“Mum.”
“Wel , if it hadn’t been for my wonderful sons, it would have been horrible living with your father. But you al looked out for me. So it’s easy for me to sit back and enjoy the pity.”
“As long as you’re safe, Mum. That’s al Ragnar and I care about. That’s al we’ve ever cared about.” She pushed long gold hair behind her ear. “I’m fine. I promise.”
He stepped back and took his mother’s hand. “Then I want you to meet someone.”
“Oh?”
“No. Nothing like that,” he laughed and pul ed her toward the tent, lifting the flap so he could escort her in. But Vigholf stopped right at the entrance, his eyes on Rhona as she worked at her father’s forge with a skil he’d only seen in blacksmiths who’d been working for hundreds of years. She swung a hammer, working away at some weapon.
Yet it wasn’t just the skil that startled him. It was the joy on her face while she worked and laughed with her father. It was that thing that had been missing when he watched her fol owing orders and flying into battle.
“My,” his mother murmured. “She’s quite . . . hearty.” She glanced up at him. “A Cadwaladr, I’m assuming.”
“We traveled here together.”
“And you like her.”
“Not real y,” he blatantly lied. “She just needs protection and like a true Northlander, it’s my duty to protect helpless females.”
“Helpless?” His mother looked over at Rhona. The Fire Breather lifted the sword she worked on, stil glowing bright from the heat. The grin on her face, the light in her eyes . . . it was a beautiful sight to behold. Rhona put the blade in water to cool and caught another weapon her father tossed at her. A good-sized battle-ax. She swung it a few times, then threw it, the blade imbedding into the stuffed head of the practice dummy standing in the corner.
His mother nodded. “Oh, yes. I see now, my son. She’s extremely helpless.” Chapter 10
Rhona stopped not far from the Garbhán Isle gates. The gates lined with Kyvich witches keeping watch. She’d forgotten how imposing the human females could be.
In one lone line, they snaked around the top of the gate wal s, a shorter spear cal ed a pilum gripped in each witch’s hand. Considering it was winter, they wore little clothes. Mostly animal skins and bits of armor covering the important areas and arteries. But it was the black tattoos that marked their faces and/or necks. There was no uniformity in those markings or in the way the females dressed or looked—and yet there was no doubt they were a unified army. A deadly and wel -trained one that had no mercy, no heart, and no loyalty but to those their gods had chosen for them.
“Disturbing to look at, aren’t they?” the Lightning asked as he stepped up beside her. She’d lost track of him while she’d worked in her father’s forge, learning al sorts of new and wonderful blacksmithing techniques. “They’ve been around for at least a mil ennia in the Ice Lands and they’ve been feared since the beginning.”
“Can they real y be trusted?”
“They fol ow the dictates of their gods without question.”
“So then the answer is no. They can’t be trusted.”
Vigholf laughed. “Not a fan of the gods then?”
“I cal them if I need them, but I’d be a fool to trust them.”
“I like the war gods.”
Rhona crossed her eyes. “Of course you do.”
“So”—Vigholf faced her—“would you like to have dinner tonight with me and my mother?”
“No.”
He scowled. “Why not?”
“Wel , first off I’m having dinner with my father, and second . . . no.”
“You don’t like my mother,” he accused.
“I don’t know your mother.”
“And you never wil . . . unless you have dinner with us.” His grin was wide . . . and a tad ridiculous—in an annoyingly adorable way. “Bring your father.”
“You’re getting stranger every day, I just want to make that clear.”
“That’s not a no to my dinner invitation.”
At that point, Rhona was going to walk away, but that soft sound caught her attention first. A sound they both heard.
After so much combat, it wasn’t surprising they both moved quickly, turning to face the smal storage building on the left side of their path. Rhona dropped to a crouch, the tip of her wonderful new spear pointed directly in front of her. Vigholf stayed tal , his warhammer held high in one hand, a battle-ax in the other. She’d seen him use both at the same time to devastating effect for the enemy.
Vigholf motioned to her with a dip of his head and Rhona, keeping low, moved forward, the Lightning guarding her rear.
Then it came at them from the brush that lined the side of the building. Teeth snapping, smal blade slashing. Reacting without thought, as Northlanders had been trained to do in combat, Vigholf stepped in front of Rhona, hammer raised high, but she slammed into his side, sending him stumbling a few feet away.
“It’s complicated. But you,” he asked, changing the subject, “are you al right? Are you safe?”
“I’ve been treated like a princess since I’ve been here.” Davon the Elegant leaned in and whispered, “I’m considered a returned prisoner of war, so they’re al very gentle with me and give me lots of things. It’s been nice.”
“Mum.”
“Wel , if it hadn’t been for my wonderful sons, it would have been horrible living with your father. But you al looked out for me. So it’s easy for me to sit back and enjoy the pity.”
“As long as you’re safe, Mum. That’s al Ragnar and I care about. That’s al we’ve ever cared about.” She pushed long gold hair behind her ear. “I’m fine. I promise.”
He stepped back and took his mother’s hand. “Then I want you to meet someone.”
“Oh?”
“No. Nothing like that,” he laughed and pul ed her toward the tent, lifting the flap so he could escort her in. But Vigholf stopped right at the entrance, his eyes on Rhona as she worked at her father’s forge with a skil he’d only seen in blacksmiths who’d been working for hundreds of years. She swung a hammer, working away at some weapon.
Yet it wasn’t just the skil that startled him. It was the joy on her face while she worked and laughed with her father. It was that thing that had been missing when he watched her fol owing orders and flying into battle.
“My,” his mother murmured. “She’s quite . . . hearty.” She glanced up at him. “A Cadwaladr, I’m assuming.”
“We traveled here together.”
“And you like her.”
“Not real y,” he blatantly lied. “She just needs protection and like a true Northlander, it’s my duty to protect helpless females.”
“Helpless?” His mother looked over at Rhona. The Fire Breather lifted the sword she worked on, stil glowing bright from the heat. The grin on her face, the light in her eyes . . . it was a beautiful sight to behold. Rhona put the blade in water to cool and caught another weapon her father tossed at her. A good-sized battle-ax. She swung it a few times, then threw it, the blade imbedding into the stuffed head of the practice dummy standing in the corner.
His mother nodded. “Oh, yes. I see now, my son. She’s extremely helpless.” Chapter 10
Rhona stopped not far from the Garbhán Isle gates. The gates lined with Kyvich witches keeping watch. She’d forgotten how imposing the human females could be.
In one lone line, they snaked around the top of the gate wal s, a shorter spear cal ed a pilum gripped in each witch’s hand. Considering it was winter, they wore little clothes. Mostly animal skins and bits of armor covering the important areas and arteries. But it was the black tattoos that marked their faces and/or necks. There was no uniformity in those markings or in the way the females dressed or looked—and yet there was no doubt they were a unified army. A deadly and wel -trained one that had no mercy, no heart, and no loyalty but to those their gods had chosen for them.
“Disturbing to look at, aren’t they?” the Lightning asked as he stepped up beside her. She’d lost track of him while she’d worked in her father’s forge, learning al sorts of new and wonderful blacksmithing techniques. “They’ve been around for at least a mil ennia in the Ice Lands and they’ve been feared since the beginning.”
“Can they real y be trusted?”
“They fol ow the dictates of their gods without question.”
“So then the answer is no. They can’t be trusted.”
Vigholf laughed. “Not a fan of the gods then?”
“I cal them if I need them, but I’d be a fool to trust them.”
“I like the war gods.”
Rhona crossed her eyes. “Of course you do.”
“So”—Vigholf faced her—“would you like to have dinner tonight with me and my mother?”
“No.”
He scowled. “Why not?”
“Wel , first off I’m having dinner with my father, and second . . . no.”
“You don’t like my mother,” he accused.
“I don’t know your mother.”
“And you never wil . . . unless you have dinner with us.” His grin was wide . . . and a tad ridiculous—in an annoyingly adorable way. “Bring your father.”
“You’re getting stranger every day, I just want to make that clear.”
“That’s not a no to my dinner invitation.”
At that point, Rhona was going to walk away, but that soft sound caught her attention first. A sound they both heard.
After so much combat, it wasn’t surprising they both moved quickly, turning to face the smal storage building on the left side of their path. Rhona dropped to a crouch, the tip of her wonderful new spear pointed directly in front of her. Vigholf stayed tal , his warhammer held high in one hand, a battle-ax in the other. She’d seen him use both at the same time to devastating effect for the enemy.
Vigholf motioned to her with a dip of his head and Rhona, keeping low, moved forward, the Lightning guarding her rear.
Then it came at them from the brush that lined the side of the building. Teeth snapping, smal blade slashing. Reacting without thought, as Northlanders had been trained to do in combat, Vigholf stepped in front of Rhona, hammer raised high, but she slammed into his side, sending him stumbling a few feet away.
