What a Dragon Should Know
Page 43
“I just think it’s unfair you’re not giving me a chance like you gave the others. What makes them so bloody special?”
As Bercelak turned to his son, he sensed the air moving and vibrating behind him. Acting on instinct and more years of what his own father had considered “training” than he cared to think about, Bercelak shoved his son to the side as a dragon’s broadsword—the length of a human soldier’s battle lance, the width of a middle-aged tree trunk—landed in the spot Éibhear had stood.
His son’s silver eyes widened, his gaze locked at where the tip of that mighty blade met Éibhear’s claw prints.
“And that, boy, is the difference between you and your brothers,” Bercelak snapped, fear for his youngest son making his words hard. “They would have seen that blade coming.”
His son flinched at the truth of Bercelak’s words as the sword was yanked from the ground.
Ghleanna the Decimator grinned at Bercelak. “Tsk, tsk, tsk, brother. Seems you haven’t trained your offspring well enough. Father would be horribly disappointed, Bercelak the Black.”
“That’ll keep me up nights,” he shot back.
“Aaaah. My baby brother is still as charming as the day he was hatched.” She slid the blade back in the scabbard tied to her back before throwing herself into Bercelak’s arms. “You old bastard. You never change.”
“Nor you.” He gave a brief but hard hug to his beloved sister before holding her at arm’s length and motioning to the blood-covered field of battle that lay before them. “Is this all your work?”
“Not all mine.” She turned and smiled. “Little Éibhear?” she asked with a huge laugh.
“I was.” The pair hugged. “I’m much bigger now.”
“That you are.” Her arm around Éibhear’s shoulder, her tail scratching the top of his head affectionately, Ghleanna asked, “Well, brother, what brings you out to the west? And don’t pu**yfoot; you know how much I hate that.”
“It’s a long story, and I’m tired. Got a cave we can—”
“Tents. We’ve been living among the human warriors.”
Bercelak’s head fell back against his shoulders and he sighed. “You’re living as humans … again?”
“You know how it entertains us. But there’s food, a warm place to sleep, and your family to help you, brother. Truly, what more could a dragon want?”
“A bloody cave.”
“Growl, growl. Snarl, snarl.” She motioned to him as she headed through the recent field of battle, her strong arm still around Éibhear. “Come on, Lord Angry.”
Bercelak muttered under his breath and followed his sister down to the camp. Once a few feet away, father and son shifted to human and changed into the clothes they’d brought with them. Ghleanna slammed her broadsword and sheath into the ground beside several rows of dragon weapons. She shifted, grabbed clothes from a hanging line, and clothed herself.
They entered the camp and Bercelak immediately saw his older brother Addolgar wrestling with one of his six sons. One of Addolgar’s seven daughters was trying to bring her father down, and doing a piss-poor job of it from what Bercelak could tell. Like most of the Cadwaladrs, his kin never seemed to know when they’d had enough hatchlings. Thirteen for Addolgar, eight for Ghleanna, and a horrifying eighteen for his sister Maelona. And Bercelak himself came from a group of fifteen, what Rhiannon’s mother used to refer to as “Shalin’s litter of offspring.” An insult Shalin, Bercelak’s much-loved and much-missed mother always took with a smile because she’d won the prize. She’d won Bercelak’s father, Ailean.
Now, with only six offspring of his own, Bercelak was often pitied by his siblings. Yet that had been a conscious choice between him and Rhiannon. And if his kin knew how much trouble six royal pains in the ass could be, they’d pity him for other reasons.
“Ho, Addolgar!” Ghleanna stopped by the cooking fire and grabbed a well-roasted chicken. “Look who has come to call.” She tossed the whole bird to Éibhear.
“Aw, thanks. I’m starving.”
“I figured. Could hear that stomach of yours growling from here. Sounds like mountains shifting.”
Addolgar knocked his son in the dirt and walked over to Bercelak. “Ho, brother!” They clasped hands and Addolgar smiled. Bercelak didn’t glare, which he’d always considered similar to a smile.
Glancing over his shoulder, Addolgar asked, “Are you done?”
“Oh!” The young dragoness released her father and dropped to the ground. Her human form was not very large and Bercelak guessed it must frustrate her. “This isn’t over!” She stormed off and Addolgar laughed.
“Just like her mum, that one.” Addolgar eyed his brother. “So, what brings you here, Queen’s Consort?”
“That idiot son of mine and his human mate.”
Addolgar crossed his arms over his chest. “Don’t you have two hatchlings with that flaw now?”
Bercelak bared a fang while his siblings’ laughter rang out through the camp.
“Where are we going now?” Gwenvael asked, looking around the alley they’d stepped into.
“To the Great Library.” Dagmar closed the back door to the seamstress’s shop behind her. “There’s someone I need to find.”
“Who?”
As Bercelak turned to his son, he sensed the air moving and vibrating behind him. Acting on instinct and more years of what his own father had considered “training” than he cared to think about, Bercelak shoved his son to the side as a dragon’s broadsword—the length of a human soldier’s battle lance, the width of a middle-aged tree trunk—landed in the spot Éibhear had stood.
His son’s silver eyes widened, his gaze locked at where the tip of that mighty blade met Éibhear’s claw prints.
“And that, boy, is the difference between you and your brothers,” Bercelak snapped, fear for his youngest son making his words hard. “They would have seen that blade coming.”
His son flinched at the truth of Bercelak’s words as the sword was yanked from the ground.
Ghleanna the Decimator grinned at Bercelak. “Tsk, tsk, tsk, brother. Seems you haven’t trained your offspring well enough. Father would be horribly disappointed, Bercelak the Black.”
“That’ll keep me up nights,” he shot back.
“Aaaah. My baby brother is still as charming as the day he was hatched.” She slid the blade back in the scabbard tied to her back before throwing herself into Bercelak’s arms. “You old bastard. You never change.”
“Nor you.” He gave a brief but hard hug to his beloved sister before holding her at arm’s length and motioning to the blood-covered field of battle that lay before them. “Is this all your work?”
“Not all mine.” She turned and smiled. “Little Éibhear?” she asked with a huge laugh.
“I was.” The pair hugged. “I’m much bigger now.”
“That you are.” Her arm around Éibhear’s shoulder, her tail scratching the top of his head affectionately, Ghleanna asked, “Well, brother, what brings you out to the west? And don’t pu**yfoot; you know how much I hate that.”
“It’s a long story, and I’m tired. Got a cave we can—”
“Tents. We’ve been living among the human warriors.”
Bercelak’s head fell back against his shoulders and he sighed. “You’re living as humans … again?”
“You know how it entertains us. But there’s food, a warm place to sleep, and your family to help you, brother. Truly, what more could a dragon want?”
“A bloody cave.”
“Growl, growl. Snarl, snarl.” She motioned to him as she headed through the recent field of battle, her strong arm still around Éibhear. “Come on, Lord Angry.”
Bercelak muttered under his breath and followed his sister down to the camp. Once a few feet away, father and son shifted to human and changed into the clothes they’d brought with them. Ghleanna slammed her broadsword and sheath into the ground beside several rows of dragon weapons. She shifted, grabbed clothes from a hanging line, and clothed herself.
They entered the camp and Bercelak immediately saw his older brother Addolgar wrestling with one of his six sons. One of Addolgar’s seven daughters was trying to bring her father down, and doing a piss-poor job of it from what Bercelak could tell. Like most of the Cadwaladrs, his kin never seemed to know when they’d had enough hatchlings. Thirteen for Addolgar, eight for Ghleanna, and a horrifying eighteen for his sister Maelona. And Bercelak himself came from a group of fifteen, what Rhiannon’s mother used to refer to as “Shalin’s litter of offspring.” An insult Shalin, Bercelak’s much-loved and much-missed mother always took with a smile because she’d won the prize. She’d won Bercelak’s father, Ailean.
Now, with only six offspring of his own, Bercelak was often pitied by his siblings. Yet that had been a conscious choice between him and Rhiannon. And if his kin knew how much trouble six royal pains in the ass could be, they’d pity him for other reasons.
“Ho, Addolgar!” Ghleanna stopped by the cooking fire and grabbed a well-roasted chicken. “Look who has come to call.” She tossed the whole bird to Éibhear.
“Aw, thanks. I’m starving.”
“I figured. Could hear that stomach of yours growling from here. Sounds like mountains shifting.”
Addolgar knocked his son in the dirt and walked over to Bercelak. “Ho, brother!” They clasped hands and Addolgar smiled. Bercelak didn’t glare, which he’d always considered similar to a smile.
Glancing over his shoulder, Addolgar asked, “Are you done?”
“Oh!” The young dragoness released her father and dropped to the ground. Her human form was not very large and Bercelak guessed it must frustrate her. “This isn’t over!” She stormed off and Addolgar laughed.
“Just like her mum, that one.” Addolgar eyed his brother. “So, what brings you here, Queen’s Consort?”
“That idiot son of mine and his human mate.”
Addolgar crossed his arms over his chest. “Don’t you have two hatchlings with that flaw now?”
Bercelak bared a fang while his siblings’ laughter rang out through the camp.
“Where are we going now?” Gwenvael asked, looking around the alley they’d stepped into.
“To the Great Library.” Dagmar closed the back door to the seamstress’s shop behind her. “There’s someone I need to find.”
“Who?”
