The Dragon Who Loved Me. G.A. Aiken
us regret that.”
And having been curious about the answer for the last five years, Vigholf asked, “Rhona likes me too, yeah?”
“Gods, no!” one said, laughing, dragging two of the bodies away by their back claws.
“And if I were you, I’d stay away from her until she gets over the loss of that spear,” said another. Vigholf honestly couldn’t tell the three She-dragons apart. “Otherwise, she just might take those pretty grey eyes.”
“I’m a Northlander,” he reminded them. “I don’t have pretty eyes.”
The triplets laughed.
“At least you have them, Lightning. Keep getting between me sister and her glory in battle and you won’t for long.”
Vigholf grinned, watching the three females drag six of the bodies away.
“You better get her a new spear,” a low voice muttered behind him.
Vigholf glanced over at his cousin Meinhard. “Why?”
“Because I don’t feel like leading you into battle because you’re missing your eyes.”
“She wouldn’t hurt me. She’s too nice.”
Meinhard studied the bodies the female had left behind. “I think, cousin, that she’d cut your throat, then go have ale with her kin and not give you another thought.”
“The Babysitter?” It was his nickname for Rhona the Fearless, who seemed to make it her lot in life to watch out for anyone under the age of one hundred and fifty.
“Babysitter to those she cares about.” Meinhard grabbed hold of several bodies by their tails. “But a cold-blooded soldier to those she doesn’t. And the gods know, Vigholf, that female doesn’t care about you.”
“Wrong. Right now she hates me. That is a form of caring, which could easily, with some skill, turn to love and eventually adoration.”
Shaking his head, Meinhard headed off. “My mum was right. You are thick as two planks.”
“Your mum loved me, too.”
“Only ’cause she felt sorry for you.”
“See?” Vigholf laughed. “With some skill, comes the love and adoration!”
Chapter 2
For five long years the war had raged on. For five long years, Rhona had been dealing with the Lightnings on a daily basis. But not as the enemy she was raised to loathe. Instead they were now the allies of her kind. Strange how everything could change so. Rhona’s mother and her aunts and uncles had made their names and reputations by decimating the Lightnings in battle. Her royal cousins, the Dragon Queen’s three eldest sons, Fearghus, Briec, and Gwenvael, had also faced the Northlanders in war, earning them respect beyond their royal titles. So Rhona had always assumed that one day she’d go talon-to-talon against the Lightnings just as her kin had before her.
Instead, Rhona was forced to endure their presence as allies. Forced to forget how Lightnings used to kidnap Southland She-dragons and force them into being their mates. The more difficult ones losing a wing to keep them trapped in the harsh lands of a foreign country with males they loathed. Yet, as the Northlanders were quick to remind anyone who mentioned their past, that had been a long time ago. Now that the older, more heartless Horde leaders had died off, the new regime didn’t allow this practice anymore. They were a new, kinder Horde that still couldn’t manage to believe a female could protect herself during battle.
And, honestly, on days like today, tolerating the Northlanders’ new and kinder image was nigh-on impossible. Then again, maybe Rhona’s problems weren’t with tolerating the Northlanders as a whole but tolerating one of them. Vigholf the Abhorrent or, as she liked to call him, Commander Pest.
Yet by the time Rhona had made it deep into their mountain stronghold and she knew she was officially off duty for the rest of the day, she pushed all thoughts of annoying, closed-minded Northlanders from her mind and decided she desperately needed a bath. She’d found a lovely little lake with a waterfall deep inside the mountain. Only a few of them knew about it and they kept it secret from all the others.
Yet Rhona found that her plans rarely if ever played out exactly as she saw them because something—or someone—always got in her way.
“Oy, Rhona.”
Rhona stopped, her body tensing at the sound of that voice, rough-hewn thanks to a knife to the throat a few centuries back, and faced one of the commanding officers. “General, sir!”
“Can’t you just call me Mum?”
Gods. When her mother said, “Can’t you just call me Mum?” it was a warning to Rhona. As bright and clear as a battle cry from a mountaintop. The first time Bradana the Mutilator had asked Rhona to call her Mum she’d shoved a freshly hatched Delen the Blue into Rhona’s arms and said, “You’re not too busy to take care of your new sister, are you?” Then Bradana went to war—for nearly four years.
Rhona had been mostly responsible for raising her siblings ever since.
“Mum.”
“Heard you ran into a spot of trouble.”
“Aye, but nothing we couldn’t handle. Had the triplets with me.”
“They’re growing into right little brawlers, my girls, eh?”
Rhona cringed at the description because she didn’t raise brawlers. She raised warriors. Yet her mother saw it as a compliment, so Rhona didn’t argue with her.
“They are. Getting better every day.”
“Your Uncle Bercelak will probably want them to go to Anubail Mountain next year.”
“Great. I can’t wait for them to go.” All right. She was outright lying now. And it wasn’t that she didn’t want her sisters to go and follow the path of the Dragonwarrior as their other siblings had. But of all Bradana’s offspring whom Rhona had raised over the years, she’d become closest to her youngest sisters. Of course she’d actually been there when they’d battled their way out of their egg, head-butting and biting and lashing each other with their tails. Her mother usually stayed around for the hatching, but just before the triplets came along she’d rushed off to raid some traitor dragon’s fortress, thinking she’d be back in time—she wasn’t.
“And,” her mother continued, scratching the vicious scar across her throat with the tip of her tail, “you can go with them. You all can train together. Won’t that be fun?”
Tricky. Her mother was definitely tricky. Bradana knew how much the triplets meant to Rhona and clearly she wasn’t above using that love to get what she wanted. And what she wanted was for Rhona to take the path of the Dragonwarrior. Like all her other offspring and like most of the Cadwaladr Clan. There was just one problem with that plan—Rhona had no desire to become a Dragonwarrior. Much to her mother’s annoyance, Rhona was perfectly satisfied with what she was doing. She was a soldier and a damn good one.
Why did her mother have such an issue with that?
So Rhona said, “I’m sure they’ll be fine. Without me.”
“Your Uncle Bercelak is offering you an opportunity.”
“And I appreciate that. But I don’t need it.”
Rhona turned to go, needing that bath more and more.
“I didn’t dismiss you,” her mother snapped and Rhona rounded on her.
“Which is it, Mum? Are you my mother at this moment or my commanding officer? Because I can walk away from me mum!”
“I’m both!”
“Can’t be! One or the other! Pick!”
“Don’t snarl at