The Dragon Who Loved Me. G.A. Aiken

last time you washed my horse?”

      “When I couldn’t get anyone else to do it for me.”

      The queen grinned, the scar she’d received in battle four years ago crinkling across her face. It went from her right temple, down across her forehead, the bridge of her nose, her cheek, finally slicing into her neck. The blade had missed major arteries and, with stitches, had healed well enough. But the scar remained and the queen left it there. To the enemy, it seemed to suggest that the rumors of her being the undead were true—for how could someone survive such a cut? As for how the queen felt about her scar . . . well, she never looked in a mirror that much anyway.

      “Let’s be off then, squire, before they realize we’ve gone.”

      They headed deeper into the forest surrounding their camp, but were forced to stop after a few minutes when they found the human body of a young dragoness passed out in front of them, the victim of too much drink.

      “What should we do with her?” the queen asked.

      “Can’t just leave her here. Besides, it would be good to have a dragon by our side should we need one.”

      “Good point.” They picked the dragoness up, let her vomit up whatever she’d drunk, then began walking with her until she could walk on her own.

      After some time, the dragoness asked, “Where are we going?”

      “Into the west,” the queen answered.

      “Our enemies are in the west.”

      “ Aye.”

      “They’ll kill us all if they find us.”

      “ Aye.”

      “But torture us first.”

      “ Aye.”

      “So I’m guessing you have a plan.”

      “Not really.”

      The dragoness let out a sigh. “I kind of knew I’d regret drinking with the Eighteenth Battalion tonight—I just had no idea how much.”

      “Don’t worry. We’ll either stop this war in its tracks or become martyrs to it.”

      “I’m a dragon, my lady. Dragons don’t become martyrs. We create them.”

      “Well then . . .” Annwyl, the Mad Queen of Garbhán Isle, patted the She-dragon on her back as they headed farther into the west. “. . . now you have a goal.”

      Chapter 1

      She watched them move through the trees. They nearly blended in, but not quite. Not to her eyes.

      For these enemy dragons, the Irons, trying to sneak into their camp had become a weekly occurrence. Not that she could blame them. After five years of a standstill war in this valley called Euphrasia, both sides had become tired of it all. The constant but ineffectual skirmishes, the occasional attempts to poison each other’s water supply. When would it end? When would this war become something they all talked about in the past tense?

      Rhona the Fearless certainly didn’t know. She was merely a soldier in Her Majesty’s Army. She received her orders from commanders and made sure those orders were executed. She killed whenever necessary, and protected those who needed it. What she didn’t do was play politician. She was never involved in decisions that affected anything beyond the general safety of her troops. As a sergeant that was all she needed to be responsible for, and she was good at what she did.

      Then again, she was one of the Cadwaladr Clan. Low-born warrior dragons of the Southlands who many said were born to kill. To destroy. Rhona’s mother, Bradana the Mutilator, would say those many were right, and to prove it, she expected all her offspring to become elite Dragonwarriors of Her Majesty’s Army. And almost all Bradana’s offspring did. Except her youngest daughters, triplets who had a few more years of battle training ahead of them before they were ready, and Bradana’s eldest. Except for Rhona.

      Ahhh, nothing like thinking of a mother’s disappointment to keep one warm during watch in the Valley’s winter months. Yet those were deep, slightly bitter thoughts for another day. Right now, she had to deal with what was at hand—Iron dragons.

      She’d grown up hearing tales of the Irons. Steel-colored fire breathers with white horns that curved toward their mouths who believed they should rule all under the banner of the one and only god they worshipped—Chramnesind, the Sightless One. In their estimation, the entire world should be their empire and all others—dragon, human, or otherwise—should be their willing slaves, bowing down before the Overlord Thracius, sacrificing only to Chramnesind. It was a philosophy Rhona’s kind didn’t much like. They barely tolerated having a queen and Elders, much less an overlord. So the Southland Dragon Queen’s armies and the Northland Hordes, once great enemies, had joined forces to stop Thracius and his soldiers. There was just one thing none of them had planned on: that the Irons had a huge army. More dragon soldiers than Rhona had ever seen before at one time. And fresh troops kept coming. Did they have a dragon factory pumping out full-grown soldiers, ready for battle? Rhona had begun to think so. For while the Southlanders and the Northlanders had battle skills on their side, the damn Irons had numbers and the regimented, disciplined attacks of their troops.

      Thankfully, though, those currently trying to sneak in didn’t have large numbers on their side. There were about ten of the enemy dragons against Rhona and her triplet sisters. The siblings had been heading to the safety of the nearby Hesiod Mountains, where the Southland and Northland dragons had set up a stronghold, when Rhona had spotted the Irons. Now the siblings stood next to trees, the four of them blending in as Rhona had been taught to do by her mother when she was still too young even to fly. It was a skill she’d passed on to her siblings.

      While the Irons moved closer, Rhona raised her hand and readied to give the signal. Her sisters gripped their weapons and shields tighter, a small identical smile on each of their faces as they eagerly awaited her next order. And Rhona was moments from giving that order, her arm about to slash down in an arc, when something big and not remotely subtle crashed through the trees. A small group of Lightnings must have caught sight of the Irons as well, about three of the purple-haired and purple-scaled bastards tearing from the opposite direction, pushing the enemy dragons right into Rhona and her sisters.

      Rhona waited another beat, then gave the order. Her sisters moved quickly, silently. Unlike the Lightnings, there was no inelegance. No stomping or crashing like their Cadwaladr cousins either. Rhona had trained her sisters to move with methodical precision from the day they’d fought their way out of the egg. And that’s what they did now, cutting into the contingent of enemy soldiers.

      Edana, as always, struck first. Her broadsword slammed through the snout of the first dragon charging right into her. She cut through nostrils and bone, right into brain, twisting her blade once before yanking it out. Nesta spun around Edana and used her mace to crack the faceplate of the next Iron, following that up by ramming the tip of her tail into his skull while simultaneously cracking the breastplate of another and finishing him off with her mace. Breena, however, enjoyed the close-up kill. And although she had a sword, ax, and mace on her, she still used her long, curved slashing knife to finish off the job once she’d tackled her victim to the ground. Breena reminded Rhona the most of their mother.

      While the triplets did what they did best, the Lightnings rushed forward—to help. To help the poor weak females.

      Because after five bloody years, the Northlanders all still seemed to think that having females on the battlefield was too great a risk. A risk to the females, of course. Poor pathetic females that they were. Although after several bar fights with quite a few of Rhona’s female cousins and siblings at the heart of them, the Lightnings were now smart enough to keep that sentiment primarily to themselves. Except in situations like this when they felt females were in “grave danger.”

      Yet Rhona didn’t rush in to help anyone. She knew her sisters could handle themselves. So, she waited. And, as she had come to expect lately, three Irons silently slipped through the trees on the opposite