About a Dragon
Then he saw her dagger. How could he miss it? She aimed it straight at his eye. He swatted at her with his claw. He didn’t knock her off, but it startled her enough she stabbed his head scant inches from her original target.
“Aaaaaaarrrrrrrggggggggggghhh! You mad cow!”
He didn’t want to hurt her, but he had no choice. Especially when she yanked her blade back and took aim again.
Using his tail, he slammed her from behind, sending Talaith flying. She hit the ground with a grunt, but smartly rolled with the landing.
She ended up on her back, the dagger still clenched in her hand. He didn’t wait for her to get up. He wrapped his tail around her, making sure her arms were pinned at her sides and headed back into his cave.
* * *
Morfyd the White, Dragonwitch of House of Gwalchmai fab Gwyar, First-born Daughter of Dragon Queen Rhiannon, Vassal to Queen Annwyl of Garbhán Isle, and Supreme Battle Mage to the armies of Dark Plains, picked herself up off the ground, unable to look any of the men in the eye who’d watched her trip over her own two big feet. After all these years, she thought she would have mastered her human body a little better.
Unfortunately…
“Are you all right?”
She winced at the humor-filled voice she now so easily recognized.
“Aye, Brastias.” She took the hand of Queen Annwyl’s general and second-in-command, allowing the man to help her up.
“Those feet of yours just came out of nowhere and attacked again, huh?”
She glared into his smiling face. “Keep that up, and I’ll let the next battle wound you get go septic.”
She brushed off the front of her white robes and desperately tried to ignore those strong hands of Brastias’ brushing off the rear. With every pass over her ass, she practically purred.
“Honestly, Morfyd,” he said with all sincerity, “are you sure everything is all right?”
“Aye. Just one of my brothers.” She had felt a sudden and extreme pain in her head that ended just as suddenly. Not good, especially when it caused her to trip over her own two feet, but her brother still lived. That she knew.
Brastias frowned in concern. “Are they all right? Gods, it’s not Fearghus is it?”
She shook her head, but couldn’t help but smile. No one wanted to have that particular conversation with the queen should her mate be in distress.
Brastias took her arm and headed toward her tent. “Which brother then?”
She knew he could care less, but he always liked to find a reason to take her hand or arm and to escort her to her tent. Morfyd had to admit, Brastias did make going to war an almost pleasurable event.
She concentrated for a moment, feeling for those tendrils of Magick that kept the entire Gwalchmai fab Gwyar family continually connected. They could shut each other out at will and usually did—unless they were surprised. Clearly, something blindsided her kin. “Gwenvael, I think.”
“Gwenvael? Really? Shocking,” he said flatly.
Morfyd laughed. Brastias had been around her kin long enough now to know if there was trouble, Gwenvael would most likely fall head first into its lap. “I know. Unbelievably shocking.”
They now stood in front of her tent and, as always, Morfyd desperately searched for a reason to invite Brastias in. It had been three years since she met the man and she still had yet to find a reason that didn’t sound idiotic.
Would you like to come in and count my herb supplies, O’ tall, gorgeous one? By the Dark Fire Gods, you’re pathetic.
“Bullocks this,” she muttered.
Chuckling in surprise, “I’m sorry?”
She girded her loins. She could do this. He was only a human. A gorgeous, amazing, beautiful, human…but still a human. “Brastias, I was wondering if—”
Morfyd.
It was only her name, but it held enough power to drop her to her knees. Brastias held on to her arms, the power of the gods tearing through her.
Call to me, child. Send for me.
Shaking, Morfyd looked up into the extremely concerned face of Brastias as storm clouds appeared in the sky above his head.
“What is it, Morfyd?”
“Inside my tent,” she gasped. “A large satchel. Fetch it for me.”
Frowning, Brastias clearly did not want to let her go. But he had no choice. She had no choice.
“Please, Brastias.”
He nodded, releasing her, and disappeared inside her tent.
Morfyd.
Scowling, Morfyd raged, “I hear you! Stop bloody calling me!” She took deep breaths to calm her nerves, motioning to one of the young messengers who helped out during battle. “Boy. Come.” Reluctantly, the boy moved toward her. “Go to the queen, tell her a storm comes. A bad one.”
The boy glanced up in confusion. It had been a beautiful night, clear skies. But that was about to quickly change. Storms were heading their way. She’d hoped they would stay ahead of them, but it looked like that wouldn’t be the case.
“Boy!” She watched as his large eyes snapped down to focus on her. “Do it now.”
He nodded and ran off, relieved to be away from her most likely.
Brastias returned to her side. “Morfyd, what is it?”
More like who, but she didn’t have time for that. Instead, she ignored the concern in his voice. “Help me up.”
He did, easily lifting her to her feet.
“The bag.” There was too much going on to bother any longer with niceties.
Brastias quickly handed the satchel to her. Turning away from her tent, she headed toward a river a bit away from camp. “You sure you don’t need me to—”