How to Drive a Dragon Crazy

Aidan finally looked at him. “But first the Northlands?”

“First the Northlands. Deal with the new Spikes leader for those poor Lightning bastards.”

“Can we call the Northlanders that when we see them? I’m sure they’ll just love it.”

“Then I’ll check in with Keita before we head south.”

“Check in with Keita while still in the Northlands? Sure that’s wise?”

“Come now,” Éibhear dismissed his friend’s worry. “It’s been ages. I’m sure Ragnar’s forgiven me by now.”

“Right.” Aidan snorted. “I’m sure he has.”

“We challenge you,” the Spikes’ leader had called out, bright white wings extending from his back, white spikes going from his head, down his spine, to the tip of his tail, white and silver hair braided up like a horse’s mane touching the ground. “Let’s decide this now and end it.”

So it had been agreed. The Spike’s champion against theirs. But there were rumors coming in from Ragnar’s spies that all this was merely a fancy ruse. The young leader’s idea to get the Northlanders to think the war was over and head home, so that this leader’s troops and another Spike’s legion could come over territorial lines and into the Northlands unmolested. Because unlike the Spikes, honor was all to the Northland dragons.

And it was true. Honor was all, but not stupidity. Ragnar had already sent word to his contacts in the Ice Lands to stop the second army from crossing into their territory by any means necessary. Knowing that was being handled allowed him to enjoy the champion contest currently going on in front of him.

Ragnar studied the dragon his champion was facing. He was bigger than anything Ragnar had ever seen, easily the size of two castles. Around his neck he wore a necklace made of smaller dragons’ heads and his scales had hardened into an armor of its own, the sound of his heavy breathing rattling the nearby trees. Ragnar wasn’t even sure the dragon could fly anymore. All that weight combined with the stiffness of his scales . . .

“Gods,” Ragnar’s cousin Meinhard whispered next to him. “It’s a cannibal.”

“A what?” Ragnar’s brother, Vigholf, asked.

“A cannibal dragon,” Ragnar clarified. “He eats his own kind. That’s what makes him look like that.”

The cannibal thrust his battle lance, aiming for their champion’s shoulder. There was great power behind that move. Enough to tear open a hole in a small mountain. The lance flashed in the early morning suns as the champion caught that lance in his claw, held it.

Tugging, the cannibal tried to pry it free. He became frustrated and roared. He held out his other claw and someone tossed him a sword. He caught it, swung for the champion’s neck. But the claw that held the sword was caught and held.

Strength battled strength as each male pushed back against the other, but neither budged. Yet the cannibal had no patience; he leaned in, opening his maw. The champion didn’t wait for whatever the cannibal had planned. He unleashed his own flame first, the stream hitting deep inside the cannibal’s throat, choking him. The cannibal released his weapons, and stumbled back.

The champion dropped the weapons and went for his own. A battle axe and a warhammer. He wielded both at the same time, swinging on the cannibal before he had a chance to snap back. The hammer hit him first, ramming into his head, knocking him to one side. The axe followed, attacking the same side, connecting with his shoulder. The blow knocked the cannibal to the ground, trapping several dragons beneath him.

The champion flew over to him, landing hard, and battered at him with both axe and hammer, hitting him mostly in the face and neck and chest until the cannibal roared his rage and rose, knocking the champion off him. He dragged himself up, the champion scrambling back, trying to move out of his way.

Taking in a deep breath, the cannibal again opened his mouth wide, about to unleash a weapon that had nothing to do with steel.

“Shields!” Vigholf yelled out, and they all brought their shields up or stepped in behind a comrade’s.

Ragnar watched the cannibal release neither lightning nor flame nor water nor any of the other weapons that every dragon had within it. But acid. The only other dragon with acid as its natural weapon was the Immortal dragon. The Immortals had been given their weapon by the gods, but it was said that those who ate their own were cursed with acid as their weapon. Stomach acid.

The acid sprayed out, shields sizzling as the hard steel was struck, a large ball of it hurtling toward the champion.

The champion grabbed a shield, lifting it to protect his face and chest, the power of the acid shoving him back, burning through the metal. He dropped the shield, raised his gaze, and charged at the cannibal again. But he suddenly pulled back as another dragon, one covered in the pelts of dead animals, such as Ice Landers were known to wear, dropped between their champion and the Spike’s.

Ragnar looked between his brother and cousin, but they seemed lost as well.

“The trap?” Vigholf asked.

If it was, it was a tragically premature trap. Ragnar still had a full army out here, ready to fight.

The cannibal opened his mouth, ready to unleash more acid, but the mysterious dragon dressed as a barbarian Ice Lander suddenly turned and struck. He rammed his lance into the open mouth of the cannibal, halting his ability to unleash his acid—at least for the moment.

The cannibal was battered to the ground, the stranger using only his giant forearms covered in leather gauntlets. He then raised an oversized steel axe up and over his head in one fluid movement, bringing it down with a mighty force into the cannibal’s giant neck, hacking through those thick scales. And he kept hacking until he’d separated head from spine.