Last Dragon Standing

Panting, Keita pressed her snout next to her sister’s. “Breathe,” she whispered to her. “Just breathe.”

Morfyd swallowed. “I’m…I’m all right. I’m all right.” Keita leaned back, searched her sister’s eyes. The rage was gone, and the Morfyd that Keita knew was back.

Talaith threw a ball of flame at the horse charging toward her. It reared up, and its rider swung off, landing on her feet. She raised both her hands, pulled them back to garner energy from the land around her, then shoved them forward. The power of the blow slammed into Talaith, and she flew back.

She knew she headed for the trees. That the probability of her slamming head or neck first into some hearty oak was quite high.

She called up a charm she’d been working on, thought it, used it, and power Talaith had never known flooded through her, rampaging into her system. Talaith stopped her body’s uncontrollable movement, suspending herself in midair. Then she rose up, her body hovering over land as if she had wings. The Kyvich stared up at her, enraged, and screamed.

Talaith screamed back and raced down to meet her. She collided into the witch, their bodies smashing to the ground and tearing across it from the momentum. By the time they rolled to a stop, they were in a pit of their own making and swinging at each other with nothing but their fists and the age-old hatred of their people.

They’d gotten her lovely ax away from her, but instead of using the many weapons they had on them to finish her off, they fought her with bare hands. That was fine by Izzy. She always did love a good bare-knuckle brawl.

She ducked a punch to the face, but not the punch to her lower back. It dropped her to her knees, but she put her hands down on the ground and brought her leg back, kicking someone in the chest. She rolled forward and up, ducked another punch to her head, and retaliated with a punch to a shoulder. Bone shattered on impact and the female’s body jerked back, but the witch used the momentum to turn in the opposite way, the back of her fist slamming into Izzy’s face. The blow sent Izzy flipping into someone else who caught hold of her by the throat and took Izzy to the ground.

Izzy swung at the hands that held her down, kicked out at the legs near her. But the one holding the blade over her chest…Izzy couldn’t avoid her.

She didn’t call for her mother or for Annwyl. They had their own fights, and she’d die knowing she had done what she could to protect her queen.

They slammed her arms down, held her legs pinned to the ground.

“Do it, bitch!” Izzy screamed, blood spitting on those who held her.

“Do it!”

“As ya like.” The witch raised the blade above Izzy’s chest, and even though Izzy wanted to cringe and look away, she didn’t.

The blade swung down, and Izzy pulled her right arm one more time, taking the witch who held her by surprise and yanking her over Izzy’s chest.

She was determined to take at least one of these crazed bitches with her.

“Fuck!” the startled witch cried out.

“Hold, Kyvich!” someone else called out, and the blade stopped inches from the witch’s back. She let out a breath and dropped on Izzy.

“Fuck me,” she whispered, and Izzy couldn’t agree more.

Ragnar watched as Morfyd helped her sister up, but he took Keita in his arms and nodded at Morfyd. “I’ve got her.” Morfyd nodded, patted his arm.

Ragnar smiled down at Keita. “You do manage to find piles of shit to fall into everywhere you go, don’t you?”

Keita laughed at that. “Some might say.”

“What do you want us to do with this lot?” Briec asked, still blocking the exit with Gwenvael.

“We can’t let them go,” Keita said and when her brothers smiled and reached for their swords, “No, no! We can’t kill them either!”

“Dammit.” Briec shoved his sword back in its sheath, and Gwenvael seemed to pout.

Keita looked at Fearghus. “We need Ghleanna. She can take care of this lot. Because it’s time I told all of you the truth about what’s been going on.”

“What are you thinking?” Ragnar asked.

Reaching up, she wiped the blood from her snout. “I’m thinking we’ve run out of time.”

Ragnar gently kissed her. “I think you’re right.” Blood covering her; her knuckles torn, battered, and broken; her nose shattered; at least one shoulder no longer in its socket; both eyes swollen along with her lips and chin; and nearly every inch of her bruised, Annwyl watched the witches who’d been fighting her back away. They kept backing up until seven of the mounted witches rode past them, the one that she’d pegged as leader in the middle.

Dressed in animal skins and with jewelry made of silver, steel, and animal parts, they truly looked like Ice Land barbarians.

Annwyl looked down and saw her sword. She reached for it, almost lost her balance, but stopped herself. She lifted the sword with both hands, planted her feet firmly, and raised the sword higher, ignoring the screaming pain coming from her damaged shoulder.

The witches pulled their horses to a stop and dismounted. They stayed at least three paces behind the one who led them, stopping completely when she was only a few feet from Annwyl.

They stood and watched her until Annwyl screamed, “Come on then!

Let’s finish this! Come on! ”

The leader’s head tilted to the side. “You can’t win,” she said, her voice soft, calm.

“I’ll kill you, though, cunt. I’ll make sure to kill you. So come on.