Last Dragon Standing

Annwyl made a strange clicking sound with her tongue, and the dogs released their sticks and charged up the stairs and into the Great Hall.

Annwyl followed behind them, stopping beside Fearghus.

“You all right?” she asked.

“I’m fine.” Paranoid, distrustful, and worried about you—but fine.

Annwyl crouched beside him. She looked tired, dark circles under her eyes. She hadn’t been sleeping well for months, often leaving their bed before the two suns rose. It might be her dreams that drove her from their bed, for when she did sleep, she tossed and turned; Fearghus’s presence beside her not easing her as it usually did.

Annwyl leaned in, waiting until Fearghus turned his face toward her so she could kiss him. Her lips were soft and sweet, her tongue wicked and ruthless, her mouth warm and delicious. He knew he shouldn’t be so paranoid about what she was up to when she was off training, but he couldn’t help it. Something was going on with her and she wouldn’t tell him.

She used to tell him everything.

She pulled back with a soft sigh. “I’ll see you later then?” And he heard the hopeful note in her tone.

“You need a bath,” he told her, his gaze moving over the courtyard. “I can scrub your back, if you’d like.”

“I never can reach it,” she murmured, her fingers trailing to his neck and across his shoulders. Fearghus closed his eyes at the feel of her hand on his bare skin and through his chain-mail shirt. Of course, those fingers felt even better against his scales and wings. “So your help will be much appreciated.”

Then she was gone, into the Great Hall and up the stairs to see their twins.

And Fearghus was left alone a little longer to brood and wonder what the hell was going on with his mate.

Bare feet walked across ice; naked bodies knelt in the snow, uncaring of the violent snow and ice storm swirling around them while heads bowed in honor of the god before them. This was not all their number, merely those who would lead this mission. For their strength was not in their number, but in their power. In their rage. In their willingness to kill without question, without regret, without thought.

Because of what they were willing to do, all in the name of their gods, they were the most feared in the Ice Lands. The most despised. But none of them cared about the outsiders. Not when they had their weapons in their hands and spells on their lips.

Go, the harsh winds roared around them, for this god would not speak directly to them. Not like the others. Instead, the Ice Land winds would give them their mission. The hard-packed snow and ice would enhance their strength and power for the long journey ahead. And the two suns would lead them to death or glory.

Go! the winds ordered again. Then, the screeching winds whispered, Annwyl.

Chapter Four

“I have to admit I’m a bit surprised, Lord Ragnar. I thought you would have killed all those humans.”

Ragnar gulped several mouthfuls of water from his flask. They’d traveled deep into the thick forests of Outerplains, not stopping until they found a freshwater lake.

“And I thought you wouldn’t allow yourself to be executed. Guess we were both wrong.”

The royal rolled brown eyes. “Of course I wouldn’t allow myself to be executed.”

“Then what were you doing exactly?”

She shrugged and, without asking, took his flask from him rather than filling her own from the lake as he’d done. “Seeing if I could talk them out of it.”

“Why?”

She shrugged. “Why not?” She studied his flask before using a bit of her gown to wipe the mouth of it. He didn’t know which annoyed him more.

The fact that she took his flask, the fact that she wiped it first before using it, or the fact that the gown she used was absolutely filthy.

“It’s all a game to you, isn’t it?” he asked.

After taking several gulps of water, she gave him that smile. She had many smiles, most of them as contrived as she was. But this one, where the left side of her mouth went up just a tad higher than the right and her eyes looked up at him through those thick lashes—this one was the true Keita.

His brother and cousin refused to see this Keita.

“Why were they trying to execute you anyway, Keita?” the Blue asked his sister.

She handed the flask back to Ragnar. “They believed I’d killed Lord Bampour.”

“Oh, Keita,” the Blue whined. “You didn’t.”

“Actually, I didn’t.” When her brother raised a dark blue brow, she insisted, “I didn’t!”

“Then why did they charge you?” Ragnar asked.

“They found me in his room.”

“With the body?”

“Yes. But it wasn’t me.” Why did Ragnar feel there was a “this time”

missing from that declaration?

“What were you doing in his room?”

She stared at Ragnar a moment, then replied, “Wishing him a good morning?”

“Is that an answer, princess, or a question?”

“Och!” She threw up her hands. “Does it matter? I didn’t kill him.” She pouted a little, her nose scrunching up—it looked vaguely adorable.

“They wouldn’t even listen to me. Just kept insisting that I had to have done it, simply because they found me alone in his room, the body still warm, and carrying a vial of poison.”

The males all stared at her, but when no one else asked, Ragnar knew he must. “And why were you carrying a vial of poison?”