Last Dragon Standing

Yet raw ambition had never been Ragnar’s goal. To see how far he could go in the shortest amount of time. What an empty, useless goal.

Instead, he simply wanted more for his people. For the Horde dragons who populated the mighty Northland Mountains he wanted more than the hard life they’d all endured for so many eons. Yet that didn’t mean they needed to be as ridiculously lazy as the Southland dragons; or constantly dazzled by their own brilliance like the Eastlanders; or superior to all beings that had or ever would live, like the Iron dragons of the west; or purposely cut off and removed from everything outside their own territories like the Sand dragons.

In other words, Ragnar wanted more for his kind than merely a higher level of being annoying.

The brutal winds faded away, and the warmth of the two suns beat down upon Ragnar’s head. He opened his eyes and saw her. She stood by a tree, picking the ripe fruit with her tail and watching him.

“Hello, my cheery squall,” she said, smiling. So many fangs for a dragoness not yet that old. All bright white and twinkling like stars in the sky.

Ragnar dipped his head and said, “Queen Rhiannon. You summoned me.”

“I did, Dragonlord. I did.” She pulled a fruit down and tossed it to him. Ragnar caught it, marveling at the feel of it in his claw. Gods, now this was power. She’d not only created a space for them to meet between worlds, but a space where everything felt real and was real. The grass beneath his claws, the light wind blowing against his neck, the crows and hawks playing in the trees. Ragnar could never create something like this. He wasn’t powerful enough. But he hoped to be. One day.

“So you are finally Dragonlord Chief of the Hordes.”

“At the moment.”

“Gods. Are there already those trying to take it from you? Do you Lightnings not rest?”

“It’s not that someone’s trying to take my title away. Instead, when the time is right, I plan to hand it to my brother.”

Her white head cocked to the side, her white horns glinting in the sunlight. “You’d give up your power?”

“I’d do what is best for my people, lady.”

She let out a little laugh, her white claw covering her snout. “You are just so damn adorable.”

“It wasn’t me, you fool,” Keita continued to argue. “I didn’t kill the old bastard. And you can’t prove otherwise.”

“Really?” The aide stopped in front of her and caught hold of her hand. He turned it, palm up, and peeled back the sleeve of her gown. “And what’s this then, my lady?” He snatched the vial she’d tied to her wrist and uncorked it. He sniffed. “Kitto Bloom.” He held up the vial. “Three drops of this on the tongue and your victim would be dead in seconds.”

“Very true. But there’d be much more blood and some suffering.

Look at him. He clearly didn’t suffer. So it couldn’t have been the Kitto Bloom, which means it wasn’t me!” She smiled, proud of her logic.

“Right,” the aide said.

“Right,” Keita said, her grin growing wider.

The aide motioned to the guards. “Take this murdering bitch to the dungeons.”

“Dungeons? But I already explained that it wasn’t me. This is a complete injustice!”

Two guards grabbed her arms and pulled her out of the room.

“You’ll regret this, servant!”

They took her down the backstairs and through the kitchens. With more guards falling in behind them, they all took another set of stairs down into the bowels of the Baron Lord’s fortress.

They took Keita to a large cell filled with at least ten men.

“See how you like spending your time with these blokes, you murdering whore!”

They shoved her inside and slammed the cell door behind her.

“But it wasn’t me!” she yelled, which they completely ignored.

“Well…aren’t you at least going to give me something to eat? I haven’t had first meal yet. I’m starving!”

Laughing at her, the guards locked the gate, and one of the men ordered an enormous dog with a spiked collar, “Watch her, boy. If she sticks an arm out, tear it off.” The guards laughed more and walked off.

Annoyed and truly starving, Keita stamped her bare foot and crossed her arms over her chest. “This isn’t fair. You should at least feed your prisoners.”

Hoping the guards would return with some food, she faced the other prisoners.

“I can assure you I’ve murdered no one. Today,” she told them. “Nor am I a whore. Unless, of course, you’re talking to my sister. But she doesn’t count because she’s an uptight prissy tail.” One of the prisoners, a very large, swarthy fellow, slowly stood. Keita watched him, but after about three steps in her direction, he stopped, swallowed, and backed up again.

Not surprising, really. Keita had found over the years that predators knew predators. And smart predators knew when they were in the presence of something much more dangerous than they could ever hope to be.

Already bored beyond all reckoning, Keita again faced the front of the cell. She knew she could shift to her natural form and escape this dungeon.

True, she was small compared to many She-dragons, but her true form would still go through at least the kitchen and servants quarters above and possibly the floor above that. Plus she’d destroy at least three of the walls around her and many humans. Not only the bastards who’d put her here, but possibly the sweet servant girl who combed her hair at night, the old baker who always made sure to set aside treats for her, and the house maid who kept her laughing with all sorts of castle gossip. Killing them would be unfair in Keita’s estimation, since their only mistake would be that they were merely in the wrong place at the wrong time.