Last Dragon Standing

“Us?”

“You, me, and Meinhard.” Their cousin was a mighty fighter and always good backup in any situation. Plus, he was loyal—and loyalty meant all to Ragnar.

“Uncle Askel. He’s back from the Ice Land borders, and he’ll keep this rabble in line.”

“Good. We leave in two hours.”

“Leave for where?”

“The Southlands. And we’re bringing the royal. So you best fetch him.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

Ragnar nodded and stared out over his cold and brutal Northland home. He wished he could ignore the Dragon Queen’s orders, but something told him that would be a very foolish thing to do. He was never foolish. He didn’t have that luxury. So he’d return to the Southlands and risk not only his safety among the lazy Fire Breathers, but also meeting up with the one dragoness he hoped never to see again.

And as Ragnar thought of the cruel viper, his hand reached for the itchy scar on his chest once more. He stopped in mid-reach, though, when he realized he was still not alone.

“Something else, brother?” Ragnar asked.

“Well…are you going to eat all that fruit or just leave it out here to freeze into useless lumps?”

Ragnar swept up the fruit with both hands and pitched them, one after the other, at his brother’s big, fat, scale-covered forehead.

When he’d driven Vigholf back inside, Ragnar again faced the mountains he called home while his brother complained, “You could have just handed them to me, Ragnar!”

He was Lord Bampour now. He ruled this land. Of course, there would have to be an appropriate period of mourning, but then, once that was done, he’d take everything in hand.

But first, before he’d bother worrying about all that, he’d see his father’s killer up close.

His men had left her alone with some of the worst scum that could be found on his father’s…no, his lands. Not long enough to kill her, but long enough to make her realize that the days before her execution would be the worst of her life. She deserved it, of course. One, because she’d killed his father. And two, because the little whore had turned him down flat when he’d asked her to his bed. Even after he’d given her those lovely earrings.

Aye. Her last days on this earth would make her regret that decision.

He’d make sure of it.

Following behind his men, Lord Bampour walked into the farthest part of the dungeon. His men had stopped a few feet away from that bitch’s cell and didn’t move.

Filled with anticipation, he impatiently pushed past them. The little whore had her back to them, and he called out, “Well, my lady—” Startled, she spun around, her eyes wide, her mouth still chewing, a long tail hanging from her lips.

Lord Bampour and his men looked at the spot where the vicious mongrel they kept to keep these scum in line used to sit. His long chain was still there, the last ring pulled open. As one, Bampour and his men returned their gazes to the woman. Still chewing, she held up one finger, asking them to wait. His men took a step back, but Bampour examined the cell. A leather collar, torn open, lay at her dainty bare feet. And the other murderers, ra**sts, and thieves who shared the cell with her were backed into one corner. Eyes wide, all of them shaking in terror, they pushed against each other—one of them even trying to claw his way out of the cell using his bare hands.

Bampour looked at her again. She sucked the tail into her mouth like a wet noodle and swallowed. “Let me explain—” she began.

Bampour shook his head. “Move back,” he ordered his men.

“Wait. I didn’t kill your father. It wasn’t me.”

“Move back!” he ordered again.

“And no one would feed me. And the dog…how many more years could he have had? I’m sure that”—she gave a delicate cough—“this is a misunderstanding that we”—another cough—“can easily clear up. If you just let me explain—”

She stopped talking, pressed her hand to her stomach, coughed…

coughed again, then retched.

A good-sized skull, perfectly cleaned as if washed in acid, long fangs locked together, extended jaw and nose suggesting a snout where a wet nose once was, flew out of the woman’s mouth, hit the ground, and bounced across the floor several times before landing in front of the closed cell door.

The silence that followed was almost physically painful, and Bampour watched as small white teeth nibbled gently on a plump bottom lip until the woman finally said, “I can explain that too….” Bampour didn’t give her a chance. He screamed. Gods in the heaven, he screamed like a woman and ran. He ran, his men right beside him, the scum they’d left behind yelling for mercy, begging to be released from their cell.

Bampour and his men didn’t stop running until they’d made it around the corner and back to the jailer’s desk. With several guards pointing their pikes at the door they’d just come through, Bampour tried to catch his breath and think.

“What do we do, my lord?” his father’s old aide asked him.

“What do you think we do? We have a battalion of my soldiers guard this dungeon, and when the executioner arrives, we kill that bitch.

Understand?”

“Aye, my lord.”

Getting back his breath as well as his reason, Bampour began to relax, the entire dungeon again quiet.

Then that voice that, only a few days ago, he’d thought so alluring, called out, “And how attached to that dog could you have truly been? I mean… honestly?”