Light My Fire

Her muscles bulging, her entire body taut with strength and power, Annwyl raised the flint axe high, held it there a moment, then brought it down on Glebovicha’s cunt with such force that Annwyl hacked her way straight into the female’s belly.

The cries of horror from the tribe leaders—some jumping to their feet, others desperately looking away, almost all of them pulling their weapons and closing their legs—nearly washed out the scream of pain from Glebovicha.

Yet the Anne Atli kept her calm. Then again, one didn’t become Leader of All Steppes Tribes without being the strongest dog in the kennel.

Annwyl pulled the axe from a still screaming Glebovicha, stepped away from her, then brought the axe down again—taking the bitch’s head.

The Southlander queen reached down, picked up Glebovicha’s head—which was still twitching and trying to scream—by its hair and turned toward the tent opening. She didn’t run. She was too busy limping from whatever damage Glebovicha had done to her leg.

Abruptly, though, she stopped and looked over the horrified faces of the tribe leaders.

“Don’t,” she said, suddenly calm, her voice soft, “call my children Abominations.” She gave a stiff, awkward shrug. “It bothers me.”

With that said, Annwyl continued on, slowly limping her way toward the exit.

“Annwyl the Bloody,” the Anne Atli called out as she stood to her own towering height. Her long, blond hair reached down her back in a multitude of braids, and scars ran down her face and hands so that Brigida was sure they must cover her entire body. “Come,” she said in the common language, her accent thick. “Sit. We will eat and talk.”

Annwyl stopped, slowly turned, and faced her fellow leader. “Can I keep the head?” Annwyl asked, disturbing everyone in the room but Brigida. “I have to keep the head. Because I still need the eye.”

“It is your prize. You keep your prize.”

“All right.”

“And we will have one of our healers tend to you while we talk.”

“Why can’t she do it?” Annwyl asked, pointing at Brigida.

Anne Atli stared for a moment, then asked, “Why can’t . . . who do it?”

“Her.” Annwyl pointed again.

Brigida smirked. She still hadn’t bothered to reveal herself to the Riders since she’d had no idea how this whole thing would play out. But that was okay, because it made Annwyl appear even more insane.

“Uh . . . well . . . perhaps she does not have her healing equipment. But our healers are right here. Sooo . . .”

“Don’t touch me. I don’t want anyone to touch me,” Annwyl suddenly babbled.

“All right,” Anne Atli replied. “No one will touch you.”

With a nod, Annwyl made her way to Anne Atli’s side. There, she was given the second in command’s spot. A place of honor among the Daughters of the Steppes. The queen dropped down, carefully set her prized head off to the side, and then as everyone settled in for one of the most important discussions ever to take place between the Southlands and the Outerplains, Annwyl abruptly announced, “I have to pee.” She blinked, gazed up at the tent roof. “And I think I lost a back tooth. I hate losing teeth. . . . You need them to eat.”

And, as one, all the tribal leaders inched away from the royal. All except the Anne Atli . . . who was the strongest dog in the kennel.

Although Annwyl still held her title as the craziest.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Dagmar sat on the steps leading into the castle and waited. Her youngest daughter sat on her lap. The others surrounded her, leaned against her, their golden heads pressed against her arm or back or leg. To anyone walking by, the scene probably looked like a concerned mother keeping her daughters close. But Dagmar knew it for what it was . . . her children protecting her.

Seva pointed up at the sky. “Daddy!”

Handing her youngest child off to Izzy, Dagmar ran down the stairs and stood in the middle of the courtyard until Gwenvael landed.

As soon as his talons touched the ground, Dagmar reached for her son, but he slid off his father’s back and into her arms. Luckily Gwenvael had quickly lowered his body so that the drop didn’t kill them both.

Dagmar held her son close. He was alive.

“Are you all right?” she asked. Well, maybe she actually demanded it.

“I’m fine, Mum.”

Rather than take his word for it, she decided to look for herself.

When she began to check his teeth, Gwenvael stepped in. Now in his human form, with brown leggings and boots on, he gently wrapped his arms around Dagmar while pinning her arms to her sides.

“He’s fine,” Gwenvael soothed. “But, more importantly, he’s not a horse that’s been brought to market.”

“Quiet.”

Izzy and Frederik brought the girls over, and Izzy asked, “How is everyone else?”

Gwenvael gazed at her. “How is who?”

Izzy growled in annoyance. “Uncle Bram? The rest of the Cadwaladrs?”

“Oh, them. Well . . . I’m sure they’re fine.”

“You’re sure they’re . . . ? Are you telling me you didn’t check on them before coming back here?”

“It’s not my fault. It was that bossy, one-eyed Rider woman. She ordered me back here.”

Dagmar pulled away from Gwenvael and again put her arms around her son and hugged him tight. She did it because she needed to hug him and to prevent a slap fight between him and Arlais. Because that was about to happen. She could see it in their eyes.