Rhona’s mother, Bradana the Mutilator, would say those many were right, and to prove it, she expected al her offspring to become elite Dragonwarriors of Her Majesty’s Army. And almost al Bradana’s offspring did. Except her youngest daughters, triplets who had a few more years of battle training ahead of them before they were ready, and Bradana’s eldest. Except for Rhona.
Ahhh, nothing like thinking of a mother’s disappointment to keep one warm during watch in the Val ey’s winter months. Yet those were deep, slightly bitter thoughts for another day. Right now, she had to deal with what was at hand—Iron dragons.
She’d grown up hearing tales of the Irons. Steel-colored fire breathers with white horns that curved toward their mouths who believed they should rule al under the banner of the one and only god they worshipped—Chramnesind, the Sightless One. In their estimation, the entire world should be their empire and al others—dragon, human, or otherwise—should be their wil ing slaves, bowing down before the Overlord Thracius, sacrificing only to Chramnesind. It was a philosophy Rhona’s kind didn’t much like. They barely tolerated having a queen and Elders, much less an overlord.
So the Southland Dragon Queen’s armies and the Northland Hordes, once great enemies, had joined forces to stop Thracius and his soldiers.
There was just one thing none of them had planned on: that the Irons had a huge army. More dragon soldiers than Rhona had ever seen before at one time. And fresh troops kept coming. Did they have a dragon factory pumping out ful -grown soldiers, ready for battle? Rhona had begun to think so. For while the Southlanders and the Northlanders had battle skil s on their side, the damn Irons had numbers and the regimented, disciplined attacks of their troops.
Thankful y, though, those currently trying to sneak in didn’t have large numbers on their side. There were about ten of the enemy dragons against Rhona and her triplet sisters. The siblings had been heading to the safety of the nearby Hesiod Mountains, where the Southland and Northland dragons had set up a stronghold, when Rhona had spotted the Irons. Now the siblings stood next to trees, the four of them blending in as Rhona had been taught to do by her mother when she was stil too young even to fly. It was a skil she’d passed on to her siblings.
Rhona waited another beat, then gave the order. Her sisters moved quickly, silently. Unlike the Lightnings, there was no inelegance. No stomping or crashing like their Cadwaladr cousins either. Rhona had trained her sisters to move with methodical precision from the day they’d fought their way out of the egg. And that’s what they did now, cutting into the contingent of enemy soldiers.
Edana, as always, struck first. Her broadsword slammed through the snout of the first dragon charging right into her. She cut through nostrils and bone, right into brain, twisting her blade once before yanking it out. Nesta spun around Edana and used her mace to crack the faceplate of the next Iron, fol owing that up by ramming the tip of her tail into his skul while simultaneously cracking the breastplate of another and finishing him off with her mace. Breena, however, enjoyed the close-up kil . And although she had a sword, ax, and mace on her, she stil used her long, curved slashing knife to finish off the job once she’d tackled her victim to the ground. Breena reminded Rhona the most of their mother.
While the triplets did what they did best, the Lightnings rushed forward—to help. To help the poor weak females.
Because after five bloody years, the Northlanders al stil seemed to think that having females on the battlefield was too great a risk. A risk to the females, of course. Poor pathetic females that they were. Although after several bar fights with quite a few of Rhona’s female cousins and siblings at the heart of them, the Lightnings were now smart enough to keep that sentiment primarily to themselves. Except in situations like this when they felt females were in “grave danger.”
Yet Rhona didn’t rush in to help anyone. She knew her sisters could handle themselves. So, she waited. And, as she had come to expect lately, three Irons silently slipped through the trees on the opposite side of the fracas while the rest battled it out. These were the Elite Iron warriors. Much better trained than the foot soldiers. Smarter, faster, and excel ent at ambushes.
It was too bad they made this particular move with a Cadwaladr nearby, though. As smart, fast, and sneaky as the Iron Elites might be, they stil hadn’t been raised by a mother who’d taught Rhona to fly by sneaking up behind her while she quietly stood on the highest mountain in the region, grabbing her by her stil -developing wings and flinging her off while yel ing, “Whatever you do, luv . . . don’t look down!” No. You’d have to be a lot craftier if you hoped to sneak by one of the Cadwaladr Clan.
Gripping her favorite spear, Rhona fol owed after the three Elites until she was only a few feet away from them. That’s when she al owed her tail to drag, just a little bit, behind her. The three males stopped and so did Rhona. She knew she shouldn’t enjoy this. As a soldier of Her Majesty’s Army, she should simply do her job and get back to her siblings. But she so rarely had any fun these days.