About a Dragon (Dragon Kin #2)(63)

Annwyl turned her horse toward the forest and charged in.

“Damn her!”

“What is it?”

“A battle.”

Talaith blinked in surprise. “And she’s just going to—”

“Now you know my daily nightmare.”

“Well we can’t let her fight alone.”

“Not you too,” Morfyd groaned.

Talaith snorted. “If she’d asked, I would have suggested we ride on by. But since she’s already galloped in head first…”

“Aye.” Morfyd nodded. “You’re right.”

The two women turned their horses and followed the Blood Queen into battle.

* * *

“Stay!” Achaius pushed her back, forcing her behind a tree. It wouldn’t do much good. They were horribly outnumbered by the men who attacked their small party. Only her and the three men who gave up their homes and army life to protect her. It wasn’t the first time her Protectors had battled others in order to keep her safe. But this was the first time they’d come face to face with those they’d once called comrades.

Crouching low, she looked out over the field of battle and winced as her Protectors barely blocked blows aimed for their head or hearts. But as she began to fear all was lost and her friends doomed to a bloody death, she saw her.

A beautiful and scarred warrior woman rode on an enormous black stallion, two swords strapped to her back. She stopped at the edge of the clearing and stared out over the battle. She didn’t move until she saw the crest on the enemy soldiers’ surcoats. Then with a blood-chilling scowl, she tied the reins to her saddle, ripped the two swords out of their scabbards and kicked her horse into a fierce gallop. As she rode, she steered only with her knees and took heads as she went. One after another after another after another.

While her Protectors stayed out of the warrior woman’s way, the soldiers screamed warnings at each other and that’s when they focused their attack directly on the warrior woman. Foolish move. She wasn’t alone. Two other women rode to the edge of the clearing. Unlike the first, these two wore capes, their faces and bodies hidden. The taller one stayed on her mare. A witch, that one, as she raised her hands and white-hot flames flew from her palms. The men charging the witch turned into a writhing ball of fire.

The other, smaller one, slipped off her horse and silently moved up behind one of the soldiers. One hand under his chin, his head lifted, a blade across his throat. She went from soldier to soldier doing that until seven of them lay at her feet. By then, the others had noticed her too, so she crouched low as two soldiers charged her. One she sliced his inner thighs open. He screamed hysterically as blood flowed. With the other, the small woman removed another blade from the belt around her hips and threw it, lancing his eye like an egg. He dropped his weapon and screamed while covering his face. She cut his throat as she passed him.

So fascinated by the three women fighting on their side, clearly sent by her god, she didn’t realize anyone was behind her until the smaller female yelled, “Down!”

She dropped to her knees, her arms covering her head. She heard the soldier above her garble a parody of a pain-filled scream, then fall next to her. Slowly, she looked over. A dagger with a plain, leather-wrapped hilt stuck from his mouth.

“Stay in that position and I’m sure those soldiers will find many uses for your ass.”

A brown hand appeared before her, the fingers slender and delicate. A few calluses from hard work. She recognized those hands. She’d seen them in visions.

“You going to stare at it or are you going to take my hand?”

Shaking, she removed her glove and put her hand in the woman’s outstretched palm. Her fingers were longer than the woman’s, her hand stronger. She had her father’s hands and his eyes. She got her mother’s face and, supposedly, her acid tongue.

Taking a deep breath, she gripped the woman’s smaller hand and let her see everything.

* * *

Talaith impatiently waited for the girl—at least, she guessed she was a girl, hard to tell under that cape—to take her hand. Annwyl and Morfyd seemed to have the rest of the battle under control, killing off Hamish’s remaining men. They must have still been looking for her and these poor wretched men and this girl got in the middle of it.

As soon as Talaith and Morfyd rode up, they knew why Annwyl hadn’t waited for them, but eagerly threw herself into the fray. Annwyl recognized the Madron crest.

“You going to stare at it or you going to take my hand?” she half teased, half demanded.

After a few more intolerable seconds, the girl took off her leather glove and reached for Talaith’s hand. Fascinated, Talaith stared at the brown hand slipping into hers. Someone from Alsandair this far north? But before she could say anything, the girl gripped her tight and images flooded through Talaith.

She could see her own face screaming and crying while being held back by Arzhela’s priestesses as she reached out in desperation; she saw the gold gates of the Madron castle; the kind face and warm feelings of a maid caring for a child not her own. The images sped up and things quickly turned dark as a large man, a soldier or guard, pulled his hand back to slap, but other soldiers intervened. A fight ensued, lives lost. Then the men—the Protectors—were traveling, from town to town, village to village, city to city. Never staying in one place longer than necessary. Resting briefly. Feeling safe with these men but lost. Protected but lonely.