Feel the Burn (Dragon Kin #8)(69)

A minute or so after that, Talwyn returned, quickly moving over to Dagmar. They spoke in whispers until Dagmar stood and together they rushed out, with Morfyd, Briec, and Keita right behind them—leaving a table with fresh food behind.

Dragons didn’t leave fresh food unless it was important, and Annwyl briefly debated going outside to see what was happening. If it was important, though, wouldn’t someone tell her? Of course they would. So why bother getting up?

But the voices became louder, angrier, ruining the quiet enjoyment of her book. Sighing loudly, Annwyl marked her place, set the book carefully on the floor beside her throne, and stood. She walked over to a far wall and studied her options. With a shrug, she pulled off the battle axes that once belonged to Fearghus’s uncle Addolgar. She took a few practice swings, liked the weight. This was a giant steel axe covered in ancient dragon runes that could be used by a dragon in human form. When it was hit at the right angle at the base of the handle, it would extend to a weapon that could easily be used by Addolgar in his true form.

But since one of his nieces had become an amazing blacksmith who created weapons that could go from human-sized to dragon-sized with no more than the thought of its handler, Addolgar and many of the Cadwaladrs had given Annwyl their old weapons to decorate the house walls. She liked how such mighty steel looked on her walls . . . and the very direct message they conveyed.

Now, with this battle axe in hand, she walked outside into what was quickly spiraling into a very ugly fight.

The strangers sat on their almost-too-tiny-for-their-size horses and glared down at Dagmar and Brastias, completely ignoring Elina, who stood three steps up from them. Keita and Briec stood on one side of Brastias. Keita with her arms crossed over her chest, bare toes tapping, and Briec appearing beyond bored, occasionally yawning. But both quite ready to unleash their collective flames, which could take down most of the courtyard and all the humans within it. And on the other side of Dagmar was Morfyd, appearing concerned that everything would get out of control. She hated that. She liked things nice and orderly.

And, behind them all, a getting-angrier-by-the-second Talwyn, who paced the top of the stairs like a caged jungle cat.

“You will not see the queen,” Brastias said in his best commander cadence, usually only used before he destroyed an entire village of orcs. “You will do nothing but leave. Now.”

“We do not waste time talking to something as useless as man,” the tallest of the invaders informed Brastias, dark blond and grey hair a wild riot of curls and braids that reached down her back. “Be gone from my sight before I turn you into my dog’s pet.”

“Then you will talk to me,” Dagmar informed them.

“What is tiny Northwoman doing here? Did your men free you from your bonds? Or did you sneak away like weak female you were born to be?”

“She is away from controlling Northmen for two minutes,” said another with short hair that exposed every scar on her face and neck—and wow, were there a lot. Had she purposely walked into every edged weapon she’d ever come upon? “And now she thinks she can talk to women with actual power like she has any of her own. That is funny. Laugh with me, sisters!”

“No laughing,” Dagmar ordered, “just go.”

“Nika Kolesova—” Elina began, but the lead Rider quickly cut her off.

“Elina Shestakova, we are so glad you are not dead. We were sure when your own mother ripped the eye from your head . . . you were. But your general weakness makes you unworthy of speaking to someone of our glory, so stop talking to me.”

“Oy!” Celyn barked.

The woman’s blue eyes cut over to him. Annwyl knew immediately the Rider didn’t realize that she was talking to dragons as well as humans. So when she looked at Celyn, all she saw was a man, which she made clear when she told him, “And you have penis, so do not make me cut it off.”

Talwyn’s hands balled into fists at that, and she glanced at Briec, gesturing to the three Riders. “I’m going back inside to finish my meal,” she ground out between clenched teeth, reminding Annwyl of Fearghus. “Briec and Keita, kill them all. Don’t leave a mess.”

“Wait,” Annwyl stated before Briec and Keita could—because they would—kill them all. They were both already taking in breaths to unleash their flames.

“Annwyl, let us handle this,” Brastias said.

“No need, old friend.”

She walked past Dagmar and Brastias, big, long-handled axe still in her hand.

“Annwyl,” Dagmar argued, “they’re here to kill you.”

“No. They’re not.”

Annwyl walked around the horses of the three Riders to the fourteen men and young boys they had chained behind them. Men and boys whom Annwyl was sure the three Riders had picked up along the way. The way Annwyl might pick up stray puppies while on a campaign.

The males cowered away from her, and Annwyl didn’t bother saying anything to calm them down. Sadly, her reputation as a murdering queen always seemed to precede her, so she didn’t bother to argue the point these days. That always just seemed to upset people more. Instead, Annwyl gripped Addolgar’s old weapon in both hands and swung it over her head. She brought it down on the chains, breaking them.

She pointed toward one of the guard barracks. “You’ll find someone in there to remove the rest of the chains and give you fresh clothes and food. Go. Now. We’ll find a way to get you home later.”