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, following that up by ramming the tip of her tail into his skull while simultaneously cracking the breastplate of another and finishing him off with her mace. Breena, however, enjoyed the close-up kill. And although she had a sword, ax, and mace on her, she still 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 all still 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 excellent 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 still 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 still-developing wings and flinging her off while yelling, “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 followed after the three Elites until she was only a few feet away from them. That’s when she allowed 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.
The one closest to her spun around and Rhona shoved her spear into his eye. While he screamed, she pulled the weapon out and used it to block the sword aimed for her neck. She slammed the sword to the ground and head-butted the one who wielded it. She ducked as another sword swung at her head, then slashed her tail across his face. While that one stumbled away and tried to wipe the blood from his eyes, Rhona was shoved back by the other. She hit the ground but quickly rolled to her claws, raising her spear, ready to strike.
The Iron charged forward, swinging his blade in an arc. Rhona leaned back, the blade slashing at the breastplate of her armor, but doing little more than denting the metal. But the Iron had overcompensated in his haste, his body stumbling forward. Rhona helped him along by wrapping her tail around the claw holding his sword and yanking him down.
Rhona didn’t waste time doing anything fancy once she had him on the ground. Instead she rammed her spear into the back of his neck to finish him off. Once done, she quickly moved back. Good thing too. The one whose face she’d slashed realized he hadn’t been hurt that badly and was now on the attack. She warded off his blade with her spear, but while she moved back, she didn’t have time to step elegantly over the bodies of the two others. She tripped, falling. The Iron took the advantage, coming in quickly to run her through. But Rhona shoved her tail into the ground, halting her descent, and with a good shove, she was back on her claws, her spear up and ready to strike.
But then she was falling again. A big, purple claw slamming against her chest and forcing her back.
Rhona hit the ground hard, the breath knocked out of her. But she didn’t allow herself to sit there. She forced herself up, her spear still gripped by her talons. She watched the Iron come toward her and she lifted her spear, waiting for the strike. Then she saw the giant warhammer coming from overhead. The Iron saw it, too. Caught hold of Rhona’s spear and yanked her and it forward. The hammer, so heavy it would not be easily stopped, kept coming, and Rhona quickly leaned back. But she was unable to move her spear in time and, to her absolute horror, that big, inelegant hunk of Northland steel crashed into her favorite weapon, breaking the shaft in half.
Rhona stumbled back, part of the wood shaft still clutched in her claw. The Iron fell to the ground and the Lightning turned on him, bringing his warhammer up, over, and into the head of the enemy dragon. The Iron’s scream begging for mercy quickly silenced, the Northlander slowly faced her. Dark grey eyes gazed at what was left of her weapon, and then he said with all seriousness, “And this is why females shouldn’t be out here trying to fight. That could have just as easily been your head.”
Vigholf the Abhorrent slammed the head of his warhammer into the ground and leaned against the handle.
Poor thing. She looked positively devastated by the damage to her cute little spear. Gods, a spear? He hadn’t used one of those since he’d started training at the age of six winters. His father, a bastard of a Northlander, didn’t believe that his sons should wait until they were a little older. He believed they should be able to kill with their own claws and weapons before they could even fly. In case, according to Olgeir the Wastrel, “I ever need to throw one of you little bastards into the fighting pit to make a bit of coin.” But Vigholf had grown out of that spear by the time he was ten winters, moving on to a mace, then a sword, and finally his favorite weapon, the warhammer. He had two hammers. One that he could use whether in his natural form or as human, the entire thing extending with a good slam to the base. The other hammer, which he used only when dragon, had a head big and heavy enough to crush a dragon’s skull with a single blow. Sometimes, if Vigholf was in a bit of a rush, he’d work his way through a battalion by swinging his hammer from side to side until every soldier was dead or broken enough that the rest of his troops could finish them off.
But a spear? Only a female would use that for anything other than first-wave attacks by an entire legion.
Since she was still just sitting there, staring at him, stunned by nearly being killed, Vigholf held his claw out to her. “Come on, Rhona. Let’s get you inside.”
She took his claw and he helped her rise. But halfway up, she stopped and whispered something, her pretty brown eyes downcast. Vigholf leaned in, thinking she’d been hurt during the skirmish—and that’s when the treacherous little bitch head-butted him!
Gods-damn Cadwaladrs! None—absolutely none—of them could be trusted!
Vigholf released her and brought his claws to his forehead.
“What was that for?”
She was up now, the broken staff of her spear pressed into his throat. “If you get between me and a kill again, you overbearing ox, I’ll tear out your eyes!”
“I was trying to help, you unbearable she-demon!” he snapped, fighting his desire to shove her back to the ground.
“Well, don’t! Don’t help! Don’t assist! Do nothing!”
She reached down and swiped up the other end of the spear. “My father made me this,” she told him, holding the pieces up to him. “My father!”
“Oh, Rhona.” Another Cadwaladr female,
