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He clenched his hand on his pilfered sword –hersword, light, perfectly balanced, the proper choice for a strong and slender woman – and felt a moment’s guilt for taking it from her. He hadn’t thought she’d do this, though; that she’d try to go toe-to-toe with these gold-and-purple bastards.

He saw himself, then, a vision of heroism. Charging forward, mowing down Sels with the stallion’s massive, iron-shod hooves. Angling himself between the threat and the lady. Offering her a hand, pulling her up behind him. Gods, it was downright sickening how fairytale-like the fantasy was. Ragnar the Brave. The Defender of Fine Ladies. Ragnar the Hero.

It had a nice ring to it.

“Go–”

Pain ignited all down his right side, and the world somersaulted crazily.

He was falling. Feet out of the stirrups, saddle sliding out from under his bum. Shit, he wasfalling. Something had crashed into his side – was still against him: head ringing from the impact, shoulder smarting from the blow, and arm pricked with darts of fire where something had hold of him.

Hot, fetid breath washed across his face, and an ear-piercing shriek blasted him at a deafening volume. A swooping sensation in his belly, and he was no longer falling – waslifting, instead.

One of those slithery little purple bastards had hold of him. Was flying off with him!

Ragnar blinked his vision clear, and tried to gather his wits.

The beast’s face was in front of his in profile; he had a view of its open jaws, and bloodied, spearpoint teeth. It carried Ragnar by the arm with its forelegs, skinny, but strong, apparently, its claws sunk deep into his flesh. Ragnar craned his neck, and could see the ground growing farther away down the bannerlike length of the drake’s body. The end of its tail whipped back and forth, flocked with long hair, like a donkey or a cow.

He'd never liked heights. Nor broken bones. But he liked this helbeast even less.

“Fuck off,” he muttered, kicked his legs, twisted his upper body, and punched the thing square in the snout as hard as he could.

The drake bleated a distressed sound, and dropped him.

Ragnar had time to glance down, as his hair streamed upward, and the wind stung his face, and said, “Oh, bollocks,” before he hit the ground.

~*~

After the siege at Aeres, many had been quick to praise Tessa’s valiant actions. The way she’d taken up a sword, and gone charging into the fray in the lower hall, battling the Sels who’d come up through the tunnels just like the Northern women. Leif had been shocked on hearing the news, and impressed. But later, in one of the rare moments he’d found himself alone with his mother after his turning, when they’d found they couldn’t talk of anything too personal without him withdrawing, and Revna growing tearful, Revna had admitted her misgivings about Tessa’s participation.

“She’s a brave girl, no doubt. And a good one. With enough work, she might even make a competent one in a fight. But she’s so young, and so green…” She’d shaken her head. “It was luck and the will of the gods that kept her alive that day.”

Now, Leif was keenly aware of Tessa’s sister at his back.

A tough woman, no doubt. And given her skill in the saddle – horse and drake alike – he felt sure that she’d been practicing her sword work in a yard somewhere, learning from the seasoned soldiers and lords around her.

But these were Sels. Big, heavily-armored, efficient, and a challenge for the likes of any warrior – much less a woman who’d been reared to become a lady, rather than a fighter.

Two soldiers came at him, and he twisted his body so he could meet the fall of one’s sword, and kick the feet from beneath the other at the same time. The second one stumbled, went down on one knee, and in his periphery, Leif saw the flash of steel as Amelia rammed her blade through the narrow slit in the Sel’s visor, aiming for the stripe of purple face paint across his eyes. He heard the wet squelch of success, and thought,Good girl. Whatever she lacked in strength and experience would have to be made up for in ruthlessness.

The first Sel was still on his feet, and hacked at Leif again. Leif threw up a block, and then another one, steel chiming, and then screeching as the Sel tried to push his blade down the length of Leif’s in an effort to disarm him.

But strong though the Sel might have been, he wasn’t a wolf, and Leif was stronger. He braced his feet, and pushed back – pushed themanback; hooked the long crossbar at the hilt of his stolen sword against the edge of the other’s blade and used it to bear him backward, until he was forced to retreat a few steps, or risk the weight of his armor dragging him over onto his back. He took the steps, and in that moment of slight distraction, Leif kicked him hard in the knee. Bent, mid-motion, the joint gave, and the soldier collapsed to his other knee with a surprised grunt. Leif whipped his sword free – it was never going to stop being a marvel, how strong he was now, the way a sword this large and heavy felt like a child’s wooden practice sword, whistling through the air as he brought it around in a smooth, fast arc and buried it in the gap under the man’s helm, right in the soft meat of his neck. Soft, wet thunk, and an all-over twitch as the blade cut through flesh, and vein, and bit into spine. Leif put a boot on his chest, and pulled the sword free amidst a pulsing fountain of arterial blood spray. He turned the motion into a spin, and met the next enemy, and then the next.

As he parried blows, he searched first for Amelia – teeth gritted, falling to her knees beneath the pressing weight of a Sel’s sword against her own – and Ragnar – nowhere to be seen.

“Fuck,” he cursed. He ducked the next swipe of a sword, spun, and charged up behind Amelia’s opponent to clang the flat of his sword against the side of the man’s helm. The soldier staggered sideways, sword dropping from lax fingers, bell thoroughly rung.

Leif shifted his sword to one hand and offered the other to Amelia. “Come on. You need to get off the road.”This is no place for you, my lady,he thought. Get well away. Get on your drake before you’re killed.

Her face was white and clammy from fear, save the two hectic spots of color high on her cheeks. A cut at her hairline had trickled blood down her temple, cheek, and jaw. She swiped at it with the back of her glove and tried to shoot him a mutinous look. She put her hand in his, however, and through it, he could feel the frantic, hummingbird beat of her pulse, and the tremor of exertion. She was strong and fit, no soft Southern flower to be sure, but she couldn’t keep at this. Her look said she knew it, and hated the fact, and felt as guilty as she did fearful.

He hauled her up, and leaned in close to speak over the din of battle. “Call your dragon.” An order, and not a suggestion.

Her eyes widened at his tone, and then shifted over his shoulder to a point in the sky. “But he’s–”

Leif leaned even closer, so he could smell her sweat, her fear, over all the competing scents around them. “You need him more. Call him. He can’t use his fire with all these bloody men on the road. Get on his back, and we’ll retreat so you can roast these fuckers.”