Page 1 of Dragon Lord

T he clamoring had been going on for a while outside his ancient cave by the time the dragon finally opened an eye. Just the one. He wasn’t prone to overreacting.

The villainous noise grew louder: flasks clanged against walking staffs, boots slapped on stone, children squealed while dogs barked. A priest droned on in that steel-scraping-over-the-whetting-stone tone his kind used to keep their congregations awake during sermons.

Draknart stirred in the back of the cave and drew musty air into his lungs. He shifted his great body on the stone ledge where he slept, then dropped heavily to the ground at last and stretched to full height, his head nearly hitting the ceiling.

His cave was small enough so no intruder could be hidden from his sight, yet large enough to maneuver his mountainous body in a fight—the perfect lair for a dragon. Save the neighbors. The two nearby villages seemed to compete over the title of “Biggest Pain in the Dragon’s Arse.”

His spiked tail curled and uncurled, rustling the leaves the winds had blown in. He took a step forward, and the dried bones of his past meals crackled beneath his feet, the sound downright music compared to the priest’s bleating.

Draknart blinked the sleep from his eyes, tested his stiff muscles, and then he scraped his talons over the stones for a quick sharpening. The sooner he ended the disturbance, the sooner he could reclaim his peace.

He was accursed, but he was not yet vanquished—nor would he be today.

A cheer rose outside, sharp as a toothache. And before Draknart could finish thinking— Here we go again —a soft bundle tumbled down the steep slope of his cave’s entrance.

Another virgin sacrifice. He had half a mind to bat it right back out with his tail. If the villagers must disturb him, couldn’t it have been for a wee fight? At least a hired knight would have provided him with exercise.

He watched, with a petulance unbecoming a dragon his age, as the sacrifice bounced to her feet with the agility of a forest doe and threw off what looked like a mud-colored cape in the dim light.

Previous sacrifices had come overwrapped in bothersome folds of skirts.

This one wore precious little—all of it skintight.

Draknart narrowed his eyes and huffed, a slim trail of smoke rising from his nostrils. Smoke he hadn’t meant to release. He was old enough to know how to control his fire, damn them all.

She had vibrant red hair. The braid curled into a crown on top of the lass’s head came undone from her tumbling and reached to her shapely arse.

She was as boldly curvaceous as she was scandalously bare.

She reached for her scabbard and drew a sword that suited her not—too large and heavy for a lass her size.

Yet her movements were smooth and fluid, and she kept both hands on the hilt as if she meant to use the weapon.

Her eyes were the color of amber and filled with fire.

She kept her gaze on the dragon, never flinching from Draknart.

He cocked his head. “Have they run out of virgins at the village?”

“They ran out of knights.” Her voice rang through the cave, the clear trill of the first bird greeting dawn in the forest.

Draknart had nothing against birds. He liked them just fine for a snack, enjoyed snatching them out of the air, liked how they darted this way and that, providing him with both entertainment and challenge. It’d been a while since he’d had either.

He measured up the heaps of leaves and debris the winds and storms had blown into his cave and wondered how long he’d been asleep this time. A few years, at least, but not more than a decade, he estimated.

He sniffed the air. He smelled spring and the sweet scent of woman. As his appetite stirred, he licked his curved fangs. “There’s been a war, then?”

She nodded, grasping her sword hard enough to turn her small knuckles white.

A raven called, the only sound outside. The villagers were gone. They wouldn’t want to wait around. They knew a small maiden would only whet the dragon’s appetite.

“And drought?” Draknart guessed.

The lass shifted her gaze from him briefly to scan the terrain of the cave, much as a fighter would. “Flooding.”

Draknart gave a rumbling sigh. ’Twas only when life turned difficult in the valley that the villagers remembered the dragon in the hills.

Depending on what new priest they had, they would either want to kill Draknart or appease him, convinced that once they’d done something to the dragon, everything would go back to being well fine.

“What’d be your name, then?” He frowned as the words hung in the air between them. ’Twasn’t a question he normally asked a sacrifice.

She stalked closer, an odd thing to do for one of her kind. “I’m Einin of Downwood.”

Most maidens fainted right off at the sight of the dragon. The ones with sturdier constitutions shrieked a little first before folding. The truly extraordinary even managed a yard or two of running.

Instead, Einin stood tall as the poplar saplings by the river. She stared Draknart down—or tried. Gave it a good effort, in any case.

He shifted to gain a better look, stretching his aching limbs. The tip of his wings dragged on the ground. She jumped back at the loud scraping sound, but only just.

Limber.

Then again, she ought to be on those shapely legs.

Draknart especially admired her long, lean thighs. “Has the flood washed away your clothes?”

Her cheeks pinked, but she wasn’t distracted enough to lower the sword. “I wear my brother’s clothes. A long skirt with petticoats would snag in a fight.”

Practical.

She had more common sense than all the previous virgins put together, and more courage than most of the hired knights.

Draknart’s stomach growled, the ominous rumble filling the cave. He measured up the wee maiden.

Wee indeed.

Yet she’d be something to hold him over until he flew out and found a deer herd large enough to suit his appetite.

In but a moment. He enjoyed her fire-spark eyes too much to rush.

A long time had passed since he’d been able to converse with anyone.

The virgins fainted in short order. The knights charged and died.

“How might you be doing it, then?” he enquired.

Her sword came up a notch, the metal glinting in the cave’s dim light. “Straight through the heart.”

He could not find fault with the plan. Nor with her execution.

She did not lurch into hasty action. She moved her gaze over him in a careful inspection.

Smart lass. “You know where the heart is on a dragon?”

She blinked.

Draknart pointed at the middle of his chest, halfway between the joints where his great wings began.

“Thank you.” She was nothing if not polite.

“You had training with the sword?”

“I had nine brothers. All killed in the war.” A soft vulnerability crept into her voice. She shook that off quickly enough as she edged forward, until she stood close enough to strike.

Draknart shifted into a half-hearted defensive position. He’d done this time and time again with the knights. He waited for her to charge, so he could capture and disarm her.

Instead, the wee lass darted to his side, vaulted onto his knee, then onto his back, ran along his spine as sure-footed as a tasty little mountain goat, and went for his eye.

Draknart shook her off with a surprised roar.

Yet when she slammed against the rock wall with a most unpleasant thud, he regretted his haste.

By the gods, he hadn’t meant to break her so fast. Also, as long as he was breaking bones, he preferred to do it between his teeth. He enjoyed the jolly way they cracked.

To his relief and to her credit, Einin bounced back, holding the sword in front of her, if lower than before, and with a tremble in her arms. Her gaze was unfocused.

The blow had stunned her. But, tumble or no, she did not lose her courage.

She shook off discouragement, steadied her arms, and, after a moment, she stalked forward again.

“’Twas a good effort. Didn’t see it coming,” Draknart consoled her, pleased to see the spark back in her eyes. “You’ll do better on the next try.”

He flicked his tail in anticipation. He was willing to stifle his hunger for the sake of a little sport. True entertainment rarely came into his life, and he found the maiden refreshingly unpredictable so far.

On her second attempt, the lass charged for the dragon’s heart and managed to prick Draknart hard enough to draw blood.

He grabbed her, pulled her sword away, then held the wriggling maiden up for closer inspection.

She struggled, caring naught that he might drop her on the stones.

Bold and brave and wild.

Her round breasts bounced in a most diverting way.

Draknart’s dragon blood stirred.

He nudged her with his snout. The previous virgins had been scented with lavender water, which always made him sneeze. He sniffed.

“You smell like axle grease.” A fine pleasant smell, reminding him of a wagonful of fattened geese he’d taken a while back.

The noisy batch of fowl had been on their way to market. Draknart had eaten them for an appetizer, the two horses for the main meal, and the man on the seat for dessert. The peasant had that faint smell of axle grease about him. Didn’t affect the flavor none.

Draknart licked his chops and sniffed Einin again.

“Let me go, you great lecherous beast.” The wisp of a woman used her bare fists to smack him between the eyes, right on the ridge of his nose, which happened to be a sensitive spot on a dragon.

No call for a punch like that, none at all.

He set her in the nearest corner and breathed a small cloud of smoke as warning.

She stumbled back, over pieces of old, rusty armor, and grabbed a breastplate his talons had ruined.

She held it up as a shield, and for a moment, her gaze snapped to the piece of shredded metal.

She stilled, a lump going down her slender throat.

Then her amber snapped wide. “Is this what happened to all the knights?”