Prologue

The girl slept. Not hard, though. She no longer slept hard—or without a weapon. Too many times there were attacks on their camp in the middle of the night. Too many times she’d found fel ow soldiers trying to sneak into her bed, hoping to get out of her what they couldn’t afford to buy from the camp girls. Those who survived were usual y sent back to their homes. Not because of what they’d done, but because the body parts they were now missing made it impossible to expect much out of them during battle.

Yet she’d never be able to say whether it was her light sleeping or her much-more-honed instincts that told her she needed to be awake and moving. Silently stepping past the other sleeping squires, she eased into the night and fol owed where her instincts led, to a copse of trees right outside the camp. That’s where she found her. The woman sneaking out of the camp without her guards, troops, or horse, carrying only one travel bag, her two swords strapped to her back. Going alone. Because she was brave. Because she was desperate. Because, on a good day, she was more than a little crazy.

Without saying a word, the girl ran back to her tent and grabbed her own travel pack, her own sword and battle-ax, her warmest boots and cape.

She returned to the woman’s side, smiled.

“You didn’t think I’d let you go without me, did you? My place is by your side.”

“And your death may wel be by my side if you come with me. I can’t al ow it.”

“You leave without me—and in seconds rather than days everyone in this camp wil know that you’re gone.” Bright green eyes glared and, after five long years of seeing that look on a daily basis, the girl no longer recoiled in fear. Then again, over the many years this war had been going on, she’d learned how far she could push—and how far she couldn’t.

“I’l not be responsible for you, little girl. You’l have to keep up.”

“When don’t I?” the girl lashed back.

“And watch your tone. I’m stil your queen.”

“Which is why you need me. No war queen should be without her squire.”

“Squire? When was the last time you washed my horse?”

“When I couldn’t get anyone else to do it for me.”

The queen grinned, the scar she’d received in battle four years ago crinkling across her face. It went from her right temple, down across her forehead, the bridge of her nose, her cheek, final y slicing into her neck. The blade had missed major arteries and, with stitches, had healed wel enough. But the scar remained and the queen left it there. To the enemy, it seemed to suggest that the rumors of her being the undead were true—

for how could someone survive such a cut? As for how the queen felt about her scar . . . wel , she never looked in a mirror that much anyway.

“Let’s be off then, squire, before they realize we’ve gone.”

They headed deeper into the forest surrounding their camp, but were forced to stop after a few minutes when they found the human body of a young dragoness passed out in front of them, the victim of too much drink.

“What should we do with her?” the queen asked.

“Can’t just leave her here. Besides, it would be good to have a dragon by our side should we need one.”

“Good point.” They picked the dragoness up, let her vomit up whatever she’d drunk, then began walking with her until she could walk on her own.

After some time, the dragoness asked, “Where are we going?”

“Into the west,” the queen answered.

“Our enemies are in the west.”

“ Aye.”

“They’l kil us al if they find us.”

“ Aye.”

“But torture us first.”

“ Aye.”

“So I’m guessing you have a plan.”

“Not real y.”

The dragoness let out a sigh. “I kind of knew I’d regret drinking with the Eighteenth Battalion tonight—I just had no idea how much.”

“Don’t worry. We’l either stop this war in its tracks or become martyrs to it.”

“I’m a dragon, my lady. Dragons don’t become martyrs. We create them.”

“Wel then . . .” Annwyl, the Mad Queen of Garbhán Isle, patted the She-dragon on her back as they headed farther into the west. “. . . now you have a goal.”

Chapter 1

She watched them move through the trees. They nearly blended in, but not quite. Not to her eyes.

For these enemy dragons, the Irons, trying to sneak into their camp had become a weekly occurrence. Not that she could blame them. After five years of a standstil war in this val ey cal ed Euphrasia, both sides had become tired of it al . The constant but ineffectual skirmishes, the occasional attempts to poison each other’s water supply. When would it end? When would this war become something they al talked about in the past tense?

Rhona the Fearless certainly didn’t know. She was merely a soldier in Her Majesty’s Army. She received her orders from commanders and made sure those orders were executed. She kil ed whenever necessary, and protected those who needed it. What she didn’t do was play politician. She was never involved in decisions that affected anything beyond the general safety of her troops. As a sergeant that was al she needed to be responsible for, and she was good at what she did.

Then again, she was one of the Cadwaladr Clan. Low-born warrior dragons of the Southlands who many said were born to kil . To destroy.