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 fellow 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 usually 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 followed
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 well be by my side
if you come with me. I can’t allow it.”
“You leave without me—and in seconds
rather than days everyone in this camp will 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’ll not be responsible for you,
little girl. You’ll have to keep up.”
“When don’t I?” the girl lashed
back.
“And watch your tone. I’m still 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, finally slicing into her neck. The blade had
missed major arteries and, with stitches, had healed well 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 . . . well, 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’ll kill us all if they find
us.”
“ Aye.”
“But torture us first.”
“ Aye.”
“So I’m guessing you have a
plan.”
“Not really.”
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’ll 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.”
“Well 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.”