of a dragon who couldn’t take orders but made himself worth the trouble during a battle—joined. Of course, they didn’t have a name then; instead, they were just known as those “unreliable, heartless bastards” who were too good as warriors to dismiss completely but too much of a bother to force some poor commander to have to tolerate while trying to manage scores of other soldier dragons during a heated battle.
In the Dragon Queen’s army, not taking orders made a Dragonwarrior a dangerous liability. But among the Mì-runach, where one’s strengths were used to benefit, it made that soldier a useful servant of the queen. For the Mì-runach handled that which many would not. It took some time for Éibhear to figure out exactly what that made them, but he finally did.... They were a death squad.
Like they’d just done with the Spikes, the Mì-runach would sneak in during the cover of night and slaughter soldiers in their caves. Or they’d burrow underground and strike in the middle of a battle, killing the leaders and then decimating the rest of the army, if necessary. Many dragon soldiers in Her Majesty’s Army considered this type of fighting dishonorable. But to the Mì-runach, who needed honor when there was ale? And pubs? And females to entertain? Who needed rank and orders and rules and a bunch of daily tasks when they could sleep all day and drink all night until called to do what they did best?
It wasn’t rank and power that kept the Mì-runach returning to battle day after day, night after night. The gods knew, it would never be rank. It was the love of blood and battle and destruction. It was knowing that they were the ones their Queen’s enemies feared because they had reason to fear.
“Well?” asked Aidan the Divine, a Gold whose royal family hailed from the Western Mountains.
“We’re heading out for one final task in the Northlands.”
“Oh?”
“Aye. Kill Spike leader Jorgesson’s son, since the boy seems to think he can take his father’s place.”
“Which he probably thought he had to do because we killed Jorgesson.”
“True. Once we’re done with the boy, we’re heading to Dark Plains. Angor wants me to go home for a bit.”
Aidan blinked, dropping the dragon whose neck he’d just crushed. “Home? You?”
“Why do you say it like that? You’ve been away from your kin longer than I have.”
“I loathe my kin as they loathe me.” Aidan slammed his fist into the Spike on the ground although it seemed unnecessary. “You seem to like yours, but I’m not sure you returning home will make that better or worse.”
“I do like them.” Éibhear thought on that a moment. “Well, the females. I like the females . . . mostly.”
Uther the Despicable, a cranky Brown from mountains near the port cities, grunted and snarled—as he snarled at most things—“And what are we doing while you’re playing happy families?” He gritted his fangs and pulled on the legs of the Ice Land dragon he held in his arms. The screaming during this was a tad unpleasant. “Joining another squad?”
“After what you lot did last time?” Éibhear asked.
“That was not my fault!” Caswyn the Butcher argued, yet again. “He shouldn’t have tried to push me around. I may not be some fancy royal, like you and pretty boy over there—”
Aidan grinned. “I am so very pretty.”
“—but that don’t mean some Red bastard can just walk all over me.”
“By ‘walk all over me,’” Éibhear cut in, “do you mean ask you to do your job?”
“Didn’t like his tone, did I?”
“So you tore his arms off.”
Caswyn’s head lowered a bit, his black wings bristling. “Don’t much like your tone either.”
“Yeah, but you already tried to tear Éibhear’s arms off,” Uther reminded him. “You were in a coma for weeks.”
“It was more a deep rest.”
Éibhear rolled his eyes and said, “You all will come with me.”
Uther’s head snapped up. “Will your sisters be