Bryndís lifted her arm. “Second wave!” she cried out. “Forward!” Kyvich who had not yet earned their seats screamed and charged forward on foot, their weapons at the ready.

Annwyl had yanked her sword from the body at her feet when she heard the call. She turned and watched the women charging her. About twenty, but unlike the bodies littering this field, these females weren’t crazed, uncontrollable, broken humans. They were like her. Well-trained and only as crazy as necessary to get the job done.

The first who reached her ducked the fist aimed for her face and went up and under until she was behind Annwyl, slamming her fist into Annwyl’s kidney.

Screaming in pain and rage, Annwyl turned and swung her sword.

Their swords met, slamming into each other with such force, the power of it radiated down Annwyl’s arm. Another blade swung at her, and Annwyl leaned back, catching hold of the hand attached to that sword. She held the two females, teeth clenched, muscles straining.

More came for her, and she waited until the last second before she lifted her legs, kicking the one in front of her. Her legs swung back down, and Annwyl dropped to the ground, her legs spread wide, her hand still gripping the sword arm of one woman and her own blade keeping the blade of another at bay.

She yanked the arm she held and twisted, breaking it in several places.

The woman dropped to one knee, and Annwyl used her elbow to shatter the bones of the right side of her face.

The woman fell back, screaming but not dead. Annwyl pulled a blade she had tucked into the back of her leggings and shoved it into the lower belly of the other female. That one dropped, her blade still in her hand and blood pouring out of her wound.

Annwyl had no doubt she’d be back on her feet in seconds; the other one with the shattered face was already halfway up.

Rolling to her feet, Annwyl raised her blade again, but a large hand from behind her caught hold and twisted. Annwyl went with it, not wanting her wrist to be broken. She dropped the blade she held and turned her body in the same direction that her arm was twisted. She fell to her knees and came around until she faced her opponent. She took her free hand, balled it into a fist, and rammed the bitch in the groin until she heard bone break.

Teeth gritted, the woman dropped to her knees, and Annwyl head-butted her.

She pulled her arm away and stood, shaking off the pain.

Izzy charged straight for her, so she stepped to the side. Izzy flew past, colliding into three females who’d been coming up behind Annwyl.

The two Northland dragons flew in, landing hard in front of Annwyl, their backs to her. Vigholf unleashed bolts of lightning at the witch’s leader.

Smiling, the cold, tattooed bitch raised her hand, and the lightning strikes broke into pieces, dropping to the ground. Stunned, the dragons could only stare, and the woman sniffed in disgust and flicked her hand. As if shoved apart by gods, the two dragons flew into the surrounding forest, mowing down trees and creating a new path for those who needed to get through.

Annwyl realized then she didn’t stand a chance.

Of course…that had never mattered before.

“What have you done?” Dagmar demanded of the god.

“Why do you assume I’ve—”

Dagmar slammed her fist against the table, truly feeling like her father at that moment—he’d be proud.

Eir eyed her coldly. “Perhaps, human, you forget who I am.”

“Woman, I don’t give a battle-fuck who you are. Tell me what you did.”

Dagmar heard panting right by her ear and turned in time to get an enthusiastic lick across the face. Then she understood. Eir had done nothing.

“Nannulf,” she said to the wolf-god who adored her. “Can you show me what you’ve done?”

Nannulf charged for the door, and Dagmar followed.

The last thing she heard from Eir that day, “I’ll expect an apology, you rude cow!”

Ásta knew when the queen realized she didn’t stand a chance. When she knew she’d die this day. As would the two females fighting by her side.

She knew they’d all die and there was nothing she could do about it.

Yet the human queen retrieved her sword and went back to work.

Fighting those still considered novices by the Kyvich Elders.

“Fire Breathers,” Bryndís warned her calmly. She knew how Ásta hated to be yelled at. What was the point? When they started to panic in battle, all would be lost.

“Shield,” Ásta ordered.

Bryndís nodded at their left-flank unit. As one, the women raised their left hands, and the Fire Breathers leading the charge were the first who slammed into that shield created by the Kyvich. Snouts breaking, blood spurting, they flipped back and crashed into the ones behind them.

Ásta again focused on the defeated queen—who didn’t fight as if defeated.

Realizing that the rage all the siblings had in one form or another had hold of her sister, Keita pulled away from Ragnar and her brother, and ran-limped her way across the cavern until she crouched beside her sister.

“No, Morfyd. Let her go.”

Elestren began to cough up blood. And Keita was horrified to see there were pieces of glass in it.

“Please!” Keita gripped her sister’s face between her claws, forced her to look her in the eyes. “Stop it.” She shook her. “Please, Morfyd, let her go.

For me, let her go!”

Morfyd unclenched her claw, and Elestren’s head slammed back to the ground. Morfyd’s gaze roamed around the cavern as if she didn’t know where she was.