Page 2 of Delinquent Dette
When time came and his father grew wrathful in anger over Frikka’s heat being given to the scourge of their numbers, the gothar, their head priest, had declared it Freya’s demand.
There were two facets to the religion of dragons. They worshiped none, but held fast to tradition and the demands of the gods and goddesses in many ways. All things Freya went to Dettes, though, and they were held equal but very different. They did not fight, but they managed their Drakes’ homes, managed finances, and traded. They could become jarl if it passed to them, but only if a Drake possessed them.
Frikka? As a whelp, he’d found his magic, had been told he had the power of second sight, and given much praise for his skills. Also, that he would make an excellent nester and high völur someday. Because of this, he was allowed to train with the gothar, to be educated by other völur, and spent summertimes with wolves and other shifters to learn their magic. Frikka could calm the seas and bring soft winds. He could ask Freya for her power to heal the sick—and could ensure that a silly little egg could hatch.
So, when it came time to mate, he had no fear when he visited the sacred caves and lay with the Drake. A glorious nine days of basking in bliss and dreams of a clutch of five eggs, ashes, and blood. So, he was thrilled that in half a season, his prediction had been wrong. He had six. Six new males for the raiders. And Frikka would happily give them as the goddess wanted.
No seer had predicted the anglicized Irish dragons and their increasing feud with his father, either. With Frikka being key.
One late summer’s eve, laying with his eggs and sweating gently in a warm spot in his father’s longhouse, the war horns sounded.
The screams came.
The clashing steel.
And in came a foulness to his father’s estate, covered in blood and ready to pillage. “Leave no egg uncrushed. Show Fjallarr how the Bhaldraithe take to having our treasures ruined.”
Frikka, who had always been a mischievous but docile Dette, found a courage in him that hadn’t been there before. He rended the Drake as he shifted. Claw and fang. And the Drake that came after left no much better.
“Father!” Frikka roared as males fought their way into the longhouse, after his precious eggs. After Dettes for their spoils.
No father came. No aid to Frikka.
The third intruder, one of the waningBhaldraithefamily, that came was not as easily turned as the first two. He was large and dominant, his fangs like daggers. He blew flames around Frikka, destroying their home, fire crackling in the rafters and sending embers over his straw nest.
“No!” Frikka stamped out the fire, back turned as he took claws to his flank, the piercing digits cutting deep into the meat of his legs. Frikka, having never received a strike from a Drake before, grew feral. No Drake was ever to lay fang or claws to thejarl’s sons. No Drake had the right to encroach upon a Dette, to disturb their nest or threaten them.
A tail whipped around and threw Frikka against a solid surface, sending him bursting through a stone wall to stare up at smoke-darkened skies. Screaming. Roaring. Fire. It all paled next to one tiny sound, like wet kindling. And just as quickly as he realized, the six consciousnesses that linked to his soul turned into five.
My baby.
Frikka roared and screamed. On a broken leg and battered wing, he threw himself into the flames to guard the remaining five eggs. The invading dragon sneered, and Frikka threw his magic into his claws, ripping and tearing with all the force his soul could give.
Sten, hearing Frikka’s cries, rushed into the longhouse and stood guard over the clutch they’d made for the raider horde. A wounded cry eked from his maw, but he didn’t join Frikka in the fight.
Frikka slashed, he bit, he tore flesh from bone.Die. Die in your own flames. I will curse you and all your clan until I hurt no more. I will end every single Bhaldraithe!
Frikka knew he’d hurt forever.
Red. Red, red, red. Fire-ember red, bloodred, bone red, flesh red. All Frikka saw was red and bone. Black as night spilling over fetid green scales.
The babe he had been so willing to give to the horde such a short time ago would never see Valhalla. He would never grow strong or join his brethren. A life ended so soon would never see ultimate paradise.
“Frikka!” Sten’s voice wrenched through his heart. A fleshen voice. Not a dragon form.
The Drake was of no consequence. What mattered was the interloper, the one who needed to die. Frikka clawed andbit, howling in crazed rage, mourning his child, protecting his family.
Frikka!The call picked at his mind, and he turned with a snarl, the red in his sight so bright, covering everything.He’s dead. You have slain your foe, Dette.
He snarled and turned his attention to the Drake that he had been locked into heated battle with… Well, most of him. The rest was on the other side of the longhouse, some outside the building. He’d been dead awhile, but Frikka couldn’t stop.
Fearful eyes all around them stared at Frikka like he was a monster.
They were fucking dragons! Tyr himself would have been proud of what he’d done!
He Killed my baby. I Killed him.
A blanket covered what was left of the crushed egg. Liquid seeped through the woven fibers.My baby…
