by G. A. Aiken
Gwenvael smiled, shocked and truly flattered by her statement. “Do you mean that?”
“Of course I do. I’m not blind. And one should always know the strengths and weaknesses of the allies they have surrounding them. My father used to say that…you know, before he went off and destroyed something or someone.”
She chewed on her thumbnail, a habit she’d developed over the last few months as her stress level grew. “In the end, I’m sure you’re the only one who can truly do this.”
“And I’m sure you’re quite correct on that point, but what do I get out of it?”
Annwyl dropped her hand into her lap. “Get out of it?”
“Aye. What is my reward for doing this task you’ve set for me?”
“What do you want?”
Grinning, Gwenvael craned his neck forward a bit and, using his thumb and forefinger, gently pulled the bodice of her dress forward.
“Stop that!” She slapped at his hands and laughed.
“Come now. I’m just asking for a moment to immerse myself in the lush garden of your bosom.”
“The lush garden of my…” Annwyl shook her head. “You’re not immersing yourself in any part of me, Lord Gwenvael.”
“Now, now. I’m only asking for a chance to play with them a bit.” He stuck his nose in her cleavage and Annwyl laughed and pushed at his head.
“Gwenvael! Stop it!”
The front door slammed open and Fearghus stalked in. “What the hell’s going—” Black smoke billowed from Fearghus’s nostrils. “Get your nose out of there.”
Taking his sweet time, Gwenvael looked up into Fearghus’s raging face. “Oh. Hello, brother. What are you doing here?”
Dagmar smiled warmly when the gates opened and several monks came in, two pulling a large cart weighed down with books. Books brought for her.
“Brother Ragnar.” She briefly bowed her head in respect.
“My Lady Dagmar. It’s so good to see you, my dear.”
Brother Ragnar, a longtime monk of the mysterious and rarely seen Order of the Warhammer, had been bringing books to Dagmar since she was ten. It was the one thing about her father’s fortress and the surrounding towns that kept her sane—non-warring travelers who always had information she found of use. Brother Ragnar was definitely her favorite of all their regular visitors, but she’d met and talked with many—most of them monks or scholars—over the years, learning much about a world she’d never seen. They brought her books, news, and gossip that she often used to help her father and her people, but it was Brother Ragnar who’d actually tutored her in reading, writing, and negotiation skills.
He’d taught her much from the beginning, suggesting ways she could get what she wanted from her kinsmen without ever appearing as if she were trying. “Why be a battering ram, my dear, when you can simply knock on the door and be let in?”
He’d been right, of course. Like he always was.
Dagmar took his right arm since his left hand held onto his traveling stick. She never could see much of his face because of the cowl he always wore but doubted he was extremely old based on the sound and strength of his voice. And although he’d been wounded badly, his body broken and weak, he hadn’t lost his spirit. The eyes that gazed at her from the darkness of his cowl were a vivid blue with strange flecks of silver throughout the iris and were always bright and lively.
The Order forced Brother Ragnar, even with his body broken, to walk everywhere although she’d offered more than once to purchase him a horse. But it came down to the sacrifices monks of every order were forced to make, which Dagmar would never understand—wasn’t life difficult and painful enough without adding more misery to it?
“I’m so glad to see you, Brother.” She squeezed his gloved hand. “You’re looking well.”
“It’s still pleasant out. Although I don’t look forward to winter.” Winter in the Northlands was a hard time for all of them, and only the most hearty—or stupid—trekked through the winter storms to reach the Reinholdt lands.
“Well, you’re here now. And we have much to discuss.”
“Yes, we do.” He gestured to the cart. “And I’ve brought you some wonderful new books I think you’ll enjoy.”
She glanced in to the cart and smiled. “You bring me the best presents.”
Placing Brother Ragnar’s hand on her arm, she led him and his comrades to the Main Hall for warm wine and food. “So, Brother…any more on my uncle?”
“Much, I’m afraid. I don’t like it, Dagmar. I don’t like it one bit.”
“Nor will I, I’m sure.”
“Did you send a message to the Southland queen as I suggested?”
“I did, but my father was not exactly pleased.”
“She is a woman,” he teased. “Her weakness is obvious.”
“But her reputation, Brother…”
“I know. She is quite insane, but she has near a hundred legions at her disposal, my lady. Imagine what even one legion could do to help your father.”
“But if she is completely insane as everyone says, will she understand what danger she’s in?”
“My lady, most Southland monarchs are quite mad. But they are always surrounded by the most reliable and clever minds of our age. Queen Annwyl will be no different.” He squeezed her hand gently. “No worries, my lady. If the queen does not come herself, I have no doubt she’ll only send her most respected representative in her stead.”
Chapter 2
How long should a dragon of my stature be expected to survive without a warm, willing pussy at my disposal?
For days he’d been traveling through the cold and unforgiving Northlands over Oceans of Despair and Forests of Death and Rivers of Bile. He didn’t call them these names out of caprice. He called them that because that’s what most of them were named in some form or another.
And after so many days of constant travel through what he was now convinced was a form of hell, he was still without a woman. He tired of men; he wanted to see females. He wanted to smell their hair and taste their skin and lose himself in their bodies. He sure as hell didn’t want to see one more angry, snarling, unattractive Northland male.
Such were the thoughts racing through his head when Gwenvael came in sight of the mighty Reinholdt fortress. More useless, worthless Northland men with their worthless codes and rules. He briefly debated shifting to human but decided against it. He needed the advantage with The Reinholdt and his warrior son The Beast.
Decision made, Gwenvael landed in front of the Reinholdt fortress gates in all his dragon glory.
Clawed feet slammed into the ground, shaking the fortress walls; gold wings stretched far from his body, the slow, even movements stirring up much dirt and air. Then Gwenvael leaned back his head and unleashed a line of flame into the sky.
When he tired of that, he looked down at the humans staring up at him. “Go on,” he offered magnanimously. “Feel free to piss on yourselves and cower helplessly.”
Gods, sometimes his generosity overwhelmed him.
Dagmar picked up a book from the floor and quickly flipped through the pages. So focused on her work, she didn’t realize anything might be amiss until Canute got to his feet and snarled at the door. She was already looking in that direction when one of her brothers walked in with nary a knock. Typical rude Reinholdt male behavior, but Canute charged him anyway. Dagmar stopped her pet with a simple, “No.”
The dog was already in midair, teeth bared, but he automatically jerked back, hit the ground, and hastily rolled over. He snarled and snapped a little for show before coming back to Dagmar’s side.
“What is it?”
Her brother Fridmar, third born to The Reinholdt, leaned casually against the doorway and ate an apple. In between bites he mumbled, “Dragon outside.”
“Yes, well, I’ll get right…wait.” She looked away from her work. “Pardon?”
“Dragon,” he said calmly. “Outside the gates. Eymund called an attack, but Da told me to get you first.�
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Dagmar carefully placed the quill on the desk and slowly turned in the chair, placing her arm on the back of it. “A dragon? Are you sure?”
“It’s big, scaly, and has wings. What the hell else could it be?” She would have perhaps been less annoyed if he hadn’t made that reply with bits of apple flying out of his mouth.
“Well what kind?”
Her brother frowned. “Kind? It’s a dragon, I said.”
It amazed her she had the patience for this anymore, but what she’d learned early on and what her sisters-in-law could never seem to grasp—her brothers and father moved no faster than was absolutely necessary. Yelling at them, screaming…waste of one’s time. So Dagmar plodded along until she got what she needed. She called it the “water against rock” method. “There are different kinds of dragons, brother. There’s purple. Blue. Forest green.”
“Forest…” He shook his head. “Right. Whatever. It’s yellow.”
“Yellow?” Dagmar tapped her finger against the desk, being as plodding as her kinsmen and loving the fact they had the nerve to hate when she was. “They don’t have yellow dragons, brother. Do you mean gold?”
“Yes. Fine. Gold then.”
Dagmar blinked. “A Gold? This far north?” She desperately tried to remember what she’d learned about dragons over the years, which hadn’t been much. It wasn’t that she hadn’t believed they existed, but she had doubted they had much to do with humans. Why would they?
The Horde dragons of the north lived deep in the highest mountains, keeping mostly to themselves. Their colors were distinct but simple, ranging from deep dark purples to near white, and they held the power of lightning within them. Like her Northland kinsmen, they were mostly warriors and pit fighters.
The Southland dragons came in an array of colors and had their own queen. Fire was their internal power, and they were often scholars and teachers.
“Who cares how far it’s come?”
“You should. Father should. Why else would a Gold come this far and risk clashing with the Horde dragons? It’s my understanding they’re sworn enemies.” She eyed her brother. “And why does Father want me out there? You do know it’s a myth what they say about virgin sacrifices and dragons, yes?”
“Of course I know that,” he snapped in such a way that Dagmar knew he believed the myth to be true. “And after them three marriages, you ain’t much of a virgin yourself, now is ya?”
“Those last two barely counted.”
“Look, woman”—Fridmar tossed his apple core onto her floor and Dagmar gasped in outrage—“that dragon outside demanded to see Da, and Da demanded to see you.”
“It demanded?” She widened her eyes and blinked at her brother. Her “surprised look” she called it. “You’re letting a dragon demand things of The Reinholdt? Where’s your bravery? Your honor?”
“Would you shut up?” A small tick began in her brother’s jaw. “You get mad when we start killing without…without…” His face twisted up a bit as he thought really hard. It pained her to watch her kin try to think. It honestly physically hurt. “What’s that word?” he finally asked.
“Provocation?”
“Yeah. Right. You get mad when we start killing without that ‘prov’ word, and now you’re mad cause we haven’t killed it yet.”
“I’m not mad you haven’t…there’s a difference between…” She shook her head. “Forget it.”
“Where the hell is she?” Valdís—second-born son to The Reinholdt and most nervous ninny—stormed into Dagmar’s room. “What’s going on? Why are you still sitting here? Father has summoned you.”
“And I don’t jump at every demand. Go find out what he wants first.”
“What who wants?”
“The dragon.” She motioned both away with her hands. “Go and find out.”
Without another thought toward her brothers, Dagmar went back to her work.
Sigmar Reinholdt, Protector of the Reinholdt Lands and People, Warlord of the Northwest Properties, Eighteenth Born to Dechard Reinholdt, Killer of Dechard Reinholdt, and Sire of The Beast turned to face his male offspring.
“She said what now?”
One of his sons—don’t ask him the name, because he really couldn’t remember and didn’t care enough to try—shrugged. “She said to ask the dragon what he wants.”
“And you let her get away with that?”
“You know how she is, Da. Besides, she looked real busy.”
“Busy doing what?”
One son glanced at another son whose name Sigmar couldn’t remember.
“Well?” he pushed when they didn’t answer quickly enough.
“Readin’…I think.”
“Readin’? You couldn’t pull her away from reading some bloomin’ book?”
“You know how she is,” he repeated.
’Twas quite true. They all knew how she was. After so many bloody sons, Sigmar had held out hope for a daughter. A sweet, tame thing who would bring a solid marriage connection to the Reinholdts and then perhaps a few granddaughters. But he’d gotten Dagmar. The Beast. Cruelly named by his long-dead nephew, but she’d been living up to that moniker ever since. Yet she always seemed the tamest of them all.
Sigmar grabbed his second oldest by the collar and yanked him close. “You take your scrawny ass back to her room and you tell her to get her royal self out here…now!”
“I’m here.” Dagmar glanced at her brother. “I somehow knew Valdís wouldn’t get it right.”
Seconds away from asking who the hell Valdís was—and then realizing it was the son whose collar he still held in his hand—Sigmar snarled and snapped at his daughter, “Dragon. Outside.”
“Yes. I’ve heard.” Always calm that Dagmar. Always controlled and unruffled. Like a crow watching from the top of a building, knowing it was too far up to reach with a bow and arrow. “He’s a little far north if he’s a Gold. But if he hasn’t attacked yet, I’d say he has a purpose here.”
“That Blood Queen you’re so interested in—she sent him.”
His daughter’s eyes widened, and she glanced at the door, then back at him. It was, in many years, the first truly startled reaction he’d gotten out of the little miss.
“The Blood Queen sent him? Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. He said, real clear like, ‘I was sent by Queen Annwyl of the Southlands. I’m here to see The Reinholdt or The Beast.’ Then he added something like, ‘Feel free to piss on yourselves.’ I decided it was best not to ask him more questions on that.”
She chuckled. “He’s used to the dragonfear from the Southlanders.”
“I don’t care what kind of fear you call it. Ain’t no Northland man going to—”
“I know. I know. No Northland man will show fear.” She dismissed the Code, by which all Northland men lived, with a wave of her hand. “What’s important now is whether he can bargain on her behalf.”
“You want us to bargain with a lizard?”
“They’re not lizards, Father. They’re extraordinary creatures who were here long before any human was crawling on this earth. They are warriors and scholars and—”
“He has long hair like a woman,” one of Sigmar’s sons blathered—which son, however, still could be anyone’s guess.
The girl closed her eyes and sighed. Deeply. She did that sometimes when around the men of her family. “To avoid all of this, I’ll simply go ask him why he’s here and what he wants.” She made it sound simple enough, stepping past her brothers and heading for the door, but Sigmar caught her upper arm, yanked her back.
“You ain’t going out there.”
“Then why did you call me here?”
“To tell me what you been up to so I can handle that Gold.”
Her lips pursed a bit, and she stared at him. He knew that expression better than any other. She wouldn’t tell him anything now because she wanted to be the one to talk to that giant lizard standing outside their gates. The Beast believed herself a politicia
n. She didn’t understand that was the work of men. She handled correspondence and such well enough—especially since she was one of the few of them who could read and write really well—but it was up to the men to manage these things face to face, over a keg of ale with a wench or two for entertainment. Dagmar simply failed to learn this, and he worried what would happen when she found a worthy husband who wouldn’t allow any of the nonsense Sigmar let her get away with.
Knowing well there was no point in fighting her when she got that particular expression on her face, Sigmar relented the smallest bit. “You’ll wait behind the guards until you’re asked for. Understand?”
“If we absolutely must waste time…”
“We must.” He glanced down at the canine that never left her side. Canute, she’d named him. Strange how he could remember the dog’s name…“And you’d best find a safe place for him. He’ll look like a tasty morsel to that thing outside.”
“Yes, Father.”
“And don’t annoy me anymore today.”
“I won’t, Father.”
And they both knew she was lying.
Chapter 3
Dagmar glanced down at her gown again and checked to make sure her head scarf was on properly before readjusting the spectacles balanced on her nose.
A dragon. A real dragon here, at her father’s fortress and she was about to meet him. Not even another Northlander, but a Southland dragon. A scholar, a teacher, an intellectual.
Reason help her, but Dagmar realized she was so excited about this, she was almost…dare she say…giddy?
She wondered how old this dragon was. He could be six or seven hundred years old! Because of course the mightiest queen of Dark Plains would only send the most learned of scholars, the most experienced of delegates to represent her in the halls of The Reinholdt.
Dagmar cringed when she heard her father speak to the dragon.
“I be Sigmar,” he told the dragon, and Dagmar barely stopped herself from yelling over the gates a more proper and dignified greeting.
“So you asked for me, Reinholdt?”
What a voice! Deep and low, and it lightly rattled the windows from its timbre alone, because he did not yell. He sounded calm and quite…respectable.
