by G. A. Aiken
Sigmar sighed, leaning back in his seat. “Bloody ’ell.”
“A-ha!” His daughter-in-law said, but when they all stared at her, she simmered down.
“Go on,” Sigmar prompted.
“‘I am heading into the Southlands to meet with Queen Annwyl personally. I hope to get you at least one more legion. Perhaps two.’”
“Damn that girl.”
“Should we go after her?” his oldest asked, motioning to one of the serving girls for more food.
“A few weeks ago I would have said yes. But that monk, Ragnar, stopped by here two days ago and told me Jökull’s on the move. I’d feel better if I knew she was someplace else. Even with that”—he sneered—“weeper.”
“As would I,” his son agreed. “And hopefully she can work her way around the Mad Bitch of Garbhán Isle.”
“So you’re going to let her get away with disobeying you?” his daughter-in-law nearly screamed.
“Quiet!” He motioned to the servant holding the letter. “Finish it.”
“‘I know this is not what you wanted to hear from me, but I need you to trust that I’ll do what is best for our people.’” That Sigmar already knew. Of that he had no doubt and never would. “‘Please be safe and think before you act.’”
Sigmar and his sons laughed at that one as the servant continued to read.
“‘And Kikka has been having it off with the stablemaster. The Weeper and I watched her get used like a whore for nearly two hours. I am sorry I had to tell you this way, but I thought it was best you know. Yours…Dagmar.’”
The entire room had fallen silent, and everyone, even the servants, now gawked at his daughter-in-law.
“She’s lying!” she cried desperately.
But no one had any doubts to the truth of what Dagmar had written, and Sigmar knew both his daughter and daughter-in-law well enough to know that if he searched for proof, he’d find more than enough of it.
Such a foolish girl, Sigmar thought as he stood and picked up his favored battle ax. He’d leave his eldest to deal with that wife of his while he dealt with the stablemaster.
As he walked out into the courtyard, eleven of his sons behind him, he did have to chuckle and wonder, did that stupid girl really think she could take on The Beast—and win?
Chapter 17
“Dagmar!”
Dagmar instantly sat up, her eyes snapping open, and she yelled, “I am not lying!”
The big dragon beneath her sighed. “Wake up, ya dozy cow. We’re almost home.”
She yawned and stretched, rubbing her hands across her face before digging into her satchel for her spectacles. She’d stopped wearing them an hour into their return flight. Too many times the dragon had dipped or spun to the side in mid-flight, and Dagmar had realized that if she was holding onto the dragon’s mane within an inch of her life, she couldn’t be expected to make a wild grab for her spectacles as well.
Putting them on, making sure they fit properly behind her ears, she glanced around. “It’s beautiful,” she finally said. All lush greenery and thick-leafed trees.
“Yes. Nearly as beautiful as I am.”
With her hands tangled in his mane, Dagmar leaned over a bit and looked toward one of the many lakes covering the land. “What’s going on there?”
The dragon looked down. “By the gods, they actually talked the old bastard into it. Hold on!”
She managed only a yelp before they seemed to be diving directly at the lake and the dragons surrounding it. Even more horrifying was the dark brown dragon heading right for them. They seemed to be on a collision course, and there was nothing Dagmar could do except grit her teeth and prepare to leap for safety into the lake. Of course, as high up as they were, she’d die on impact, but what choice did she have?
But the pair of dragons stopped with barely an inch between them.
“You idiot bastard! Did you think you could take me on?” the dark brown one demanded.
“Of course I can. But didn’t want to have to explain to the queen how I had to kill one of my own blood.”
Laughing, they reared up and hugged, which left Dagmar sliding off the dragon’s back, the only thing keeping her from falling to her death the grip she had on his hair.
“Falling!” she screamed. “Falling! Falling! Falling!”
“What?” Gwenvael glanced back at her. “Oh!” He went back to a more lateral hover and Dagmar rested against his back, her breath panting out of her.
“Sorry. Forgot you were back there.”
“Bastard,” she muttered.
The other dragon flew around to look at her. “Well…hello.” He gave her a smile that she assumed he thought was endearing but, considering the number of fangs in his mouth, was anything but. “I’m Fal of the Cadwaladr Clan. Mightiest dragons of the land.”
She heard Gwenvael snort but ignored him. “Dagmar Reinholdt. Of the Northlands.”
“A Northland woman? Ho, ho, cousin! You’ve outdone yourself.”
“Shut up.”
He held out a long black talon and Dagmar took hold. A sort of dragon-to-human handshake. “I am very glad to meet you, Lady Dagmar.” He leaned in a bit, his snout extremely close. “Whatever this golden bastard has told you is a lie and I’m the pretty one.”
“I already know that, and I’m sure you are.” She winked at him, and Fal laughed.
“I like her, cousin.”
“Mitts off, boy. She’s under my protection.”
“Is she?” Fal looked at her and back at Gwenvael. “Isn’t that what humans call putting the wolf in charge of the barn?”
“You’re still talking. I still hear you talking.”
Worried these two might get into a friendly family battle that would leave her dead next to the lake, Dagmar cut in, “You know, I’d love to have the ground beneath my feet once more before I die.”
“What?” Gwenvael asked. “Oh! Sorry. Sorry.” He bumped his cousin. “Move, you big-headed bastard. I need to get my lady to safety.”
“I’d stop here first before heading to the castle. Unless my lady is afraid of so many dragons in one place?”
Dagmar sniffed. “I’ve tolerated him for far longer than I thought I’d have to. I’m certain I can handle anything at this point.”
“What’s that mean?”
But Fal was laughing. “I like her. She’ll do fine here. Come on!” The brown headed down and Gwenvael followed.
“I like your cousin,” Dagmar said offhandedly and was shocked when Gwenvael abruptly stopped.
“And he’s a whore, so keep away from him.”
“But”—Dagmar tapped her chin—“Ragnar told me you’re The Defiler.”
“It’s Ruiner. Stop getting it wrong. And I have boundaries. My cousin has none. So no matter what he tells you, he’s simply trying to get under your skirt.”
Having never been warned off a male before, Dagmar sat back and enjoyed herself. “But what if I don’t mind him being under my skirt? What if I’d, in fact, like him to be under my skirt?”
“If you suddenly decide you simply must have someone under that skirt, you’re to let me know.”
Dagmar felt a sharp thrill. The dragon hadn’t kissed her or anything else since that time on Eslyd’s bed. For the three days they’d been traveling together he’d been polite, protective, and extremely chatty, but he’d never touched her. She’d assumed he’d simply lost interest as she knew males of every species would do no matter how beautiful or not a woman might be.
“I’m to let you know? And why is that again?”
“Because you’re safe among my kin now, Beast, which allows me to focus on getting what I need.” He glanced back at her. “What we both need, I’d wager.”
“You really so sure?”
“As a matter of fact, Lady Dagmar”—Dagmar squeaked when she felt Gwenvael’s tail slap her rear—“I’m quite sure.”
Gwenvael wanted to shift to human as soon as he landed and get Dagmar back to the castle, but
his family swarmed over him and before he knew it he was in the midst of hugs and slaps on the back that nearly broke his spine in two. Some of his kin he hadn’t seen in quite a while, but it would be hard for anyone to tell, they’d so easily fallen back into their comfortable camaraderie.
While he greeted his kin, he kept a watchful eye on Dagmar. Although she appeared completely out of place, she didn’t seem unnerved or frightened by the dragons surrounding her. She didn’t try to hide or get herself to a safe place behind a tree. She simply stood there. His little self-contained volcano.
For nearly three nights he’d been alone with Dagmar. For nearly three nights he went out of his way not to make her feel uncomfortable or unsafe. And for three days his cock insisted on telling him what an idiot he was. Yet she was entrusting him with her life, even after finding out about the Lightning’s betrayal.
He wouldn’t take that trust for granted.
Glancing down, he watched as Dagmar wandered comfortably among his kin, her steady gaze focused on the ground. She’d stop, stare at something, and move on. Finally, when he pulled away from one of his many cousins and saw her doing it again, he had to ask, “What are you doing?”
“Comparing.”
“Comparing what?”
She looked up at him, her brows drawn together in a slight frown. “Why is your tail different from the others?”
In a group that was never silent, the sound of small birds could suddenly be heard.
“They all have this sharp spike at the end,” she said while pointing at one of his cousins’ tail. “Except yours.” He saw her fighting that wicked smile when she asked, “Were you born this horribly deformed? Or are all the royals missing basic defenses all other dragons are gifted with?”
Fal leaned forward before his cousin could and began, “What you need to do, my lady, is ask his brothers—”
Grabbing one of Fal’s horns, Gwenvael twisted and yanked his cousin back, sending him skidding into the lake.
“Let’s go.” He motioned at Dagmar with his talon.
“Aren’t you going to answer my very innocent question?”
“No, cheeky wench.” He slapped her ass with his “horribly deformed” tail. “Now walk!”
“Gwenvael! Gwenvael!”
He turned, looking for the voice he knew so well, already getting an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach.
“Up here!”
Slowly Gwenvael raised his eyes to the sky—and cringed. “Iseabail! What in all the hells are you doing?”
She grinned. “Flying!”
Yes. She was. And her mother would have a fit. Izzy wasn’t even on the back of one of the older dragons but had found her way to the youngsters…and Celyn, son of Gwenvael’s battle-honored Aunt Ghleanna. He would be a fine and well-known warrior one day when he came into his own. Until then he was like every other male of the Cadwaladr Clan at that age: lusty.
“Get down from there!”
“What? Can’t hear you!”
He rolled his eyes as Celyn winked and did an impressive dip that had Izzy squealing and laughing.
“Stop worrying, nephew. We won’t let anything happen to Briec’s girl.”
He looked at his aunt Ghleanna. Her black hair with the silver streaks of age was cut short, ready for battle as always, battle scars littering the face and torso of her dragonform.
“Her mother doesn’t want her flying. And I don’t want her flying with Celyn.”
“Celyn knows she’s family. And she and Branwen have become fast friends. Besides, we’ll watch out for her.” She motioned him away with her front claws. “Go. Take your lady to the castle and see your sister. I know she’s been worried for you.”
He smiled and leaned in, kissing her cheek. Before pulling back, he whispered, “She’s young, Ghleanna. Too young for Celyn.”
“She’s not as young as you’d like to believe,” she whispered back. “But I think we both know her heart belongs to another.”
Startled, Gwenvael leaned back and asked, “It does?”
She laughed and shoved his shoulder, nearly sending him flying. “Go on with ya, boy.”
Gwenvael took one last look at his niece, wincing when she raised her arms in the air and cheered when she should be holding on to Celyn with both hands.
No. Best not to think about it. But he would need to let Briec know to keep an eye out. Izzy listened to him above all others.
“All right, Beast, let’s go.” He motioned Dagmar forward with his claw. “Time for you to meet the queen.”
They had an array of human clothes lined up right outside the gates of Garbhán Isle, and yet none of the peasants or entering travelers went near them. They all seemed to know they were clothes for the dragons.
It must have been odd, Dagmar realized, for the Southland humans to suddenly realize they had dragons living among them so casually. As it was, Dagmar was still getting used to it. Believing a being existed was quite different from finding out you’d been tutored by at least one for the last twenty years.
Gwenvael changed into his human clothes, and they entered Garbhán Isle through the massive iron gates. It was then that Dagmar decided she might have actually chosen well with this ally. She didn’t know firsthand what Garbhán Isle was like under the former warlord’s rule, but now it was a thriving city, pulsating with power—and soldiers. Merchants sold everything from fruits, vegetables, and meats, to furs, and jewels, to more weapons than she could ever imagine. Weapons not only for humans but for dragons as well. In fact, there seemed to be just as many items for dragons as humans, ranging from whole skinned cows and deer for dinner to enormous lances made from the finest steel for battle.
“It’s all amazing, isn’t it?” Gwenvael asked her, his hand against her back as he led her through the large crowds of soldiers, travelers, merchants, and peasants.
“It is that.”
“I hope my family wasn’t too overwhelming back there by the lake,” he murmured as he gently led her around two arguing merchants.
“I find it amusing you’d ask that after meeting my kinsmen.”
He chuckled, his hand lingering on her waist as he pulled her to a stop. “Now before we go inside—”
“Gwenvael!” The trio of shrieks startled Dagmar, and she turned in time to see three young and rather attractive women throw themselves onto the Gold, their arms wrapping around his neck, shoulders, and chest. They squealed again, showering his face with kisses.
Dagmar glanced around and quickly surmised they were in a section of the market where sex was sold. She rolled her eyes, wondering why the idiot couldn’t have found a less obvious place to have a chat.
Remembering each woman’s name, Gwenvael greeted them kindly and kissed each on the cheek. He asked questions about their children and business, surprising Dagmar with his knowledge of their personal lives. Her brothers barely knew the camp girls’ names, much less whether they had children or not.
Dagmar turned when she felt a tug on her sleeve, a human male standing next to her. “Yes?”
“Yeah, how much for the blonde?”
Dagmar blinked, glanced back at Gwenvael and the three girls before asking, “Pardon?”
“The blonde. How much for the blonde? The bigger one. Just for an hour or so?”
Of course. Dagmar would never be one of the whores…she must be selling the whores.
“Five coppers for an hour,” she replied. “Any more than that and it’ll cost you.”
“An hour will do.” He reached into his pocket and handed her five copper pieces. She dropped them into her satchel, tapped Gwenvael on the shoulder, and said, “He’s bought you for an hour of sex. Enjoy.”
She walked off, heading toward another set of gates that would lead her to more stables, more soldiers’ quarters, a main courtyard, and, eventually, the queen’s castle. But she laughed when the man behind her yelled, “Wait one damn minute!”
Why was she the villain in this scenario? Why was she t
he one everyone was clucking their tongues at when all she wanted to do was protect her only daughter?
For the last three days she’d heard nothing but pleas on Izzy’s behalf, as if Talaith had ordered her execution. It was unfair, and she was tired of it. She was especially tired of her mate. As much as she loved him, there were some days she knew she’d have no trouble kicking the living crap out of him.
Why could no one remember? Izzy was her only child and would remain her only child. The Nolwenn witches of Alsandair were only allowed one child by the gods. It was the price her ancestors had agreed to for their longevity and power.
“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” she snapped at Briec, storming past him and out of their room.
“You can’t keep walking away from this conversation,” he said from behind her. “You will have to face this. And I’m thinking you’ll have to face this soon.”
“There is nothing to face. She can stay here, protect these borders. It was only seven months ago that we were under attack.”
“That was a completely different situation and you know it. And staying here is not what Izzy wants.”
Talaith cut through the Great Hall, pushing past some sad-faced, grey-cloaked traveler standing around looking confused and lost. Most times she’d question a stranger’s presence, but she was too annoyed to really notice and went straight outside, Briec still on her heels.
“She’s a child,” she reminded her mate for, perhaps, the ten-millionth time.
“She’s a warrior. Or she will be.”
“She’s a child.” Her child, dammit, but everyone kept forgetting that. “I don’t care how good she is with a sword or a spear or anything else she’s trained with. A real battle is very different from taking on someone wearing protective padding.”
“I know that. But she’ll never learn how to survive in a real battle without being in one. And where the hell are you going?”
“For three days your family has been down by the lake, and no one has properly greeted them. I told Fearghus I’d handle it since none of you could be—” Briec caught her arm and spun her around so fast she didn’t even finish her sentence.
