Читать книгу What A Dragon Should Know - G.A. Aiken - Страница 7

It wasn’t the first time he’d run for his life. And it most likely would not be the last. In the past few decades, though, he’d mostly run from angry fathers who’d found him where they felt he should not be. Or he’d run from town guards—sent by angry fathers who’d found him where they felt he should not be.

But this day, Gwenvael ran from his own kin. Not that this was in any way new to him either, but it had been a while since he’d been forced to.

Also true was that he should have kept his mouth shut. Yet it had been a legitimate question. As always, though, his kin blew everything out of proportion and took out their misplaced rage on him.

Why did they just not admit they were jealous? For he was Gwenvael the Handsome. Third-born son and fourth-born offspring of the Dragon Queen, Former Captain of the Dragon Queen’s Northern Armies, and most-loved male throughout the Dark Plain regions, Gwenvael was always magnificent, magnanimous, and loving.

And his kin hated him because of that.

Besides, who knew that a queen would be so sensitive? Even a human one.

All he did was ask a simple question—“Are you supposed to be that large at only seven months with child?” A simple question that led to tears, unattractive snorting noises, and thrown weaponry. It seemed the human queen may have lost her ability to run quickly, but her throwing arm was still true. Nearly took my damn ear off.

Now the queen’s consort—also known as Gwenvael’s eldest brother and future Dragon King of the Southlands, Fearghus—felt the need to chase him down like a rabbit.

That’s why Gwenvael ran. Because if Fearghus the Destroyer destroyed Gwenvael’s beautiful face, the big bastard would never face retribution for it. Because, as always, he’d be forgiven his violent transgressions while Gwenvael was never forgiven his more sensual ones.

Found naked with a few of his grandfather’s kitchen maids? His father’s claw right to the back of the head. Suggest that when his mother was in human form she may want to stay away from things that brought out the largeness of her ass? His father’s claw right to the back of the head. Set up a small eightieth birthday party for his youngest brother Éibhear that involved a few of the local brothel girls? His mother’s claw right to the back of the head.

Fearghus, however, had hacked off the tip of Gwenvael’s poor tail more than a century ago and still he had not been punished. While the spiked tip most dragons used as a weapon floated in a river somewhere, Gwenvael dragged around a stump.

Thankfully, he’d found other uses for his tragically lame, disfigured tail. Uses most females appreciated quite a lot.

Gwenvael dashed around a corner, heading toward the stables and out the back entrance. It was then he saw sweet Izzy, daughter of the delicious Talaith and Gwenvael’s idiot brother Briec.

Izzy was not Gwenvael’s niece by blood, her true father a Southland human who’d died many years ago in battle before Talaith and Briec had ever met or mated. But Izzy was still family and he adored her as she adored him. Or, at least that was what he thought until she slammed into him as he charged by, sending Gwenvael flying into one of the stable doors. He kept forgetting exactly how strong his human niece was. Her mother may be a small dainty witch trained to kill on command, but Izzy was a bit of a bruiser—and enjoyed that about herself immensely.

Izzy stood over him and yelled out, “Got him!”

“Iseabail!” he cried, devastated. “My love! My adoring niece! How could you?”

“You shouldn’t have hurt her feelings! It was mean.” She shook her finger at him. “Don’t be mean!”

Izzy. Sweet, beautiful, but eternally strange Izzy. Her loyalty to the queen was never to be questioned. Even now she trained with the troops daily, hoping to be sent off to war so she could prove her loyalty with blood. Why anyone felt the need to do that was beyond Gwenvael. He didn’t like to bleed or be harmed in any way. He liked all his bits and pieces exactly where they were and in the correct working order. As he was forced to tell his father more than once, “I said I’d fight for my mother’s throne. I never said I’d die for it.” Then he’d add, simply to annoy the old bastard into one of his frothy temper tantrums, “Don’t you think I’m too pretty to die?”

“I thought you loved me!” Gwenvael yelled at Izzy.

“Not when you’re mean!” Her goodness was so sincere that the thought of fireballing her from his existence for this betrayal only went through his mind once…maybe twice.

Big, abusive hands grabbed Gwenvael by the hair and proceeded to drag him away from the stables.

“Let me go, you big bastard!”

“You’re going back in there, you son of a bitch,” Fearghus growled out. “You’re going back in there and you’re going to apologize if it’s the last thing you ever do.”

“I have nothing to apologize for.”

To prove he disagreed on that point, Fearghus stopped long enough so that he could stomp his big foot against Gwenvael’s stomach.

“Ow!”

“You made her cry. No one makes her cry.”

They were going through the Great Hall of the Garbhán Isle castle now. At one time this had been a place of horror, the seat of power for Lorcan the Butcher. Now it belonged to the woman who was Lorcan’s bastard sister and the one who’d taken his head.

“I can walk on my own,” he told Fearghus when he realized the whiny lizard had no intention of stopping any time soon. And although Gwenvael could shift to his natural—and exquisite—dragon form in his bid to get away, he’d only unnecessarily harm the humans who lived here. Something he was loath to do. He liked humans…. Well, he liked female humans. The males he could do with or without.

“I’m not chasing you anymore,” Fearghus said while dragging Gwenvael up those hard stone stairs. When Gwenvael began to kick and try to yank himself away from Fearghus’s grasp there was second-oldest Briec grabbing his legs and assisting Fearghus.

“You betraying bastard!”

“What are we doing with him?” Briec asked eagerly. “Are we throwing him out a window? Let’s throw him out a window! Or off the roof!”

“We’re going to take him to Annwyl.”

“Won’t our mother notice if he no longer has his head?”

“She’ll notice,” Fearghus answered, ignoring Gwenvael’s struggles. “The question becomes ‘will she care?’”

Now in front of the queen’s bedchamber, Fearghus kicked the door open and, together with Briec, tossed poor Gwenvael into the room. The door slammed shut, and Gwenvael realized that his brothers had left him to the tender mercies of the Queen of Dark Plains. Also referred to as the Blood Queen of Dark Plains, the Taker of Heads, the Mad Bitch of Garbhán Isle, and the much pithier Annwyl the Bloody. For some reason the human queen was known to have a wee bit of a temper.

Steeling himself, Gwenvael looked up at fair Queen Annwyl and said, “My lovely and sweet Annwyl. My soul aches for you. My heart pines for you. Tell me you’ll forgive me for my hasty, foolish words and that our love will never diminish.”

She stared at him a long moment and then, to Gwenvael’s ultimate horror, burst into more tears.

He knew then he’d never forgive his brothers for this.

They called her The Beast of Reinholdt. Or The Beast, for short.

She didn’t appreciate it, especially since her name was actually Dagmar, but she tolerated it. In her world there were worse things than being given a name she didn’t think she deserved.

All right…perhaps she deserved the name a little.

Closing her book, Dagmar sighed. She knew she couldn’t spend all day in her room hiding, no matter how much she wanted to. She knew she had to face her father and tell him what she’d done. The fact that she’d done it for the good of her father’s territory and his people would mean little to The Reinholdt, the mightiest warlord in the Northlands. But she’d learned to ignore her father’s “moments,” as she liked to call them, early on in life if the end result meant getting what she wanted.

Placing the book aside, she stood and donned one of her grey wool dresses. She tugged it into place and then wrapped a plain leather girdle around her hips. She slid the small dagger she used for menial cutting into the girdle and then tied a grey kerchief around her head, her long braid reaching down her back.

Before giving herself a cursory glance in the full-length mirror beside her bed, Dagmar carefully placed her spectacles on her nose. She didn’t need them to read, but she needed them for everything else. All those years ago, it had been the monk, dear Brother Ragnar, who gave Dagmar her first pair of spectacles when he noticed how often she squinted any time she looked more than a few inches past her nose. He made the pair himself and she’d been wearing them ever since.

One quick look in the mirror proved nothing truly horrible with her ensemble, so she stepped from her room and allowed her dog to race out in front of her. Dagmar locked her door and double-checked to make sure it was securely locked, before proceeding down the stone halls of her father’s fortress. She’d been born here and had never gone farther than into the closest town. She knew she would die behind these walls one day, unless she could convince her father to give her a small house in the surrounding woods outside the gates. Tragically, she’d have to wait at least another ten years before she was firmly in the “spinster” category.

In the Northlands, females didn’t stray far from their kinsmen until they were handed off to their husbands. After three failed attempts at marriage, she doubted any man foolish enough would come along willing to risk his neck among the Reinholdt Clan just to get into her bed. Which, when she was honest with herself—and when wasn’t she?—she found very much a relief.

Some things came naturally to those of her sex. Being accommodating, loving, charming, and endearing—she knew many women who naturally possessed these gifts. Dagmar, however, possessed none of these traits—although she could pretend she had them for short periods of time. If pretending got her what she wanted, then why not?

Because Dagmar knew there were worse things in this world than pretending to be a caring, demure woman. For instance, actually being a caring, demure woman. The Northlands were a rough, hard land and not for the meek of heart or weak of spirit. To actually care, or to actually be as weak as the Northmen expected their women to be was an excellent way to die young.

Dagmar’s intention was to live to be a hundred. At least.

Intently studying the papers in her hands allowed Dagmar to ignore everything that went on around her. The violent fights, the drunken kinsmen littering the floor, the writhing bodies in dark shadows.

Another early morning in the Reinholdt Fortress.

She’d taught herself a long time ago to simply block out all of the extraneous activity that did nothing but distract her from what was important.

An easy enough skill with her dog, Canute, walking boldly beside her, keeping watch and protecting her. She’d raised him from birth and now he was her loyal companion. He was one of the many battle dogs she’d bred and trained for her father since she was nine winters old, but Canute was hers and no other’s. For the last three years, he’d protected her like Canute’s father had protected her. Viciously. So viciously, no one else could get near her. She adored it.

Dagmar was well aware it was strange for a woman to be responsible for the dogs that a warlord like her father would use during battle, but he’d been unable to ignore the way she had with canines. But most especially, he couldn’t ignore the fact that she’d trained every battle dog within his province to respond only to her voice, her command. She’d only been a month shy of her tenth birthday when she’d plotted, planned, and executed her first victory. She clearly remembered standing in front of her father, every vicious, uncontrollable battle dog standing in front, beside, or behind her at attention and waiting for orders. Squinting up at her father, for even then her long-distance sight had been failing, Dagmar softly explained, “I am sorry your trainer lost his arm, Father. Perhaps you need someone who can handle these animals a bit better, with kindness rather than brutality.”

“You’re just a girl,” he’d snarled back, gesturing at her with that trainer’s torn and blood-drenched arm. “What do you know of war and battle?”

“I know nothing,” she very nearly whispered, her eyes downcast. “But I do know dogs.”

“Show me then. Show me what you know.”

Lifting her gaze to meet her father’s, she’d pointed at one dog, then motioned to one of the guards. Only one of the eighteen dogs charged over and tore into the guard that had once referred to her as “that ugly girl.”

Her father watched the dog do what he’d been trained to do, not at all concerned with the guard screaming for help.

“Very good,” he’d finally said, but she’d known the test wasn’t over.

“Thank you.”

“Now call him back.”

They both knew this to be the true challenge because the Reinholdt battle dogs could often be uncontrollable once the bloodlust got them. Many of them were often put down by their own handlers at the end of battle.

So, still keeping her father’s gaze, Dagmar again raised her fingers, gave a short whistle, and motioned with her hand. The dog had dropped his screaming, crying, and bleeding prey immediately, trotting back to her side and sitting in the spot he’d left. His tongue hanging out, blood on his muzzle, he’d stared at Dagmar, waiting for her next command.

At the time, her father had only grunted, walking off with the trainer’s arm still in tow as it left a bloody trail behind him. Yet by the time her sixteenth winter passed, Dagmar had complete control of the kennels and any dog—working or pet—on her father’s lands.

Stopping abruptly when Canute did, Dagmar waited until a chalice flew past her head and into the wall beside her. Another fight between one of her brothers and his wife.

Not even bothering to look, she stepped over the rolling and dented chalice on the floor and headed to the Main Hall. Her father sat at the main dining table; several of her brothers sat near or across from him as did their wives, but the chair next to him was vacant because it was Dagmar’s chair. Something she knew annoyed her sister-in-law Kikka, who sat glaring at her from across the table.

As she walked in and took her seat, her father shoveled food into his mouth as if afraid the thick porridge would try and make a run for it. As always, she ignored the sight of her father feeding.

In her world, there were worse things than bad table manners.

“Father.”

Her father grunted. He’d never been a talkative man, but he especially had little to say to his only daughter. After twelve sturdy sons from three different wives—two had run away and Dagmar’s mother had passed away during childbirth—he never expected a daughter. And he never expected a daughter like her. When drunk, he often bemoaned the fact that she hadn’t been born a man. He could do more with her if she was useful, rather than something he simply had to protect.

It should hurt her that after all this time her father still didn’t recognize what she did for his fiefdom. How much she contributed, including the defenses she’d designed, the dogs she’d trained to save the lives of his men during battle, or the important truces she’d help to arrange. But why waste time being hurt? It wouldn’t change anything and would only take precious time out of her day.

Dagmar reached for a loaf of bread and tore it apart. “The new batch of puppies looks very promising, Father. Very strong. Powerful.” She tore the half of bread in her hands once more and gave Canute a portion.

Her father grunted again, but instead of waiting for an answer she didn’t expect, Dagmar dug into the hot porridge one of the servants placed before her. Their mornings together, when he wasn’t off defending his lands, were often like this. In fact, she’d become so very used to the silence or occasional grunt that when her father suddenly did speak to her, Dagmar nearly choked on her food.

“Pardon?” she said, once she’d swallowed.

“I said what message did you send out a few days ago with my seal on it?”

Dammit. “You allow me to use your seal and sign your name to almost all correspondence. So you’ll have to be more specific, Fa—”

“Cut to it,” he snarled.

So she would. “I sent a message to Annwyl of the Dark Plains.”

He stared at her for so long, she knew he had no idea who she meant. “All right.”

Without another word, he stood and picked up his favorite battle ax. Mornings were for battle training in the Northlands, when the two suns were in the sky but the air was still at its coldest. As her father walked out of the Main Hall, Kikka put down her spoon and loudly asked, “Isn’t Annwyl of Dark Plains also called the Mad Bitch of Garbhán Isle?”

Dagmar had only a moment to look coldly across the table at her worthless sister-in-law when The Reinholdt stormed back in, Dagmar’s brothers suddenly disappearing in the face of their father’s rage.

The blade of The Reinholdt’s ax slammed into the dining table, the sound of cracking wood scattering the remaining servants. Before Dagmar could speak a word, her father yelled, “You sent a message to that crazy bitch?”

Gwenvael stared at the Queen of Dark Plains and worried. She seemed so weak. Weaker than he’d ever seen her before. And pale, which didn’t fit a warrior queen who spent most of her time outdoors with her troops, killing all those in her way. Her skin had always been golden brown from the sun. Not as brown as Talaith and Izzy, but they were from the deserts of Alsandair where everyone was born in varying shades of brown. Annwyl was not.

Yet these last few months, as her belly grew larger and her twins more active inside her, Annwyl had seemed to have none of the glow of other first-time human mothers he’d seen throughout his travels. Instead, she looked drawn and tired.

“What is it, Annwyl?”

At least she’d finally stopped crying, but now she stood at the window and silently stared down into the courtyard.

“What’s wrong, my queen? You’re not your usual self.”

She smiled. “I’m not your queen.”

“You are when I’m here. And as your loyal and most loving of subjects, I just want to help.”

“I know you do.”

“So what is it, Annwyl? What is it that has you so worried that I’d bet five gold pieces you haven’t even told Fearghus.” When she turned farther away from him, he sat down in one of the sturdy straight-back chairs and held his hand out to Annwyl—he wasn’t fool enough to approach her again when she was in a mood. Not with those damn swords no more than arm’s length from her. “Come tell Gwenvael what you cannot tell my dear—but not nearly as handsome or charming—brother.”

After a long moment, Annwyl took Gwenvael’s hand and allowed him to place her on his lap. He stroked her back while she dug into the pocket of her gown. She handed over the piece of parchment, and Gwenvael immediately looked at the wax seal still stuck to part of it. He didn’t bother immediately reading the letter itself because he’d found that who letters came from mattered almost as much, if not more, than what was actually stated inside.

“Whose seal is this? I don’t recognize it.”

Annwyl let out a sigh. “The Reinholdt.”

“The Reinholdt?” He frowned in thought; then his body jolted. “Good gods! That madman from the north?”

“The very one.”

“Honestly…” He glanced again at the letter. “I didn’t know anyone in the Reinholdt Clan could write.”

Dagmar patiently waited while her father ranted. He must have had another sleepless night, because he lasted longer than usual. Although she was impressed by two things when her father got like this toward her. Not once had he ever touched her in anger or with violence and not once had he ever made his screaming fits personal. While more than one of her sisters-in-law had called her “plain bitch” or “ugly sow” when wittier words had failed them, her father always kept it about his issue. And his issue was usually that Dagmar had overstepped her bounds.

Usually…she had.

When her father finally stopped long enough for her to speak, she said, “I think you underestimate what Queen Annwyl can do for us.”

“Besides bring her love of blood to our door?”

“Father,” she soothed, “you can’t listen to rumor.” She smiled. “That’s my job.”

“Ohhh, you have a job now?” Kikka asked sweetly, all smiles.

And, all smiles herself, Dagmar asked her, “I didn’t know Eymund bought you a new dress. It’s beautiful!”

Her brother Eymund, who’d been conspicuously absent upon their father’s return, walked back into the Main Hall. “What? What new dress?” He glared at his young wife. “New dress?”

Kikka’s glare was almost worth every moment of having to deal with The Reinholdt.

Dagmar turned back to her father and raised her voice to be heard over her brother’s yelling. “Now, Father, I do understand your concerns. But we cannot ignore the kind of ally Queen Annwyl would make. It is believed she has near a hundred legions at her disposal. All of them trained and ready.”

Her father rested his big fists on the table, and Dagmar knew she was no longer talking to the frightening warlord feared throughout the Northlands, but Sigmar Reinholdt. The man who cared greatly for his people and his kinsmen. “It’s Jökull you’re worried about. Isn’t it?” he asked, not looking at her.

“With good reason. We can no longer ignore your brother.”

“I ain’t been ignoring him!”

“He’s increasing his troops, buying them apparently. Your men are clearly preparing for a siege. I want to help and Queen Annwyl allows me that.”

“I don’t need your help, little miss.”

“No. You need hers. And I see no shame in it.”

Her father cleared his throat, glanced around, and muttered, “You know this ain’t ya fault.”

Unfortunately, she didn’t know that. But when she didn’t reply to his statement, her father took a large breath and slowly let it out. “What are we giving her?”

“Information.” They could afford to give her little else.

“You and that bloody information.”

“It’s what I barter in.” She leaned forward, looking him right in the eyes—one of the few unafraid to do so. “I need you to trust me on this.”

He snorted and stared down at the table, Dagmar patiently waiting.

When he finally grabbed hold of his ax handle, yanking the weapon from the table, she knew she’d won—or at least gotten a short-term reprieve.

“Don’t push your luck with me, little miss,” he grumbled.

Of course she would. She was so good at it.

As her father walked out, a servant rushed in. “My lady, Brother Ragnar approaches.”

She nodded and stood, her appetite long having left.

“Look all”—Kikka sneered, her husband still ranting about “all the bloody coin you spend!”—“another male who won’t be bedding our little Dagmar.”

“And then there’s you, sister.” Dagmar leaned down and finished on a whisper, “Who will apparently fuck anything.”

Heading toward the doors and her respite from idiocy, Dagmar heard her brother snap, “What did she say? What are you doing?”

Gwenvael skimmed the note quickly. “The Reinholdt wants you—they’re very clear on that ‘you’—to come to his territory to save the lives of your unborn children. You know, personally, I don’t appreciate him trying to order my lovely queen about, but what really bothers me—”

“Is that the barbarians already know I’m having twins?” At Gwenvael’s nod, she added, “And if they know that, they might already know I’m no longer as fierce as I once was.”

“You won’t be expecting forever, Annwyl. And once the twins are here, you’ll be as violently cruel and madly bloodthirsty as you always were.”

“Now you’re just trying to make me feel better.”

“Is it working?”

“A little.” She closed her eyes, and he knew she was in pain, the “twinges,” as she called them, happening more and more lately. She took a cleansing breath and went on. “But even if I wanted to go to the Northlands myself, Fearghus will never let that happen. And Morfyd! Gods, the whining.” Gwenvael’s older sister, a powerful Dragonwitch and healer, could wear the scales off a fast-moving snake when she was in a mood. “Besides, someone I thought adored me told me I was too fat to travel.”

“That is not what I said, although I love how all of you willfully misinterpret me. And how quick we are to forget I did notice that your breasts had grown even fuller and more lovely. If that’s possible.”

Annwyl laughed and shook her head. “Not even a modicum of shame.”

“Not even a teaspoonful. Now, we both know you can’t travel, so what would you like me to do? Want me to write them back for you? I think we both have to admit that I have a way with the written word that you do not, my lovely.”

“This is very true.” She turned a bit on his lap so that she looked directly at him. “But I thought perhaps you could go in my stead.”

“Me? Go back to the Northlands?” he scoffed. “I’d rather eat bark.”

“Do you think I like asking you to take this risk? Especially with the reputation you left behind?” She raised a brow. “Ruiner.”

“You know, they weren’t virgins,” he argued as he’d been arguing for decades. “They stumbled upon me at the lake. Took advantage of me. They used their tails in a manner I found enticing, and I did what I had to do to survive the horrors of war.”

“Is it true you, and you alone, is specifically mentioned in the truce?”

“As long as I keep my distance from Lightning females—you may also know the Lightnings as the Horde dragons, my beautiful majesty”—he gave her his most appealing smile but she only stared at him, so he continued—“I can go into the Northlands for short periods of time.”

“Then I need you to go. But to be quite honest you’re the only one I can send.”

The admission surprised him. “I am?”

“I can’t send Morfyd. She’s female, and the Lightnings would snag her faster than you can lure a local girl to your bed.”

“What a lovely analogy. Thank you.”

“Besides, your sister is needed here because she’s the only one who can stop Fearghus from killing his own parents.”

Gwenvael barely stopped his angry frown, determined to keep the conversation as light as possible. “I see Mother still refuses to believe your babes are Fearghus’s.”

“I don’t know what she believes, and I don’t care. She hasn’t been here in six months since she was first told and that’s fine by me.” Gwenvael knew that to be a lie. That fight had been the ugliest he’d seen among his kin, and though all of Fearghus’s siblings had stood by him and Annwyl that day, the whole thing had hurt Annwyl more than anyone wanted to admit.

“I can’t send Keita,” she went on, “because she’ll have all the men turning on each other and won’t even remember why I sent her. Besides, when is she ever here for me to ask?”

Gwenvael couldn’t argue with her on that. His younger sister was more like him than anyone in their family. Only a couple of decades apart, they’d always been close and understood each other well. Yet he’d noticed that over the past few years, Keita had been spending almost all her time as far from Devenallt Mountain and Dark Plains as she could manage. She had her own cave but was rarely in it, and when she did return home, things often became uncomfortable between her and their mother. When he thought about it, Gwenvael couldn’t remember a time when mother and daughter had gotten along, making family get-togethers quite intense. Then again, Gwenvael lived for that sort of tension and often found perverse pleasure in making it worse.

“Of course there’s Briec, but—” Annwyl looked for words but couldn’t seem to find anything to say about the arrogant, silver-haired dragon, and ended with, “Do I really need to expound on Briec?”

“Not to me.”

“And Éibhear is still too much a babe. Besides, to be quite blunt, you’re the most politically savvy of the entire bunch.”

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.”

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 politician. 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.

“No. I asked for your Annwyl,” her father practically snapped back.

Dagmar began to tap her fist against her leg.

“Well,” the dragon replied smoothly, “she’s indisposed at the moment, so she sent me as her emissary.”

“A dragon emissary for a human?”

Dagmar gritted her teeth in frustration. What exactly was the old bastard doing? Why was he asking rude questions? Questions that could be asked and answered over dinner when the dragon was more relaxed. She knew for a fact that one of the local herders had cows grazing in the east fields—enough to feed a dragon, she was sure.

Honestly, was this her father’s idea of good politics? No wonder she had to fight so hard to prevent war between the Reinholdts and the surrounding fiefdoms. Because her kinsmen were rude idiots!

“Again, Reinholdt, you wanted to see me or someone from Dark Plains?” the dragon pushed. It was obvious his patience was running out. Well, obvious to anyone with sense.

“Nay. Not me, dragon. The Beast made that request.”

The Beast? Her father was introducing her as The Beast?

If she thought she could get away with killing them all and razing the land they all stood upon—she’d do it in less than a heartbeat.

“And may I meet The Beast?” the dragon countered.

Dagmar stepped forward, but Valdís grabbed the back of her dress and held her in place.

“Off!” she ordered.

“You’ll wait,” he snarled.

“You sure about that, dragon?” her father asked, and she knew now he was toying with the creature. And he had the nerve to wonder where she got her attitude from.

“Yes,” the dragon grumbled. “I am.”

Her father must have motioned for her, because her brother released her gown and the soldiers protecting the front of the fortress moved out of her way. Dagmar walked outside, across the courtyard, and through the main gates. Her father’s guards formed two lines, allowing her to pass. Dagmar walked up to the magnificent being. He glinted gold in the dull light of the two suns, each scale shiny and bright. He was like a bit of a sun himself, bringing a small amount of light to her world. His wings stretched out from his body. They, too, were covered in scales, but the wings seemed somehow weightless and fine, like the most exquisite metal ever created. The tip of each wing had a sharp, gold talon, and there were gold talons on each claw. Two bright white horns sat atop his head and long, shiny gold hair fell across his back and down his body, brushing gently against the ground. Beautiful gold eyes focused on her as soon as she stepped closer to him.

She’d had her greeting all ready for him. The words—a proper greeting for so important a diplomat—on her lips, but she couldn’t speak. Not once she saw him.

In all her thirty years nothing so beautiful had ever crossed her path.

When Dagmar feared she’d embarrass herself by her silence, she finally found her voice and opened her mouth to speak. But the words stopped in her throat again.

Only this time they stopped…because he was laughing. At her.

It wasn’t mere laughter either. Not a muffled sound behind his claw. Nor a brief snort of disbelief. These were things she experienced on a daily basis and had grown quite used to. No. This overgrown…child was rolling around on the ground like he’d never seen anything more amusing than she. Massive dragon legs and arms flailed while his guffaws echoed over the courtyard and around the countryside.

Some scaly lizard was laughing at her! The only daughter of The Reinholdt! And he was having this moment on Reinholdt land, no less!

Any awe and admiration Dagmar had were wiped clean in that moment, and she felt that distinct coldness she hid so well from outsiders. It swept through her like ice from an avalanche. The men behind her began to murmur amongst themselves, feet shuffled, and her father cleared his throat. A few times. It wasn’t the dragon that made them uncomfortable. Not directly anyway.

Dagmar waited until his laughter turned into chuckles. “Are you done?” she asked, keeping her voice even.

“Sorry, uh…Beast.” It snorted out another laugh.

“Dagmar will do. Dagmar Reinholdt. Thirteenth child of The Reinholdt and his only daughter. I asked your queen here,” she continued, “because I have news that may save her life and the lives of her unborn whelps.”

The dragon’s expression of humor quickly changed to a scowl. Apparently it did not appreciate the term she’d used, but she was past caring. All her dreams of building an allegiance with the Blood Queen faded as soon as that woman sent this idiot to represent her. No, Dagmar would have to find other allegiances for her father. The Blood Queen of Dark Plains simply would not do.

“Tell me, sweet Dagmar,” it sneered, rolling back to its belly and lifting its head a bit. “And I’ll tell her.”

Dagmar remained silent for one very long moment, then answered simply, “No.”

The dragon blinked in surprise and abruptly pushed itself up a bit so that its snout was barely inches from her nose. Its gold eyes were locked on hers, and she wondered how she ever saw them as pretty. They were as ugly as the rest of the dragon. Ugly and mocking and absolutely useless.

“What do you mean, no?” it demanded.

“I mean, you’ve insulted me. You’ve insulted my kinsmen. And you’ve insulted The Reinholdt. So you can return to your bitch queen and you can watch her die.”

Confident she’d made her point, Dagmar Reinholdt turned on her heel and walked away from it. But she did stop a few feet away and glanced over her shoulder.

“Now that, dragon”—she happily sneered back, mocking the creature’s tone—“that’s funny.”

Without another word, she returned to her father’s fortress. But before she disappeared into its mighty embrace, she heard her father ask, “You are a bit of a dumb bastard, aren’t ya, dragon?”

And it was times like these when she truly did appreciate her father’s coarseness.

A woman! The Beast was a woman! Why didn’t anyone tell him that? Why did everyone keep claiming he was a man? If Gwenvael had known, he would have handled the whole thing quite differently.

But he hadn’t known and his first reaction at seeing her…well, it had not been his finest moment. Even he’d admit that. Yet how was that his fault when everyone kept telling him that The Beast was some mighty giant warrior spit up from one of hell’s many pits?

Pacing restlessly in the abandoned cave he found high in the Mountains of Sorrow—a rather fitting name at the moment—Gwenvael tore at his mind trying to figure out how to fix this.

His first thought, naturally, was to seduce the woman. She had that look of a spinster, didn’t she? A bitter, unhappy virgin who didn’t trust men enough to allow them in her bed. In the past, he’d had great success with women like that. And yet…

He sighed, rubbed his eyes.

And yet this one didn’t seem like that at all, did she?

She was plain, that was true enough. But not hideous. He didn’t feel the need to scream and run away at first sight of her. And she had those eyes—steel grey and cold as the top of this mountain. Eyes like hers could go a long way if managed correctly, but she wore a drab, grey dress that did nothing for her. No adornments on it, no low-cut bodice, teasing of her bosom. Nor was there a painfully high and prim collar up to her chin so that one demanded to know what she was hiding. The girdle was a boring brown leather, when a silver weave would have been much nicer. The eating dagger she had tucked into it was nice enough, but so? The boots on her small feet were grey fur as well. And she wore that head scarf tied over her hair as if she were about to go off and scrub a kitchen.

No, it wasn’t looks that had gained her a name like The Beast. She wasn’t ugly, but she wasn’t such a gorgeous animal that men were devoured in her bed.

Nor was she a raving lunatic, which one would think a woman named The Beast by Northmen would be.

The coldness in those eyes ran through her entire body. Without a thought to what a powerful dragon could do if angered, she’d kept the information about Annwyl to herself. To be honest, Gwenvael wasn’t even sure the Reinholdt men knew what she held.

The Reinholdt himself seemed to be completely clueless unless he had a war ax in his hands. Surprisingly short for a Northlander, The Reinholdt made up for it with width—his shoulders and chest disturbingly large, his muscles near busting from his clothes. Yet beyond his appearance, the stumpy Northlander reminded Gwenvael a bit of his own father, Bercelak the Great. His father was never as happy as when he was killing someone or something in battle—politics absolutely bored the older Black dragon.

Gwenvael scratched his head. Yes, yes, he could read the old Reinholdt well enough. But it was the girl…dammit! She was the key. He knew it! It wasn’t merely the knowledge she had about Annwyl either. There was something else about that girl…woman…whatever. Really, if he didn’t know better, he’d swear she was a dragon with those damn cold eyes and features. She had a young face, but those eyes were filled with ageless knowledge that she used for her own selfish gains.

Not that he couldn’t admire that a bit since he did the same.

He had to go back. He knew he did. And he realized now that going back just to take her and seduce her would not work. Not with her. She wouldn’t swoon at a mere look from his human self. She wouldn’t be entranced by the extraordinary beauty of his face or the exquisiteness of his human body. Nor would she be intimidated by threats and yelling.

He’d have to go a different way, but first he’d have to get in and see her. To go back in his true form would be useless. He’d have to be human and…

Gwenvael smiled, the etiquette of the Northland rulers and its people coming back to him in a sudden flash. Yes, yes. That would work. The woman he’d faced today knew her etiquette, kept her own council, and played by the rules. At least…she did as far as everyone else was concerned.

It would only buy him a night, but that would be enough.

He’d make it enough, because he wouldn’t fail Annwyl on this. Not this. She’d nearly broken his heart when she sent him off, kissing his cheek and holding him for a long time in a hug before telling him, “Don’t listen to the others. I know you’ll be amazing in the north. Just be careful and watch your back, Gwenvael.”

That’s when Gwenvael knew she had more faith in him than any of his own blood. She was entrusting him with her life and the lives of her babes. And if he had to go so far north that he entered the forbidden Ice Lands himself, he’d do it. He wouldn’t let any harm come to Annwyl.

He walked to the mouth of the cave and stood there a moment, staring down at the countryside below, until that scent he knew so well tore into his nostrils. He should have caught it sooner, but he’d been deep in his thoughts and now he only had a moment to use the shadows around him. A gift from the blood of his loving Grandfather Ailean, Gwenvael’s scales changed colors until he became one with the cave shadows surrounding him.

Right on time too, as they came into view seconds later. Four of them, all big, bold…and purple.

Lightning dragons. Also called the Horde dragons. He’d fought their kind for the first time during a war nearly a century ago. They were barbarians but mighty warriors, and he had the permanent scars to prove it.

These days, some would say the Lightnings lived in peace with the dragons of the Southlands, but that wasn’t remotely true. There was a truce, but it was a delicate one, easily broken at any moment. All that kept a new war from starting was the fact that the Lightnings were broken up into fiefdoms, similar to the way the Northland humans were. They didn’t consider themselves monarchs but warlords. They were often so busy fighting each other, they rarely had the energy or time to take on the armies of the Southland Dragon Queen.

Still, Gwenvael had moved carefully through the territories leading to his Northland destination. Olgeir the Wastrel controlled the Outerplains—the borderlands between the north and the south—as well as the territory overlapping the Reinholdt lands, and he’d never bothered to hide his outright hatred of Queen Rhiannon. He kept the truce, but not happily. And Gwenvael didn’t doubt for a minute what Olgeir would do if he caught one of Rhiannon’s male offsprings on his territory. Especially the one the Horde males referred to as “The Ruiner.”

The Lightnings moved past the cave, but one stopped, hovering in front of the entrance.

Gwenvael didn’t move or make a sound. He certainly didn’t charge the bastard. He wasn’t here to fight and he wasn’t a fool who thought he could take on a Lightning scout party and come out still intact.

The Lightning sniffed the air and inched a bit closer. As Gwenvael could smell the lightning inside the barbarian, the barbarian could scent the fire in Gwenvael.

So Gwenvael slowly lowered himself into a crouch, readying his body and flame to attack.

The Lightning was mere inches from entering the cave when Gwenvael heard the caw of a crow overhead. The Northlands were simply inundated with crows, it seemed. And, at the moment, Gwenvael had never been so grateful, as the crow’s shit unceremoniously landed on the Lightning’s snout.

The dragon’s eyes crossed as he tried to see it and he snarled. “Why you little mother—”

“Come on, you idiot!” another voice yelled farther ahead. “Move!”

Wiping the shit from his face, the Lightning followed after his comrades.

Letting out a sigh, Gwenvael stood at the very edge of the cave and looked up at the crows overhead. There had to be hundreds of them making good use of the limbs and vines that protruded from the mountain’s rock face.

“Thank you for that,” he offered kindly. And in answer, another crow unloaded itself, and Gwenvael hastily stepped back. “Oy, you tiny bastards! Watch the hair!”

When all those damn birds began to laugh at him, he was not pleased.