“Talan.”
He smiled. Gods. Such a handsome boy. Unbelievably handsome. With his father’s eyes and his mother’s face, streaked brown hair reaching massive shoulders and as tall as his Uncle Gwenvael’s human form. But, like his twin sister, there was something about Talan. . . .
“Auntie Dagmar.”
Although it had been disturbing that the twins spoke so little as children, Dagmar could say that when they did begin to say more . . . it wasn’t any less unsettling.
Of course when they’d just stand there and stare . . . things weren’t much better.
“Is there something you want, Talan?”
“There’s a caravan of rough-looking, grunting males. I’m assuming they’re your kin since they’re not dragons.”
Dagmar snorted a little. “Yes. That does sound like my kin.”
“They’re heading through the gates now. Should I send someone to deal with them?”
“No. I’ll go.”
He nodded, but his gaze lifted, locking on something behind her. Dagmar looked over her shoulder and clenched her fists in order to keep from snarling.
“They’ve been chummy lately,” she blandly remarked, trying not to sound concerned.
Talan shrugged and walked off, reminding her that the twins only seemed to speak when they felt like it.
Although she knew she had to get to the main gate, Dagmar stood her ground until her niece and Talan’s twin sister, Talwyn, nodded at the woman she was walking with and headed over to Dagmar.
“Auntie Dagmar.”
“Talwyn.” Her niece, like Talan, was tall and beautiful, with pitch-black hair and her mother’s green eyes. But she constantly hid that beauty under hair she rarely combed, dirt she rarely bothered to wipe off, and a perpetual glare that could scare hell’s demons.
Dagmar glanced over at the woman walking away. But she wasn’t just a woman, was she? No. She was a Kyvich from the Ice Lands. One of the warrior witches who was so powerful and feared that even the gods called on them only when absolutely necessary. Nearly sixteen years ago, they’d come to Garbhán Isle to protect the twins while their mother was off in the west waging war against the Sovereigns. At the time, Dagmar had been grateful, but she’d also been wary because the Kyvich were rarely born into their rank.... They were taken from their mothers, usually before they were even two winters old. But, on rare occasions, they had been known to take older girls. Although Talwyn was now eighteen winters, she also had a mighty strength. Her fighting skills unmatched by anyone except the most seasoned warriors. Meaning she was exactly the kind of warrior the Kyvich would want.
So seeing that the Kyvich were lurking around her niece made Dagmar feel nothing but discomfort.
“Did Commander Ásta have anything interesting to say?” she asked Talwyn.
“No.”
Dagmar, as always, waited for more, but after all these years, one would think she’d know better.
“Talwyn,” Dagmar finally said, “should I be concern—”
“Aren’t the barbarian horde at the gates?” her niece cut in.
Unwilling to delve into how Talwyn knew that the Reinholdts had arrived without actually seeing them, Dagmar asked, “Can’t you just call them family?”
Talwyn looked at her through the mass of black hair that constantly fell into her eyes and bluntly admitted, “Not and mean it.”
Snorting a little before she could stop herself, Dagmar nodded. “Fair enough.”
Without another word—she talked less than her brother—Talwyn headed to the training ring for more weapons practice than anyone would ever need, and with a heavy sigh, Dagmar headed to the front gate.
Although Dagmar and Gwenvael visited her aging father as often as she could manage, even bringing Talaith and Annwyl with them on occasion, she’d never had any of her family here at Garbhán Isle.
But her father had written her himself. Well . . . he’d dictated a letter himself to the assistant she’d handpicked for him. And her father had made this request. How could she turn him down?
She couldn’t. So she had to suck this up, as Talaith had told her.
Dagmar headed toward the courtyard, getting there just as the sons of her brothers arrived on their large Northland stallions. The oldest, Alppi, eldest son of Dagmar’s eldest brother, Eymund, dismounted his horse and stood before Dagmar. He nodded his head . . . then stared at her, frowning just like her brother often did when he was confused.
“Aunt Dagmar . . .” His frown worsened. “I . . .”
“You . . . what?”
“Thought you’d be old by now,” Alppi’s younger brother informed her. “But you look the same . . . don’tcha?”
Dagmar wouldn’t bother explaining the gift of long life similar to that of a dragon’s, which had been bestowed upon her by the Dragon Queen when she’d committed herself to the queen’s son Gwenvael. Instead, she simply replied, “I’ll look like this long after all of you are dust and forgotten.”
Her nephew stared at her a little longer before Alppi shrugged and said, “Yeah, whatever. Got anything to eat?”
She pointed toward the guards’ mess, not even considering sending any of them to the Great Hall, where, most horrifying of all, they might catch sight of sweet and unattached Rhi. The vision of the bodies of her many nephews, burned beyond recognition, being returned to her brothers woke her up some nights.
The rest of her nephews dismounted their horses and followed Alppi. All except one, who seemed to be struggling with the concept of removing himself from the back of his steed.
Dagmar walked around until she stood next to the boy and his horse.
“Hello, Frederik.” Frederik Reinholdt, eighth-born son of her brother Fridmar. And, as her father had less than kindly said in his letter, “Resident family idiot.”
The fourteen-year-old boy glanced at her, nodded. “Aunt Dagmar.”
“Need some help?”
“No, no. I’m fine.”
She didn’t really believe him, so she motioned over one of the squires who’d come to take care of her nephews’ horses. But as the squire moved in to assist, Dagmar had to take a quick step back just as Frederik slipped from the horse and hit the ground hard.
“Ow,” she heard him mumble.
And Dagmar barely kept in a long, pained sigh. Gods, what had she agreed to?
Chapter 6
“You have to go.”
“I can’t. I’ve made a—”
“Out,” Izzy ordered.
Éibhear shrugged. “Make me.”
“Make you?”
Gods, she sounded annoyed. Not that he blamed her. But her annoyance combined with the scent of blood, dirt, and death that she was covered in, was rather enticing.
Iseabail the Dangerous was definitely not the girl he’d left behind all those years ago. Tall and powerfully built, her bare arms showed the hard years of life in the human queen’s army, from her strong, well-defined muscular physique to the scars he could see on any exposed skin. But her beauty—that had not changed. Instead it had merely sharpened, becoming even more powerful.
Even now, pissed as she was, all he could see were large, light brown eyes glaring down at him, while shoulder-length, wavy light brown hair framed a sculpted face, cheekbones sharp, dimples temporarily missing because she wasn’t smiling. Her lips were full and rather—if he did say so himself—pouty; and her once-sharp nose was no longer as sharp now that, he’d guess, it had been broken. Perhaps more than once. But that bit of imperfection only made her more beautiful, as far as Éibhear was concerned.
“Éibhear—”
“I’m not leaving.”
Izzy grabbed one of his hands from behind his head and pulled. She kept pulling too, while Éibhear lay there and let her.
“Gods be damned! You weigh as much as my bloody horse!”
“Only when I’m human.”
Snarling, she tossed his arm back at him and he barely managed not to hit himself in the face.
“Out!”
“I’m with you until this is over, Princess.”
“It’s General, you big bastard.”
“Calling me mean names will not change anything either.”
“I should just slit your throat and be done with it.”
“But then I’ll shift back to dragon and ruin your bed.”
Her eyes crossed and she turned from him just as the tent flap was pulled back. One of her soldiers walked in, but he stopped when he saw Éibhear lounging there.
“Should I come back?” he asked.
“Only if you want to lose a body part.” She glanced at the human. “Did you find Dai?”
“He was with Macsen, as you said.”
She faced the man. “Where’s Macsen?”
“Outside.”
“Let him in.”
The man glanced at Éibhear and back at Izzy. “Are you sure?”
She shrugged, headed back to her desk. “It’s his tent too.”
“Macsen,” the soldier called out. “Macsen!”
Izzy had a man? It couldn’t be a husband. That, he was sure, his kin would have told him. But a man she lived with? Another soldier? Well . . . good for her. She should have a mate. Someone she felt close to and could rely on. Aye. That was a very good thing indeed. Because he was sure that Izzy would pick someone loyal and worthy of her.
Éibhear again placed both hands behind his head and waited for this “worthy male” to enter, but he only had a moment to hear extreme, heavy panting before something large and furry charged through the tent flap and launched itself directly at Éibhear’s face.
Izzy watched the animal she’d found bloody and dying three years ago crash chest first onto Éibhear the Blue’s face.
Macsen was not a trained battle dog. He was definitely not one of Dagmar’s carefully bred canines. Instead, Izzy had found him after a battle. He’d been only a puppy, his battered body curled into the hollow of a tree trunk. Whimpering and shuddering, he’d been a pitiful-looking thing that Izzy simply couldn’t ignore. Covered in open wounds, he’d also been missing part of his left ear and his eye had been so damaged it was still nothing more than a milky white spot in his head. She’d picked his shaking body up and brought him back to her tent, tending to him herself. She’d cleaned and cared for his wounds, fed him by hand until he could eat on his own, and kept him warm at night by letting him sleep by her side. And, as each day passed, the puppy had grown stronger and, she soon realized, bigger. Very big. Big enough that she’d wondered if he was actually a dog or some other beast she was unaware of. Wolves weren’t as big as Macsen. His fangs were longer, his bite stronger, his fur shaggier, than any canine she’d ever seen. Yet he was blindingly loyal to her, fought with her in every battle, and protected her horse when she or Samuel could not.
And woe to any who dared enter her tent without permission.
But to Macsen, it must have seemed that Éibhear was there with permission because he didn’t bother to attack. Yet he was annoyed that someone other than Izzy was in his space, which meant he did what he always did to males that he felt didn’t belong.
“Gods!” Éibhear demanded, trying to push Macsen off. “What is that smell?”
“Oh . . .” Izzy smirked. “He must have gotten into the beans again.”
“He does like beans,” Samuel added, his hand under his nose to block out the smell. Considering all the hard years Samuel had done in the military, forced in by his father when he was barely nine, it always amazed Izzy that he couldn’t tolerate a few farts from a dog.
Then again . . . it seemed that Éibhear couldn’t either.
The dragon threw Macsen across the room and tried to sit up, but Macsen only scrambled back to his really big feet and launched himself again at Éibhear’s head.
By now, Izzy had her hand over her mouth, her body shaking as she hysterically laughed, Samuel leaning against her, his laughter ringing out.
“Don’t just stand there, woman! Get him off me!” He threw Macsen again, but, as was Macsen’s way, he merely bounced back and came at Éibhear once more. That was the thing about Macsen, the thing that many enemy soldiers had learned over the years . . . Macsen didn’t go down easy and once down, he didn’t stay down. It simply wasn’t in his nature.
The dog was just going for Éibhear again when Fionn stepped in, motioning to Izzy.
“What?” she asked once she stood next to the woman.
“We have a problem.”
When Éibhear finally had the dog pinned to the floor he realized that, except for the animal, he was alone.
Feeling something gnawing on his booted foot, Éibhear looked down at the dog. At least, he felt sure it was a dog of some kind. At the moment, it was trying to tear off the thick leather.
Éibhear pressed down harder and, instead of calming down, the beast only became more irritated, fought harder. Impressed, Éibhear lifted his foot and the dog scrambled away, before spinning around to face him and squaring off again.
Studying the thing’s size, Éibhear leaned down a bit and asked, “You’re not a god, are you?”
With a snarl, it launched its body at him and Éibhear swung his fist, knocking the dog across the tent and out the back.
Satisfied, Éibhear sniffed the air and followed Izzy’s scent. She hadn’t gone far. Only a few feet away from her tent, surrounded by her officers. A small contingent of soldiers stood at the ready, and another officer was on his knees, two soldiers guarding him.
Éibhear walked up to Aidan and the others.
“What’s going on?” he asked, keeping his voice low.
“Your general thought she’d killed the ogre leader. She hasn’t.”
“A decoy?”
“Aye. The ogres were tipped off by him there.” He nodded at the soldier on his knees. “Then while the general and her troops were fighting the decoy, he went into a nearby human town, grabbed one of the local girls off the street, and—”
Éibhear held up his hand, not needing to hear any more, and turned to watch this play out.
But then he remembered this was Iseabail he was dealing with.
Not
Annwyl. For if it were, the bastard’s head would be rolling right by Éibhear’s feet at this moment.
Instead, Izzy, although clearly disgusted, turned to her officers and began discussing “laws” and “rules” and what this worthless bastard did or did not deserve based on his dishonoring his role as a soldier blah, blah, blah, blah, blah!
Gods! Was she joking? Why was she wasting her time and, most importantly, his own?
Unwilling to wait a second longer, Éibhear looked at Aidan and motioned to the soldier with a tilt of his head.
Aidan frowned; then his eyes grew wide. He immediately shook his head, never one to just take his damn orders. So Éibhear focused on Uther. The only problem with Uther was that he was a little slower to grasp things, mostly because he was easily bored and didn’t always pay attention. By the third, adamant tilt of his head, Uther blinked and said, “Oh!” He chuckled. “Sorry.”
Shaking his head, Éibhear stood back and waited.
Although two of her officers wanted a hearing, the rest just wanted the soldier’s head removed so they could focus on the ogres. Izzy didn’t mind bothering with the niceties—when they had the time—but they now had the ogre leader’s correct location, so at the moment, they really didn’t.
She nodded at Fionn to keep an eye out in case any of the soldier’s comrades might try to intervene, while Izzy began to pull her sword from its scabbard.
She almost had it clear, too, when she heard Brannie say, “Uh, Iz?” mere seconds before the betraying soldier’s head and part of his shoulder tumbled past her legs, landing a few feet away.
Everyone fell silent, her officers refusing to meet Izzy’s gaze. Because they knew. It might take much to piss her off, but once she was . . .
“What just happened?” she asked her cousin, unwilling to turn around.
“Uhhhh . . .”
She was about to demand that Brannie say something besides “Uh” when Éibhear appeared in front of her. “Now can we go?” he asked, grinning.
She almost had her sword out of its scabbard again, when Brannie stepped up, shoving Éibhear away with one hand and taking firm hold of Izzy’s arm with the other.
“To the caves,” she ordered the officers, steering Izzy toward her horse. “We track down the ogres and finish them off tonight. Now move!”
“What is going on?” Izzy demanded while mounting her horse, which Samuel was holding by the reins.
“I was going to ask you.” Brannie settled into her own saddle, her horse patiently waiting for her. “What did he say he wanted?”
“He said he has orders to bring me back to Garbhán Isle.”
“Is there a problem?”
“I haven’t heard a word, but that could just mean the orders are coming from someone other than my mother.”
“You’re not going to go?”
“If it was important, Annwyl would have sent a proper messenger, not that idiot. No. I’ll go in my own time, Bran. Not because Éibhear the Annoying tells me to.”
“So,” Éibhear said, suddenly appearing next to her, his hand resting on her boot. “How long will killing this ogre leader take? Can we leave then?”
Snarling, Izzy shook the dragon’s hand off and clicked her tongue against her teeth. She spurred Dai forward and headed toward the caves and away from Éibhear the Annoying!
“What are you doing?” Aidan asked.
Éibhear shrugged. “Annoying her until she does what I want.” He glanced at his friend. “It’s worked before.”
“With Izzy?”
“No. But it’s worked with others.”
Uther, wiping off his blood-covered blade and placing it in its sheath, stepped beside Aidan. “So what are we doing now?”
“I’m bored,” Caswyn complained. And when they all stared at him: “What? Was I supposed to lie about that?”
“Yes.” Éibhear watched Izzy’s troops ride out. She and several battalions were going straight into the caves, but in case it was a trap, she had the rest of the legions surrounding the caves and coming in from the forest.
A wise move since ogres were not to be trusted.
“Ogres aren’t easy to kill,” Aidan remarked. “And the real leader will be much more of a challenge. So this could take some time.”
Éibhear placed his hands on his hips. “Well, that’s not going to work for me.”