Authors: G. A. Aiken
Tags: #Science Fiction & Fantasy, #Romance, #dragons
Swallowing back her tears, “We both know this”—she pointed at the parchment in his hand—“is, excuse my father’s term, elk shit. We both know he doesn’t simply want me to convince you to take me to the Southlands just to get this ridiculous letter into the Dragon Queen’s hands.”
“So?”
“Which means he really wants me there for another reason. Once I’m there, he’ll want me to do something to benefit him.”
“Probably true…so?”
“And normally, I would jump at the chance. To travel into the Southlands. To meet Queen Annwyl and bargain for a much better deal than I got with
you
.”
“That was an excellent deal.”
“Normally, I’d lie and connive and do whatever necessary to make you take me into the south.”
“But…”
More tears began to flow. “But that thing…”
“Thing? What thing?”
“That thing…in one’s head…that tells you when something would be wrong to do. It won’t let me do it.”
Feeling a sudden high level of annoyance, Gwenvael carefully asked, “Do you mean your…conscience?”
Her tears turned into hysterical sobs, and she went down on her side, her head dropping into his lap.
“Dagmar! Everyone has a conscience.”
“I don’t!”
“Of course you do.”
“I’m a politician, Gwenvael! Of course, I don’t have a conscience. At least I didn’t. Now I’m cursed with one. And it’s your fault!”
Somehow he knew that last bit would happen.
Why didn’t he understand? Why couldn’t he see? A conscience made her weak and vulnerable. Another poor female to be taken advantage of. Next thing she knew, she’d be planning parties, begging her father to arrange for suitors, and thinking about having children.
This was a nightmare!
“Stop it,” he ordered, grabbing her shoulders and forcing her to sit up. “Stop it right now.”
“Just say it. Say that I’m pathetic. That I allowed that bastard to trick me for twenty years and I never realized it and now I have a bloody conscience. Just say that I’m worthless and get it over with.”
“I will do no such thing. You have a conscience. You’ve always had a conscience. You might as well face it.”
She scowled at him through her tears. “Liar! I’ve never had a conscience before now.”
“Dagmar, you attacked a dragon that breathes fire because he was going to eat your puppy.”
“I had to protect him.” And when he smirked, she quickly added, “He has a use.”
“Looks a little small to be one of your battle dogs. So what use does he have?”
“Who else would eat up all the scraps off the floor?”
“Dagmar.”
“All right, all right. Fine. I have a conscience. There. Happy?”
“Ecstatic.” He crouched in front of her and wiped her face with the sleeve of his linen shirt. “Annwyl’s going to like you. She doesn’t like to think she has a conscience either.”
“I’m not going with you, but I will give you the information you need and I have maps that should help.”
“Good. You’ll bring them with you when we leave for the Southlands in the morning.”
He had to know this was dangerous. Ragnar wanted her in the south for a reason, but neither of them knew why. “Don’t be foolish, Gwenvael.”
“I’m not.” He grabbed the wine and settled on the ground, his back against the trunk. He took her hand and tugged her to his side. The thought of sitting on the ground did nothing for her, but it seemed an evening for such things.
Taking a sip, he handed her the bottle. “Before we do anything, though, I need answers to important questions. Honest, direct answers.”
“All right.”
“What’s coming for Annwyl?”
“Minotaurs.”
He sighed. “I asked for honest, direct answers.”
“And that’s what you got.”
“Minotaurs? Standing cows are coming for Annwyl? You want me to believe that?”
“Standing cows that are trained from birth to kill in the name of whatever gods their elders worship.”
“Did Ragnar tell you about the Minotaurs?”
“He did. But I heard it from others. I believe it’s true.”
“Fine. Then I’ll believe it’s true as well.” Gwenvael took another drink of wine. “I have to say the day is getting stranger.”
“And your second question?”
“How did you get the name Beast?”
Dagmar rubbed her forehead, the pain of her past returning violently. “And that’s important to know why?”
“Tell me.”
Dagmar held her hand out. “More wine.”
“When I was thirteen,” she began, suddenly looking much younger than her thirty winters, “one of my father’s nephews came to visit. He was much older than I, but we’d never gotten along. Apparently I was a ‘know-it-all bitch who should be tossed into a convent’ while he ‘should have been strangled at birth and thrown off a mountainside as our ancestors used to do.’ Needless to say, when he came to visit this time, we kept our distance. Yet he was never a smart boy and rumors quickly spread that he’d been making fun of me to his men. Telling them I was ‘growing into a right beast.’ I ignored it, even though my father and brothers had also heard the same rumors. But I didn’t say a word or complain. Just didn’t see the point.
“One night, a day or so before he was supposed to return to his father’s lands, I left the kennels and was about to enter the fortress. I heard one of the servant girls and went around the corner to make sure everything was all right. I didn’t like what I saw and she seemed to be even unhappier, so I grabbed my cousin and pulled him away. Angry and drunk, he grabbed my throat and punched me in the face, breaking my spectacles.”
“Bastard.”
She chuckled, but kept with her story. “As usual, however, I was not alone. I had Canute’s great-grandfather with me. As he’d been trained to do, he took my cousin to the ground by the throat and held him there, waiting for my next command.” She stopped, took another gulp of wine. “My cousin was begging me to call him off, and by this point my father and three eldest brothers were standing behind me after they’d been fetched by the servants. I looked at my father and said, ‘I shouldn’t.’ He replied, ‘But as a Northlander, we all know you will.’ I knew what was expected, so I did it.” She swallowed. “I gave the command and my dog…finished him. The next day my father sent the remains back to my uncle with a note that read, ‘A little gift from The Beast.’”
“And that uncle was Jökull?”
She nodded. “And that was Jökull’s favorite son. Not long after was the siege that killed my brother’s wife.”
“You blame yourself.”
“Sometimes. I can’t help but wonder where we’d be if I’d only given a different command.”
“Too late for those thoughts. They don’t help. Besides, I don’t worry about what I should have done. I only worry about what I’m going to do now.”
“Yes. That sounds about right for you.”
He got to his feet. “Come on. We need to get ready.”
“You still plan to bring me to the Southlands?” She held out her hand and he grabbed it, easily hauling her to her feet. “Seems foolish to me.”
“Maybe. We’ll see.” But he didn’t think so. Nothing had ever felt more right before in Gwenvael’s life than taking Dagmar Reinholdt to Dark Plains with him.
“I’ll need to send my father another letter before we go.” She wiped the dirt from the back of her skirt with both hands and gave that wicked little grin he’d learned to enjoy. “And I think I could use your help with wording.”
Sigmar shoveled food into his mouth and completely ignored his daughter-in-law. Ever since Dagmar had gone off with the dragon, his oldest boy’s wife had been more and more impossible.
It wasn’t news that she hated his daughter, but she needed to face the fact that she didn’t stand a chance against The Beast. Few did.
“All I’m suggesting is that a marriage between her and Lord Tryggvi would do you very well.”
“Is that right?” Sigmar asked, putting down his spoon. “What do you know about him?”
“He’s the ruler of Spikenhammer and is an excellent warrior.”
“True enough. What else?”
“What else? Well, I know his mother is—”
“His mother? What do I care about his mother? I mean what about him? Which gods does he worship?”
“I don’t know. Who cares?”
“You should. What if he worships them gods that demand sacrifices? Human sacrifices,” he said before she could mention oxen or deer. “How does he handle crime in his city?
What kind of executions does he run? Does he believe in torture? If so, what kind?”
Her mouth opened and closed several times, but she had no answers.
“That’s the difference between you two.” He looked at his sons, each of them eating heartily before they headed off for training. “Isn’t that right?”
They grunted agreements around their food.
“You don’t know those answers, girl, but
she
would. She sure as fuck wouldn’t come to me with some half-thought-out idea. She’d have already asked the questions and found the answers.” He slammed his finger into his temple several times. “’Cause she
thinks
that one does. Which is more than I can say about you.”
She looked at Sigmar’s oldest. “You going to let him talk to me that way?”
“Only if he’s right. And he’s right.”
“My lord.” One of the servants rushed in. He was the one Dagmar worked closest with, and he now handled many of her duties now that she was gone. He was smarter than most but feared Sigmar enough not to push anything. “Another missive from Lady Dagmar. It seems to be nearly three days old.”
“Read it,” Sigmar ordered him.
Opening the sealed parchment quickly he began, “‘Dearest Father. I hope this letter finds you well. I know I promised to be at Gestur’s by now, but there’s been another change of plan.’”
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?
“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.”