Authors: G. A. Aiken
Tags: #Science Fiction & Fantasy, #Romance, #dragons
“Who? Who has her?”
“The boy. That treacherous, bastard boy.”
One of his younger sons raised a brow. “Ragnar would never be fool enough to come back here.”
But Olgeir knew he had. Knew his son was fool enough to risk everything to become warlord of the Olgeirsson Horde.
“We’ll find him, Da,” his oldest said, the others roaring behind him. “We’ll find him and kill him. Bring his head back to you.”
“No.” Olgeir sneered. “Stay here. I’ll handle the boy. Like I always have.”
He stormed off, motioning to three of his best guards to follow.
Olgeir would bring Ragnar’s head back himself and mount it over his treasure.
His idiot offspring’s mother would complain, but she’d have to get over it.
For three days the Blood Queen of Dark Plains held on. For three days the entire kingdom had been in mourning.
Yet the pain felt by the dragons who considered her family was a palpable thing, rippling through them all. Every day she’d see servants rush from the castle so they could sob among their own without upsetting the dragons any more than they already were. Even those cousins and aunts and uncles who hadn’t had a chance to get to know Annwyl before the birth mourned for the loss their kin suffered.
To be blunt, Dagmar simply wasn’t used to it. The Northlanders didn’t show their pain. They didn’t mourn. They simply set their dead to flame, either on pyres or at sea, and once the remains were nothing but ashes, three to five days of drinking ensued. Neighbor enemies didn’t attack at these times, probably one of the only lines not even Jökull crossed when at war. Drunken tears and sobbing were allowed only because they could be written off. “It was the drink,” she’d heard her kinsmen say more than once. “More than six kegs of ale and I’m a blubbering mess.”
Yet there had been no drinking in Dark Plains. Only the grim readying for battle and defense, and the painful expressions of those who were feeling the loss of Queen Annwyl.
To combat all of it, Dagmar had kept busy doing what she did best: planning, plotting, and executing.
A good portion of the defenses were up and ready. Some of them were buried deep in the ground beneath them, ensuring it would at least be hard for the Minotaurs to break through into the Garbhán Isle dungeons. Others were topside and at the ready. And a few were tests she’d insisted upon. She’d argued over the tests with Brastias, who seemed grateful to have something else to focus on. He thought they were simply too limited and specific, which may have been correct, but Dagmar still liked to test out her ideas when she could.
While the defenses were being built, the merchants and prostitutes had been moved from inside the main gates to a town about a league away from the edge of Garbhán Isle. This way the servants didn’t have to travel too far to get daily supplies, but strong defenses could now be erected that would protect the main gate.
Dagmar had happily helped with all that as well, glad to be of some assistance during this time. Yet there was still much work to be done, and she had every intention of making sure as much as possible was finished before she returned home.
As Dagmar walked across the enormous courtyard studying her list carefully, wind whipped around her, lifting the hem of her dress and her hair. It reminded her she had yet again forgotten to braid her hair and wear her scarf over it. She raised her gaze to the sky, her eyes momentarily blinded by the two suns blaring overhead. She saw the dragons at the last minute, dashing to the side as five of them landed.
She didn’t recognize them as any of Gwenvael’s kin, but she could tell they were old. No matter the color of their scales, their manes were nearly white and grey with age. They landed and looked around. The old Gold in front looked down at her and she knew immediately this male was a problem.
They weren’t here to give their condolences, or to offer assistance. In fact, she knew exactly what they were here for.
Knowing this would turn ugly very fast, Dagmar went to put her plan in motion.
Gwenvael cut in front of his father, pressing his hands against the old dragon’s shoulders and stopping him midway down the Great Hall steps.
“Father, no.”
“You dare come here?”
Bercelak snarled at the dragons in the courtyard with such lethal anger that Gwenvael feared the veins pulsing across his father’s temples would burst.
The Elders had shifted to human and wore the boring brown robes they brought with them. Four of them stepped hastily back at Bercelak’s angry words, but only Elder Eanruig had the balls to look bored.
“There is no disrespect intended, Lord Bercelak,” Eanruig sighed. “But I made it clear to Her Majesty that we would come for the babes after they were born.”
Gwenvael and his father locked gazes before Gwenvael swung around and demanded, “What now?”
“We’ve come for the babes, young Prince. They will leave with us and be raised where we choose is best for them.”
“You’re not taking those children.”
“The Elders have decided, Lord Gwenvael, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”
“I don’t care. You’ll not take those children. Fearghus will decide where they live and how they are raised. Not you. And not some bloody council.”
Briec came down the steps from the Great Hall, stopping beside Gwenvael. “What’s going on?”
Their father couldn’t even answer. He simply shook his head, his hands resting on his hips as he paced back and forth on the long step.
Gwenvael looked at his brother, the anger fairly choking him. “They’ve come for the babes.”
Briec focused on Eanruig. “Under whose authority? Clearly not our mother’s.”
The Elder smirked, and Gwenvael winced when Briec began to yell in his head,
We’re killing him! We’re killing him right now!
Gwenvael placed his hand on Briec’s shoulder.
We can’t. Let’s just be calm.
Fuck calm!
“The Council has made its decision, Bercelak the Black—”
“
You’ve
made the decision,” Becelak cut in. “This is about you!”
“—I would strongly suggest you don’t stop us from doing what we’ve come to do.”
Dagmar came around the corner of the castle. She gave Gwenvael a small wink and motioned to Addolgar and Ghleanna who stalked in behind her.
“Lord Gwenvael,” she said, smiling softly, “who do we have here?”
He passed a quick glance to Briec.
What the hell is she doing?
Briec demanded.
Trust her, brother.
For Gwenvael certainly did.
Going down the stairs, Gwenvael grasped Dagmar’s outstretched hand and said, “Lady Dagmar this is Elder Eanruig of our Council. Elder Eanruig, this is Dagmar Reinholdt of the Northlands. Only Daughter of The Reinholdt.”
Eanruig puffed up a bit when he realized Dagmar was as close to Northland royalty as one could find among the warlords. “Lady Dagmar. It’s an honor.”
She gave a small bow of her head. “I’ve read so much about the mighty Dragon Elders of the Southlands. And I am most honored to meet you.” She gave the most innocent of smiles. “So what brings you here today?”
Eanruig sighed sadly, making Gwenvael want to pull the bastard’s lungs out through his nose. “We heard about poor Queen Annwyl and we’ve decided that for the safety of her children, we should take them under our protection.”
“Ahhh.” Dagmar nodded. “I see.”
“What’s this?” Ghleanna asked, stomping forward. “I don’t understand. What are they saying, Dagmar?”
“It’s very simple,” Dagmar explained cheerfully. “For the safety of the twins, the Council has decided to rip them—in a sense only, of course—from Fearghus even as we are preparing the funeral pyre for Annwyl’s eventual death.”
Eanruig gave a smug chortle. “It’s not that simple, my lady.”
“No, it is,” Dagmar countered, still cheerfully. “You see, Ghleanna, if Elder Eanruig has the twins, he has control over the queen, because she’d never do anything to risk her own grandchildren.”
Now Eanruig frowned. “That’s not true.”
“Don’t be shy,” she praised, latching on to the Elder’s arm, a bright smile on her face. “It’s brilliant politically. Think of it. He who controls the twins, controls the queen. Yet if she denies Elder Eanruig the babes, he can rally those who’ve never been large fans of Queen Rhiannon anyway to his side and start a delightful civil war.”
Ghleanna crossed her arms in front of her chest. “And we’re letting him get away with this?”
Eanruig snatched his arm away from Dagmar. “There is nothing to get away with, Low Born,” he sneered. “What the Council decides to do is none of the business of the Cadwaladr Clan.”
“He’s right, Ghleanna,” Dagmar cut in. “This has to do with the royal bloodline and those connected directly to it like Bercelak. Unfortunately”—she seemed to mock Ghleanna by winking at Eanruig—“that has little to do with you or Addolgar.”
“Bercelak is our brother.”
Dagmar patted Ghleanna’s forearm. “This is about bloodline, dearest. Am I correct, Elder Eanruig?”
“You are,” he snidely agreed.
“And coming from a low-born bloodine, you have no real connection to the Dragon Queen or any say in these decisions. Now, why don’t I get the babes?” She smiled at Eanruig.
“Thank you kindly, Lady Dagmar.”
As Dagmar walked up the stairs, Ghleanna scowled up at Bercelak. “You’re going to let him get away with this, brother?”
Sighing dramatically, Dagmar took hold of Bercelak’s arm.
“What choice does he have?”
“He can strike the bastard down.”
“No. He can’t. Nor can Briec or Gwenvael. Because of their connection to Queen Rhiannon, they could never strike an unarmed Elder down. Even if openly challenged…as some might consider this situation to be.”
Ghleanna blinked, her scowl lessening. “’Cause they’re directly connected to Rhiannon?”
“Right.”
“But we’re not?”
“Unfortunately, you’re just meaningless low borns who could easily interpret this as a threat to the twins and act accordingly.”
Eanruig frowned. “Wait…what?”
“Well, they are low borns, my lord,” Dagmar stated flatly as they all watched him back away. “What exactly did you expect?”
Even if Eanruig was hundreds of years younger, he’d never have been able to move fast enough. He was a politician, like Dagmar, not a trained warrior. He had no speed, no skills, and no hope of outrunning a battle-trained dragoness who was quite pissed off.
Ghleanna sliced through Eanruig’s human body with her sword, cutting him from right shoulder to left hip. As she pulled her blade from his torso, his screams making the observing humans run for their lives and the other Elders scramble away in fear, Addolgar’s blade was slicing through the air overhead, slamming into the middle of Eanruig’s skull. The weapon didn’t stop its descent until it came sliding through the Elder’s groin.
And with that, the screaming stopped.
Flames briefly burst and Eanruig’s human remains returned to their natural form. Dagmar felt nothing as she stared down at what remained of Elder Eanruig. Perhaps it should have been other babes he’d set his sights on, but he’d come after Annwyl’s. That had made it almost a pleasure to work with the Dragon Queen to make sure the laws of her kind would protect Ghleanna and Addolgar, who’d been told nothing and yet reacted as Rhiannon guessed they would.
Ghleanna raised her blood-covered weapon and pointed it at the remaining Elders falling over each other. “Now listen up, you lot. As of this moment, Fearghus the Destroyer’s twins are under the protection of the Cadwaladr Clan. You come near them again without express permission from one of us or the queen herself, and the Cadwaladrs will come down on you like wolves on a wounded deer. We will tear the walls of Devenallt down around you and show you what the true meaning of civil war is.” She stepped closer. “Don’t fuck with my kin, or I’ll kill every last one of you and leave your rotting bones in front of the dens of your offspring.” She flicked her sword up, Eanruig’s blood splattering across the Elders, before she shoved it into the sheath tied to her back.
“Get out of our sight. And never come back here again without an invitation.” When the Elders only stared at her in mute horror…
“Move!”
The old dragons shifted and slammed into each other as they fought to get away.
Brushing one hand against the other, Ghleanna headed back toward the training grounds Dagmar had dragged her and her brother from.
With a wink and a smile, Addolgar followed after his sister.
Dagmar realized she had the attention of Gwenvael, Briec, and Bercelak. “Yes?”
“She’s good,” Briec muttered.
“That she is.” Gwenvael slid his arm around her shoulders, his lips grazing against her temple. “With an impeccable sense of timing and knowledge of our bloodlines.”
“Don’t be nosey.”
“Tricky, tricky, tricky.”
“My Lady Dagmar!” A young soldier called out as he ran toward her. “Lady Dagmar!” He slid to a stop at the bottom of the stairs.
“Take your breath first, lad, and then tell me what you think I need to know.”
Hands on his knees, his breath coming in gasps as he bent over at the waist, he finally spit out, “You told me to tell you if I heard anything—”
“Yes, yes. What is it?”
“About three hundred leagues from here, my lady. Hoof prints.”
“You’ll have to tell me something a little more interesting than that, I’m afraid.”
“Pairs. What I mean to say is pairs of two hooves, marching, side by side. And then they just disappear. We can’t find where, although it looks as if they disappeared into rock.”
Not disappeared into rock, she’d wager, but
under
it. The way of the Ice Land Minotaur. Not only could they find their way underground with ease, but they could also cover their tracks quite well. They didn’t fool her. She’d bet they’d gone underground several leagues from where those tracks were found, most likely aware Annwyl’s army had been warned of their coming.