by G. A. Aiken
“So if we capture one…”
She shook her head at Fearghus’s question. “You’ll get nothing from a Minotaur. Like most bovines, they are unbelievably stubborn and highly dangerous. Even though their kind hasn’t been seen in the Northlands in decades, most of the Northland warlords have defenses aimed solely at protecting themselves from the Minotaurs. I know of no warlord who has a dungeon, just for that reason. It makes it too easy for them to get in.”
The dragons all passed glances before Fearghus admitted, “We have six.”
Dagmar tilted her head to the side, studying them. “You have six dungeons here? Why?”
“They were all built by Annwyl’s father. We no longer use them.”
“Ever?”
“Annwyl’s a cut-off-your-head, ask-question-later kind of leader.”
“I see. And does that philosophy include someone who’s merely, say, a petty thief?”
Fearghus and Briec stared at each other, perhaps trying to figure out the correct answer to that question.
Morfyd sighed. “You’re all idiots.” She looked at Dagmar. “No. There’s a town jail for that. Annwyl chose a magistrate to handle simple crimes. Although anyone who feels they’ve been wrongly treated can, of course, request an audience with her. Although in my opinion she chose well with the current magistrate. But for anything political or involving more than one dead body, she gets involved, and those who are found guilty, don’t leave Garbhán Isle.”
Harsh, but surprisingly fair.
Éibhear returned with several rolled maps under his arm. He placed them on the table and unrolled them. “Did you mean something more like this?”
Placing her now-cold tea down on the table, Dagmar rested her hands on the worn wood and stared at the maps. “Yes. This will do very nicely. I think I’ll be able to match these to the tunnel maps I brought with me. Thank you, Éibhear.”
He grinned, quite pleased with himself. “You’re welcome.”
“Suck up,” Briec muttered.
She studied the maps closely. How the queen had lasted this long without an attack, Dagmar would never know. There were so many weak spots, so many easy points of entry, Dagmar was shocked no one had tried before now.
“We have much work to be done here.”
Briec nodded solemnly. “And I bet you work much better on your own, don’t you?”
Morfyd slammed her hand down on the table. “Gods dammit, Briec!”
“What? I’m merely trying to be helpful.”
“No,” Dagmar replied. “You’re trying to pass the hard work off on me.”
He shrugged. “Perhaps.”
“And although I find your lack of work ethic appalling”—Dagmar let out a sigh while ignoring Fearghus’s accompanying snort—“he does have a point.” She glanced at Morfyd before focusing back on the maps. “I actually do much better on my own. So if you can just give me a few hours to—”
The scraping sound of chairs hastily pushed back against a stone floor cut off her words and Dagmar swiveled on her heel, her gaze sweeping the room. In seconds, they’d all run off. She could still hear a door slamming somewhere off in the distance as they scurried away.
“Dragons,” she hissed. “No better than rats from a sinking—”
“Good morn, my family! I—” Gwenvael stopped at the bottom of the stairs, his overly cheery greeting cut off when he realized only Dagmar and the servants remained. “Where is everyone?”
“They’ve deserted me.” Dagmar grabbed the seat Fearghus had so hastily vacated and yanked it closer. “I’m not even from here. For all they know I could be a brilliant spy, bent on destroying Annwyl’s kingdom—and yet I’m the one working on their defenses.”
Gwenvael stood next to her now, staring down at the maps. “Are those the most recent maps?”
She dropped into the chair and pulled it closer to the table. “Éibhear seems to think they are.”
“He’d know. He loves maps.”
Strong fingers brushed the back of her neck and Dagmar forced her body to not writhe in the chair.
“You left me this morning,” he murmured.
“I believe ‘leaving’ you would be me heading back to the Northlands. All I did this morning was travel down the stairs to enjoy first meal while it was still hot.”
“You should have woken me.”
“And why would I do that?”
In answer, he leaned down and kissed her. His mouth was gentle, the kiss playful, and his tongue stroking hers felt absolutely divine. Her body relaxed, the hand on the back of her neck keeping her head from slapping against the hard wood of the chair back.
When she was nothing more than one of her dogs’ limp rag dolls lying in a corner, he pulled slightly away. “Next time, you check with me before you leave my bed. I often have plans first thing in the morning.”
“It’s my bed, Lord Gwenvael. And who said there’d be a next time?” Her eyes locked with his. “Who said I’d ever let you back into my bed again?”
“It entertains me that you think you have a choice. Now come back upstairs. I have needs that you’re required to fulfill.”
Dagmar took a breath, appalled at how shaky it sounded going in and coming out. “I have work to do, Defiler.”
“Give me an hour upstairs and the day is yours, Beast.”
That sounded like an incredibly fair trade-off, especially when his lips kept rubbing against hers. “All right. But only one—”
“So,” a voice said from in front of them, “do you even know this one’s name? Or is all that part of the mystery?”
Dagmar only had a second to see a flash of fang and true, bright anger in Gwenvael’s gold eyes before he hid all that and turned to face the man who clearly wasn’t a man. If she hadn’t have been able to tell by his size, the fact that he was an older version of Fearghus would have told her the same dragon’s tale.
“Father,” Gwenvael said, the smile on his face looking intensely unpleasant. “Don’t you look virile this morning? Is Mother chained to the wall again?”
“Don’t test me, boy.” The dragon placed big hands on narrow hips, black hair streaked with silver and grey brushed off his face. He glanced down at Dagmar. “So can this one actually read, or does she just pretend to have a brain in that head like so many of the others?”
Gwenvael’s smile didn’t falter, but Dagmar knew it took much out of him. “Is there a reason you’re here? Or were you simply in the mood to torture your offspring for old time’s sake?”
“I’m here to see Fearghus’s nightmare. Where is she?”
“I thought you’d left her chained to the wall. And shouldn’t we just call her Mum?”
That cold, black gaze latched onto Gwenvael, and Dagmar quickly stood, resting her hand on Gwenvael’s arm. “If you speak of Queen Annwyl, I’m sure I can help you find her.”
Now that cold, black gaze was on her. “Who the hell are you?”
“I am Dagmar.” She kept it simple, unwilling to give the older dragon more than that.
“I see.” He sighed in boredom. “Well, Dagmar, I’m sure your services last night were greatly appreciated, but you can return to whatever brothel he dragged you out of. There’s important work to be done, and I don’t need one of the local whores interfering.”
Gwenvael let out a startled laugh, but he recognized it as the kind one lets out when he’s realized he’s accidentally cut off his finger or set his house on fire. That startled laugh before the real horror sets in.
Dagmar stepped away from Gwenvael and he grabbed hold of her arm, but she shook him off. She walked sedately over to his father, her hands folded primly in front of her, her head scarf perfectly in place over that simple braid. She looked as he’d first seen her, back in her grey, wool dress that had been scrubbed clean the day before.
The boring, quiet, demure spinster daughter of a warlord.
But that volcano inside her simmered beneath and that’s what Bercelak the Great was not expecting. He
was used to humans like Annwyl, Talaith. Fighters. Assassins. Those who went in for the direct kill.
Little did his father know, Dagmar was more lethal.
“Perhaps I should make myself clear, Lord—” She gestured with a slight dip of her head.
“Bercelak. Bercelak the Great.”
“Oh.” She stopped, sized him up carefully. “You’re Bercelak the Great? My tutors didn’t describe you well at all.”
“Tutors?” He glanced at Gwenvael, but if he thought he’d be getting any help from him…
“Yes. I realize I didn’t make myself clear. I am Dagmar Reinholdt. Thirteenth offspring of The Reinholdt and Only Daughter.”
His scowl deepened. “You’re the daughter of The Reinholdt?”
“Yes. I am.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I’ve come to see Queen Annwyl.”
“Right. Except I find you playing with my boy.”
“I don’t think Fearghus would appreciate me playing with Annwyl.”
Gwenvael snorted another laugh, which earned him another glare from his father.
“I have to admit,” Dagmar went on as she leisurely walked around Bercelak. “You’re not what I expected.”
“Is that right?”
“You seem much braver than I heard you were.”
Confused, Bercelak looked down at Dagmar, his gaze following her as she circled him. “What?”
“You know. How you ran away from the Battle of Ødven.”
This little barbarian truly was evil. It had been Gwenvael who had told Dagmar those stories about Bercelak on their long flight to Dark Plains. And he’d told them to her as he’d been told, showing Bercelak for the killer he was, as a warning to her to keep her distance from Bercelak the Great should she meet him.
But she’d turned all that to gain her own vengeful ends—and Gwenvael adored her for it.
“I did no such thing,” Bercelak huffed, shocked.
“Or when you were found crying and whimpering near the Mountains of Urpa.”
“That’s a damn lie!”
“Doubtful. These are common stories among my people. And tell me,” she went on, “is it true that you only survived your battle with Finnbjörn the Callous after you begged him for mercy?”
Black smoke eased from Bercelak’s human nostrils. “The only thing that protected Finnbjörn from me was when he returned my sister!”
She blinked up at him, her face beautifully blank. “No need to yell.”
“You vicious little—”
“Father,” Gwenvael warned.
“And you brought her here!”
Gwenvael shrugged. “I begged her to marry me in the Northlands, but she wanted to get to know me first. You know how girls are,” he finished in a conspiratorial whisper.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Dagmar easily—and rather bravely, in Gwenvael’s estimation—stepped between the two.
“Gwenvael, why don’t you get Fearghus?”
“I’m not leaving you alone when he’s snorting smoke, woman.”
“I’ll be fine. Go get Fearghus.”
“I can call him here. I don’t have to leave.”
“No. Go get him.” She peered at Gwenvael over her shoulder. “Or would you prefer your father found Annwyl on his own?”
No. That wouldn’t be good either. But he didn’t understand why she wanted to be alone with Bercelak. The old bastard still had no problems eating humans when the mood struck him, often bringing them home as treats to Gwenvael’s mother.
“Dagmar—”
“I’ll be fine here. Go.”
He was reluctant, that was obvious; but he eventually did as she asked.
“I’ll be two minutes.” He glared at his father. “No flame.”
Dagmar watched Gwenvael disappear down a hallway before she turned back to face his father.
In all her years, she’d never seen a scowl quite like that. As if the dragon were filled with nothing but hate and rage. She’d thought Fearghus’s scowl was bad, but nothing, absolutely nothing, like this.
Taunting him had been pleasurable since she hadn’t appreciated the way he’d spoken to his son. And although Gwenvael had described the older dragon to her as some kind of murdering lizard, her instincts told her something else—she just wasn’t sure what that was yet. Who was Bercelak the Great, and why oh why did she desire to taunt him the way she did her own father?
“Why are you really here, Northlander?” he demanded.
She smiled because she could tell it annoyed him. He wanted her frightened and scurrying away. Not likely.
“Why I’m here is my business and the business of Queen Annwyl. Perhaps you should tend to your own, Consort.”
He stepped closer to her. “Do you really want to challenge me, human?”
“I don’t know. Do I?”
“Do you think I’m like my son? That the fact that you’re female sways me in any way as it does him?” He leaned down a bit, his face a tad closer than she would have liked. “There is no kindness in me. No softness. No caring. And I’ll stop at nothing to protect my kind.”
“Then you and I, Lord Bercelak, have much in common.”
“Tell me why you’re here, little girl. Tell me, or I’ll tear you apart.”
She debated whether to believe him. Was he evil? Pure and simple? Was there no reasoning with someone so filled with hate and rage, who had no softness about him at all?
Following her instincts as she’d always had, she challenged, “Do your worst. I dare you.”
His nostrils flared, the black smoke curling out from them increasing, and she saw fangs. That’s new.
“Granddaddy!”
Both Dagmar and Bercelak jumped as Izzy charged into the Great Hall from the courtyard, running across the table, only to throw herself directly onto the dragon’s body.
“They told me I’d just missed you at the lake,” she squealed, delighted.
Her arms wrapped tight around his neck, her legs around his waist, she kissed his cheek. “I haven’t seen you in ages! Where have you been?”
“Uh…Izzy…” He folded his arms across his chest, trying desperately to keep that scowl on his face. “Get down from there,” he snapped.
Without seeming to notice his tone, Izzy did just that.
“Morning, Lady Dagmar,” she said cheerfully.
“Good morn to you, Izzy.”
The young warrior stood in front of Bercelak, her light brown eyes glowing. “So what did you bring me?” she asked, though it sounded a bit more like a demand.
“What?” He shook his head. “Nothing.”
Her entire body shimmied like one of Dagmar’s dogs when she held up a favored toy. “You always bring me something! What did you bring me?”
“Can we not talk about this later?” he snarled viciously, even making Dagmar think of running.
But Izzy only stomped her foot and snarled back, “Give me!”
Through gritted teeth, “Back.”
Now she frowned. “What?”
“Back,” he said again and added a quick motion of his head.
Izzy walked behind the dragon and squealed again, making Dagmar wince. The young girl ran back around, a gold and jeweled dagger in her hand.
“This is beautiful!” She danced from foot to foot in front of the dragon and said in one long rush of words, “I’ve never had anything so beautiful before in my entire life and I love you and I can’t wait to show Branwen—she’s going to be so jealous—and you are so amazing!” Then she added, “I love you, love you, love you!” She leaped up into his arms and kissed his face until the dragon couldn’t hold the smile back anymore.
“Would you stop that!” But he didn’t seem to really mind.
“You are the best grandfather a girl could ever have!” She kissed his forehead and jumped back down. “I can’t wait to show Branwen!” she cheered again, running toward the exit of the Great Hall. “And Celyn!”
He’d been trying for that angry gaze again, glaring at Dagmar, when Izzy’s last words caused him to look nothing but panicked. “You stay away from Celyn!”
She only laughed. “You sound like Dad!” Then she was gone.
Turning back to face Dagmar, he seemed not to appreciate the smirk she couldn’t stop.
“You can get that look off your face, little miss. Izzy’s different. And she’s the only one. Except for her, my soul is empty. No room for anyone human.”
“That’s it!” Talaith said as she marched down the stairs. “No more wine for me.” As she landed on the bottom step, she stopped and smiled. “Bercelak! I didn’t know you were here.”
Much steadier now and recently bathed, she walked over to them and reached up to hug the dragon. “I’m so glad to see you. How are you doing?”
“Fine. Fine,” he said gruffly.
She stepped away from him, his hand held by hers. “And what brings you here?”
“He’s here to see Annwyl,” Dagmar filled in. “I was just going to take him to find her myself.” She grinned, making sure to flutter her eyes a bit as Gwenvael did. It annoyed her; why wouldn’t it annoy his father? “I simply can’t wait to get to know him better.” She placed her hand over her heart. “He reminds me of my own dear father.”
“Try the stables,” Talaith suggested, completely missing the glower Bercelak seared Dagmar with. “She’s been hiding in there lately. I think she misses that war ox of hers she has the nerve to call a horse.” She beamed up at Bercelak. “I do hope you’re staying. We haven’t talked in ages.”
“Um…yeah, well…”
She released his hand and stepped away.
“Oh…uh…” Bercelak glanced at Dagmar, then muttered, “The queen wanted me to give you this.” He yanked a pouch hanging from his belt and handed it to her.
Talaith tugged the pouch open. “The Fianait root!” And just as quickly her face fell.
“It’s not the right one?” he asked, obviously concerned.
“It’s not that.” She let out a breath. “I’m just so frustrated. I work on these spells, and I see what I want. But dammit, Bercelak, I just cannot make it come together. The power is there. The energy. But I simply can’t control it. I’m getting frustrated.”