by G. A. Aiken
She almost laughed outright. Cocky bunch of dumbasses, weren’t they?
But with more of Olgeir’s brood joining in, the fight was getting ugly and the guards were called. She moved toward the door as two dragon guards ran in.
“Stop them please!” she begged. She’d convinced them all she only wanted the best for Olgeir and his kin—as if she cared. They rushed forward, first one and then the other. It was the other’s neck that Keita’s tail whipped around, yanking him back at such an angle that it snapped his neck clean. A lovely trick her father had taught her. “You may be smaller than the males,” he’d always told her, “but you can use their weight and stupidity against them. Never forget that.” She hadn’t.
She snatched the key ring hanging from his breastplate and unlocked the collar at her throat.
Backing into the shadows, she waited as more kinsmen tore into the room and joined the fray. Then she inched her way to the edge of the flat mountaintop. She gave herself another second, enjoying the spray of blood beginning to cover the floor, and then she dropped backward off the landing.
She stayed silent as she fell toward the ground, her eyes focused on the area she’d just escaped from. The fight continued, but calls of her disappearance didn’t come.
Grinning, Keita flipped forward and unfurled her wings. The power of the wind at her back took her and she headed south.
Nothing stopped her and she stayed near the tops of the trees. Eventually they’d realize she’d gone and would send out scouts to track her down. She’d have to be wily and fast to stay out of their grasp. But her brothers needed her, and she wouldn’t let anything stop her.
It was when she passed over the Torment River that she knew she had two males on her tail. She did her best flying, using trees and rocks and even birds to keep them off her back.
They were persistent, though. Determined. Finally throwing a net over her. She sneered, her talons slashing against the soft material. But when nothing happened, she looked down. Yet it was not her claw she saw…but her hand.
“What in all the hells—”
The net closed fully around her human body, and Keita fell like a stone. She screamed as land rushed up to meet her, the sound cutting off abruptly when strong dragon arms caught her and carefully brought her to the ground.
“Here we are, Princess Keita.” Lightning strikes dotted around her for a moment as the Lightning shifted from dragon to human before he carefully placed her on the ground. “Nice and safe.”
She waited while the net was slowly removed, biding her time. She stayed curled on her side, panting.
“Is she hurt?” another voice asked.
“No. But she wants us to believe she is. Don’t you, my lady?”
Realizing she had no more time to spare, Keita came up. She had her hands curled into fists and punched twice, knocking her abductor back several steps. She ran, needing to get her feet off that cursed netting. But she didn’t get far as her abductor’s arm swung out and, without him even touching her, sent Keita flying back. Her squeal of surprise and outrage at the brutal use of Magick was cut short as her human form rammed into the base of the nearby mountain.
Now she wasn’t pretending anything. She couldn’t move or speak, too exhausted to fight as the Lightning crouched beside her and clipped the small, human-sized collar around her throat. The power of that Magickal item plowed through her, leaving her a shuddering pile of human flesh at his feet.
Big fingers brushed her hair from her face.
“Red,” another voice said about her hair.
“Pretty,” said another.
“Tricky,” said the one looking down at her. He smiled when she glared up into his face. “Hello, Princess Keita. I’m Ragnar. I am sorry I had to end your trip back to your brother and his dying pet, but I have need of you. And until I tell you differently, princess…you’re mine.”
Dagmar closed the doors to Violence’s stables. She’d brought him and his mares a basket of apples and stayed with them until Violence finally ate. The stable dog whined on the other side of the door, more than ready to follow her back to her room. He was a very sweet dog, but he had other responsibilities.
“Quiet now,” she said through the thick wood. “Go lie down.”
The mutt sniffed a bit under the crack, but eventually went back to his warm bed and cold food.
Dagmar turned to head back to the castle but stopped short when she saw Queen Rhiannon standing behind her—staring.
“You have a way with animals, I see.”
“Yes, my lady. I raise dogs for my father’s troops.”
“You do?” She frowned in disapproval. “Is that an appropriate task for the Only Daughter of a Northland warlord?”
“No. But my father could not deny my talents.”
The dragoness moved toward her. She seemed to glide, in a way. “My son tells me you have other talents.”
Dagmar couldn’t help it. Her eyes widened in shock and she felt as if she’d wandered into the Great Hall completely naked.
The queen frowned again and then gasped. “Oh, gods! No, no. Not like that.”
The pair began to laugh and immediately stopped, realizing how out of place it sounded and felt. But they had both been startled.
“I forget sometimes that Gwenvael is not like his brothers. What I meant to say is he told me you have a skill with words and negotiations.”
This time Dagmar was surprised but flattered. She’d had no idea Gwenvael had praised her so to his mother. “I…have helped my father when—”
The queen raised her hand and swiped it through the air. “Please, Lady Dagmar. I am in no mood for false modesty.”
Dagmar folded her arms across her chest. “Is this about Ragnar?”
She snorted. “I can handle that Horde hatchling myself. He’s a mage, you know? Not a bad one either. I can feel his power among the lines of Magick. But I guess all that means nothing to you as a follower of Aoibhell.”
“I’m not a follower. I agree with her teachings.”
Rhiannon gave a small snicker. “Even suggesting you may worship Aoibhell herself is an insult to those who believe in her word.”
“To turn her into a god would go against everything she believed.” Dagmar briefly glanced at the ground. “What is it you want from me, my lady?”
“I’ll be blunt since I’m not good with subtlety. I’m having an issue. It involves Annwyl’s twins. I need the help of a devious mind combined with a…”
“Barbarian will?”
The Dragon Queen leered. “Exactly.”
“I can help you.” As she’d promised to help Annwyl. And as long as the human queen breathed, she’d keep that promise.
Dagmar motioned away from the stables with a wave of her hand. “Tell me everything, Majesty, and we’ll figure it out from there.”
Olgeir stared out over the edge where he’d guessed Lady Keita had made her escape. At his feet, one of his favorite guards lay dead from an expertly broken neck, and behind him were the idiots he called sons.
“We’ll go after her,” his oldest said. “We’ll find her.”
“It’s too late!” He turned and his sons backed up. He may be old, but for dragons that only made them harder to kill. “Can’t you smell him? On the air? He already has her.”
“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.
Chapter 26
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.