by G. A. Aiken
“No, but I’m sure you’ll tell me in excruciating de…what is that?”
With a wide grin, Gwenvael held up the small set of cuffs and collar he’d snuck into the basket. “What do you think?”
Outraged but laughing, Dagmar desperately tried to wiggle out of his grasp.
“The best part, my sweet Dagmar”—he pinned her to the ground and leered into her smiling face—“is that they’ll never see us coming.”
Epilogue
Sigmar Reinholdt stood in front of all his men, his sons right by his side.
And, no more than several hundred feet across from him, was Jökull himself. Plus the twenty thousand troops Jökull had to Sigmar’s ten thousand.
Sigmar knew they’d most likely lose today. The troops Jökull had were made up of murderers and scum. The kind of troops bought with great money, but only held as long as the money lasted. Sigmar would never lower himself to buy anyone’s loyalty. His troops would fight by his side because they were loyal to him.
His biggest worry at the moment was that Jökull’s men could get past him and get to the fortress. But he had plans for that as well. Unpleasant plans but everyone knew what was expected should the word come. They’d all rather die by their own hands, than become slaves to Jökull.
“I really thought she’d come through for us, Da,” his eldest murmured beside him.
“She tried. I know she did.” And he was grateful she wasn’t here. The thought of losing his only daughter, even by her own hand, would have distracted him from important matters right in front of him.
Jökull sat tall on his horse, looking smug and ready.
“Do you surrender, brother?” he yelled across the distance between them. As part of the Code, Jökull had to ask for surrender before any kind of massacre could take place.
“No true Reinholdt would ever surrender,” Sigmar replied…also part of the Code.
It used to always amuse him when Dagmar would complain, “That Code has to be the most contradictory load of horse crap I’ve ever read.”
“No true Reinholdt would ever think we would!” Sigmar added, his men cheering and raising their swords or shields in agreement. “Come, brother. The suns are rising. Let’s waste no more time.”
But Jökull wasn’t listening to him. He and several of his men were staring off, watching a lone rider tear down the space between the two armies. The horse was big and black, like something coughed up from the pit of one of the hells. And his rider?
A woman.
The men on both sides were so surprised, no one catcalled or spoke. They simply watched her as she raced closer to him and Jökull.
She saw the banners and pulled the beast she rode to a stop.
“You The Reinholdt?” she asked.
Sigmar had never seen a woman like her before. She wore her long hair tied back by a leather thong and had on a sleeveless chain-mail shirt, chain-mail leggings, and leather boots. She had swords strapped to her back and a shield hanging from her horse. She was scarred and branded on both her forearms, and although partially covered by her gauntlets, he could still see parts of a dragon image burned into her flesh.
And though she was armed to the teeth, she wore no full armor, nor any colors.
“I be Sigmar.”
She pulled a letter from under her saddle. “This is from your daughter.”
He took it and opened the expensive parchment. It was short but to the point.
Father—
As a Northlander, we all knew what I’d do.
Dagmar
“Who’s Jökull?” the woman asked.
“I’m Jökull, wench.” Jökull leaned over the pummel of his saddle, leering at the woman. “And who are you?”
She turned her horse and smiled at him. “I’m Annwyl.” Then with a speed Sigmar had never seen before, she ripped one of the swords from its sheath and threw it. The weapon flipped end over end until it slammed full force into the middle of Jökull’s head, yanking him back off his horse and into the men behind him.
She looked over her shoulder at Sigmar. “I can only stay today. Have to get back to my twins and my mate before he comes looking for me—which won’t be good for you. Oh! And I’m supposed to bring someone named Canute with me when I return. Dagmar said for you not to argue about it. But my troops will stay.” She nodded in the direction she’d come and he saw those troops marching over the ridge. “That’s five legions your daughter negotiated out of me. She’s good, warlord. And once we get this all cleaned up for you, she’ll be home to see you.” She smiled. “She has a very big surprise for you.” She snapped her fingers. “And I’m supposed to send a very big hello to…uh…Eymund?”
Sigmar’s eldest nodded at the woman.
“From Gwenvael.”
His son’s shoulders slumped and his brothers chuckled beside him.
Then Annwyl the Bloody, Queen of Dark Plains, faced the confused and panicked troops of Jökull.
“I want my sword back,” she announced to them, pulling her second sword from its sheath. “Now who’s gonna stop me from getting it?”
His eldest leaned in close and reminded Sigmar, “I guess Cousin Uddo was right all those years ago, eh, Da?”
“What?”
“When he’d called her Beast.” His son grinned and motioned to the mad bitch riding flat out into Jökull’s troops with her sword raised. The mad bitch his daughter had sent to them. “I think, unfortunately for poor Uncle Jökull, Uddo was bang on.”
It started slow, deep in his chest, but burst out of him. Great, powerful laughter, his troops joining in as Annwyl’s legions swarmed over Jökull’s hired troops.
“Get in there, men!” Sigmar finally ordered, swinging his ax off his shoulder. “Anyone not in our colors or Annwyl’s—dies!”
He raised his ax high, knowing there was only one war cry that would mean anything to himself or his men on this day. “For The Beast!” he bellowed.
And as one, her kinsmen yelled back, “For The Beast!”
Did you miss the first two books in
G.A. Aiken’s fabulous dragon series?
The magic begins with DRAGON ACTUALLY…
Dragon Actually
It’s not always easy being a female warrior with a nickname like Annwyl the Bloody. Men tend to either cower in fear—a lot—or else salute. It’s true that Annwyl has a knack for decapitating legions of her ruthless brother’s soldiers without pausing for breath. But just once it would be nice to be able to really talk to a man, the way she can talk to Fearghus the Destroyer…
Too bad that Fearghus is a dragon, of the large, scaly, and deadly type. With him, Annwyl feels safe—a far cry from the feelings aroused by the hard-bodied, arrogant knight Fearghus has arranged to help train her for battle. With her days spent fighting a man who fills her with fierce, heady desire, and her nights spent in the company of a magical creature who could smite a village just by exhaling, Annwyl is sure life couldn’t get any stranger. She’s wrong…
[And just wait until you meet the rest of the family…]
“Hold, knight.” She stared at him, taking a deep breath to still her rapidly beating heart. By the gods, he’s beautiful. And Annwyl didn’t trust him as far as she could throw him. Which wasn’t far. He had to be the biggest man she’d ever seen. All of it hard-packed muscle that radiated power and strength.
She tightened her grip on her sword. “I know you.”
“And I know you.”
Annwyl frowned. “Who are you?”
“Who are you?”
Her eyes narrowed. “You kissed me.”
“And I believe you kissed me.”
Annwyl’s rage grew, her patience for games waning greatly. “Perhaps you failed to realize that I have a blade to your throat, knight.”
“And perhaps you failed to realize”—he knocked her blade away, placing the tip of his own against her throat—“that I’m not some weak-willed toady who slaves for your brother, Annwyl the Bloody of the Dark
Plains.”
Annwyl glanced down at the sword and back at the man holding it. “Who the hell are you?”
“The dragon sent me.” He lowered his blade. “And he was right. You are too slow. You’ll never defeat Lorcan.”
Her rage welled up and she slashed at him with her blade. But it wasn’t one of her well-trained maneuvers. It felt awkward and messy. He blocked her easily, slamming her to the ground.
Her teeth rattled in her head. Good thing her wound had already healed, otherwise Morfyd would be sewing it up once again.
The knight stood over her. “You can do better than that, can’t you?” She stared up at him and he smiled. “Or maybe not. Guess we’ll just have to see.”
He wandered off. Annwyl knew he expected her to follow. And, for some unknown reason, she did.
She found him by the stream that ran through the glen. It took all her strength to walk up to him. She really wanted to run back into the dragon’s lair and hide under his massive wings. She wasn’t afraid of this man. It was something else. Something far more dangerous.
As she approached, he turned and smiled. And Annwyl felt her stomach clench. Actually, the clenching might have been a bit lower.
She’d never known a man who made her so…well…nervous. And she’d lived on Garbhán Isle since the age of ten; all she’d ever known were men who made it their business to make women nervous, if not downright terrified.
“Well,” she demanded coldly.
He moved to stand in front of her, his gorgeous smile teasing her. “Desperate are we?”
Annwyl shook her head and stepped away from him. “I thought you said something about training me for battle, knight.” For the dragon. She would only do this because the dragon asked her to. And she would damn well make sure he knew it, too.
“Aye, I did, Annwyl the Bloody.”
“Do stop calling me that.”
“You should be proud of that name. From what I understand, you earned it.”
“My brother also called me dung heap. I’m sure he thought I earned that too, but I’d rather no one call me that.”
“Fair enough.”
“And do you have a name?” He opened his mouth to say something but she stopped him. “You know what? I don’t want to know.”
“Really?”
“It will make beating the hell out of you so much easier.”
She wanted to throw him off. Make him uneasy. But his smile beamed like a bright ray of sunlight in the darkened glen. “A challenge. I like that.” He growled the last sentence, and it slithered all the way down to her toes. Part of her wanted to panic over that statement, since it frightened her more than the dragon himself. But she didn’t have time. Not with the blade flashing past her head, forcing her to duck and unsheathe her own sword.
He watched her move. Drank her in. And when she took off her shirt and continued to fight in just leather leggings, boots, and the cloth that bound her breasts down, he had to constantly remind himself of why he now helped her. To train her to be a better fighter. Nothing more or less. It was not so he could lick the tender spot between her shoulder and throat.
Annwyl, though, turned out to be a damn good fighter. Strong. Powerful. Highly aggressive. She listened to direction well and picked up combat skills quickly. But her anger definitely remained her main weakness. Anytime he blocked one of her faster blows, anytime he moved too quickly for her to make contact, and, especially, anytime he touched her, the girl flew into a rage. An all-consuming rage. And although he knew the soldiers of Lorcan’s army would easily fall to her blade, her brother was different. He knew of that man’s reputation as a warrior and, as Annwyl now stood, she didn’t stand a chance. Her fear of Lorcan would stop her from making the killing blow. Her rage would make her vulnerable. The mere thought of her getting killed sent a cold wave of fear through him.
Yet if he could teach her to control her rage, she could turn it into her greatest ally. Use it to destroy any and all who dare challenge her.
The shifting sun and deepening shadows told him that the hour grew late. The expression on her face told him that exhaustion would claim her soon, although she’d never admit it. At least not to him. But he knew what would push her over the edge. He grabbed her ass.
Annwyl screeched and swung around. He knocked her blade from her hand and threw her on her back.
“How many times, exactly, do I have to tell you that your anger leaves you exposed and open to attack?”
She raised herself on her elbows. “You grabbed me,” she accused. “Again!”
He leaned down so they were nose to nose. “Yes I did. And I enjoyed every second of it.”
Her fist flashed out, aiming for his face. But he caught her hand, his fingers brushing across hers. “Of course, if you learned to control your rage I’d never get near you.” He brought her fingers to his lips and kissed them gently. “But until that time comes, I guess your ass belongs to me.”
She bared her teeth, and he didn’t try to hide his smile. How could he when he knew how it irritated her so? “I think we’ve practiced enough for the day. At least I have. And the dragon now has a scouting party for his dinner. But I’ll be back tomorrow. Be ready, Annwyl the Bloody. This won’t get any easier.”
About a Dragon
For Nolwenn witch Talaith, a bad day begins with being dragged from bed by an angry mob intent on her crispy end and culminates in rescue by—wait for it—a silver-maned dragon. Existence as a hated outcast is nothing new for a woman with such powerful secrets. The dragon, though? A tad unusual. This one has a human form to die for, and knows it. According to dragon law, Talaith is now his property, for pleasure…or otherwise. But if Lord Arrogance thinks she’s the kind of damsel to acquiesce without a word, he’s in for a surprise…
Is the woman never silent? Briec the Mighty knew the moment he laid eyes on Talaith that she would be his, but he’d counted on tongue-lashings of an altogether different sort. It’s embarrassing, really, that it isn’t this outspoken female’s Magicks that have the realm’s greatest dragon in her thrall. No, Briec has been spellbound by something altogether different—and if he doesn’t tread carefully, what he doesn’t know about human women could well be the undoing of his entire race…
They dragged her from bed before the two suns even rose over the Caffyn Mountains. She fought as best she could, but the noose they’d wrapped around her throat cut off her ability to breathe, weakening her. And they bound her hands tightly with coarse rope because they feared she’d cast a spell on them. She had none to cast, but what really annoyed her was her inability to get the dagger still tied to her thigh.
Of course, only she would get an entire town to try and kill her. Nice one, idiot.
Strong men threw the end of the rope over a sturdy branch and slowly pulled her off her feet. They didn’t want her to die too quickly. They wanted to watch her hang for awhile, and it looked like they’d prepared a pyre for a good, old-fashioned witch burning.
Lovely.
The man she called husband screamed at her. He screamed how she was a witch. How she was evil. How they all knew the truth about her and now she would pay. If she weren’t fighting for her life, she’d roll her eyes in annoyance.
But what truly galled her…what set her teeth absolutely on edge—other than choking to death—was that the goddess who sent her here all those years ago was the same one leaving her to die.
She thought the evil bitch would at least protect her until she finally accomplished what she needed her to do. What she’d been training to do since she was sixteen.
But Talaith, Daughter of Haldane, had learned long ago that no one was to be trusted. No one would ever protect her. No one would ever do anything but use her. Eventually she’d learned to trust no one but herself.
Of course a few allies might have helped you this day, Talaith.
She coughed and squirmed in her bonds, praying her neck would finally just break. She would definitely rather not die by burning. Ta
laith never considered flame a witch’s best friend.
As she wondered what it would take to snap her neck using her own body weight, she saw him.
He stood out like a jewel among pigs. Her arrogant, handsome knight, still in his chain mail with the bright red surcoat over it, but without the black cape he wore that shielded part of his face and hair from her sight. She wasn’t sure if it were her imagination or if her impending death had made her sight untrustworthy, but he had—silver?—yes. He had glossy silver hair that reached past his knees. But it wasn’t the silver hair of an old man. This beauty couldn’t be more than thirty winters. At most.
Gods, and he was a beauty. The most beautiful thing Talaith had ever seen. Well, at least she’d leave this world with something pretty for her last vision.
He walked up to one of the townsfolk and motioned toward her.
“She is a witch, m’lord!” a woman—whose child Talaith saved from a poisonous snakebite the year before—screamed. “She’s in league with demons and the dark gods.”
She wished. At least the dark gods protected their own.
The knight stared at her for several moments. If she could, she wouldn’t have been too proud to beg for mercy. But, even if she could speak, she wouldn’t bother. Those cold violet eyes of his told her it would have done no good anyway.
If only you’d fucked him like you wanted to, he might feel slightly obligated to help you. But you had to be a hard bitch.
Of course, according to her husband, she was always a hard bitch.
With a bored sigh, her knight turned and walked away, disappearing into the surrounding woods.
Typical. Even a brave knight wouldn’t help her. Every day her life grew more and more pathetic.