What a Dragon Should Know (12 page)

He’d tried to warn the other warlords. Tried to warn them about Rhiannon’s consort. Bercelak the Vengeful was no pampered monarch who liked to play warrior. He was one of the Cadwaladr Clan, low-born lizards the Southland royals used like the humans used their battle dogs. Calling them to duty when the royals had a war or needed protecting, tossing them scraps, and locking them outside in the cold when there was peace. But none of that lot seemed to mind; instead they spent most of their lives going from one battle to another, even fighting with humans as human when the dragons were at peace. Yet among the Cadwaladr, it was Bercelak who had the most brutal reputation in all the dragon nations.

Olgeir still remembered what happened when one of Bercelak’s warrior-sisters was captured by Northland warlords during a war several centuries ago, when Rhiannon’s mother held the throne. Bercelak captured the eldest sons of the enemy warlords and tore their scales off, piece by piece. He sent the scales back, each batch wrapped up like a present, to the corresponding fathers. He included no written message, nor did the ones who brought the pieces back have anything to impart. But his message was clear … Either his sister was released—wings intact—or the warlords would be getting wings and limbs next as “gifts.”

Bercelak still ruled by the current Dragon Queen’s side, but he was older now. Those prissy sons of his went into battle the last go round. They fought well enough, but Olgeir didn’t worry about them like he did their father—the Horde simply hadn’t been prepared then. Yet he still had to beware of the Cadwaladrs. Last Olgeir had heard, they were fighting in the Western Mountains, but when he decided to strike, he had to make sure they were dealt with first.

And Olgeir would strike. He’d see that dragoness brought to heel and her land made his, if it was the last thing he did.

First, though, he had to deal with that treacherous son of his.

He had many sons, Olgeir did. Nineteen last count. But this one, his eighth born … he was the smartest of the lot. And could cause the most problems. He’d already turned at least two of his cousins to his cause, and Olgeir had no doubts at least one of his sons would follow the traitor. He was persuasive, that one, always plotting and planning to be warlord, as if Olgeir would simply hand it over to him.

Olgeir had always warned that idiot’s mother he read too much, spent too much time with those mages and monks uttering the countryside. Now he thought he was better than his father.

And, unfortunately for him, he’d have to learn the hard way he wasn’t.

A strong claw closed over Olgeir’s shoulder; one of his many nephews leaned in. “I just received word a Southland dragon was spotted over Reinholdt territories.”

Olgeir’s lip curled. “Anyone we know?”

“Not sure yet.”

He motioned to three of his grandsons. “Send them to check it out.”

“They may have to bring him down.”

“So? We have what we need.”
And she’s perfect,
he inwardly sighed as he thought of the prize safely chained inside his mountain fortress.

His nephew sent off the three with their instructions and came back to his uncle. “And what about that lot?”

Olgeir looked at the ones caught traveling through his territories. It was because of them he was out here before the two suns rose. Their kind were rarely sighted this far from the brutal Ice Lands. But when they were seen—this time because of a tunnel cave-in—alarms went up. They were unstable, as most from the Ice Lands were, but mighty fighters in their own right. Even dragons had to be careful around them.

There were over forty of them, all standing tall and powerful, but they were nothing more than animals, the lot of them. Yet these animals had a higher purpose. A higher purpose he had no problem supporting.

“Take them to the tunnels near the bridge and send them on their way.”

“You know where those tunnels lead, Uncle. Are you sure?” Olgeir grinned, entertained by how every one of the beasts had carved the goddess Arzhela’s name into their chests with knives. They hadn’t even bothered to wipe off the blood and some of the wounds weren’t healing very well. But they were zealots, and that’s what zealots did.

“Oh, I’m sure.” He patted his nephew’s shoulder. “Let them go to her. Let them honor their dead god.”

He headed back to his den, his guards behind him. “If they kill
her,
half our battle is won.”

Dagmar was well into the middle of an odd dream involving dessert cream and a dragon’s tail when her bedroom door banged open. She sat up immediately, still caught between being awake and asleep when she yelled out,
“I did not lie!”

Three of her brothers stood in her doorway staring at her. Which ones? She had no idea. All she could see were blurry outlines.

“What is it?” she demanded loudly over Canute’s hysterical barking. “Canute!” The dog fell to a low, threatening growl while she reached over to the small table beside her bed, her hands trying to find her spectacles.

“Father needs you downstairs. Now.” She recognized Valdís’s voice, felt his hand press her spectacles into her palm.

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“Just get dressed. We’ll wait for you in the hall.”

She didn’t have time for a bath, so she had to make do with scrubbing up at the basin and hurriedly getting dressed. As soon as she tied the scarf over her hair, she walked into the hallway and immediately her brothers pushed her toward the stairs. The moment they entered through the door into the Main Hall, Dagmar sent Canute off for a break and a chance to play with the other dogs in the side yard. Once the dog disappeared through the doorway, Valdís grabbed her wrist and dragged her to her father’s private rooms.

He pulled the door open and pushed her in. She immediately saw her father at the big table that took up most of the room. As usual it was covered in maps and missives from troops who were stationed at key points throughout the countryside.

On the opposite side of the table was Gwenvael. As soon as the door opened, he turned around with a huge grin and exclaimed, “Eymund!” Then he saw her and his expression crumbled. “Oh. Hello, Lady Dagmar.”

“Lord Gwenvael. Valdís, would you have a servant bring me—” But her brothers were long gone, the door slamming behind them. Shaking her head, she walked over to the table. “You asked for me, Father?”

“Aye. Uh … Lord Gwenvael here needs that information you’ve got.”

“No.”

Her father pointed a finger at her. “Look—”

“I said I was sorry,” Gwenvael cut in, expertly rolling his eyes like a small child.

“That’s very big of you. And yet I am in no mood to be forgiving.”

Her father slammed his hands against the table and stood.

Dagmar motioned him to the door. “May I talk to you outside for a moment, Father?”

She walked out into the hallway, her brothers—all twelve of them—nowhere to be found.

Waiting until her father stepped outside, she closed the door and faced him. “What is going on?”

“He needs to go.”

“Why? He’s been utterly polite and—”

“I don’t want to make a big thing of this, girl, but he needs to go. Today. So just tell him what he wants to know.”

Now it had begun, and she had only one chance to make this work with all involved. First—her father.

“And lose out on a perfect opportunity?” she asked, her heart beating fast, although she knew her face showed her father nothing.

“What opportunity? What you think you’ll get from him?”

“Father,” she said, making sure to add a note of impatience, “if you’re simply going to hand the information over to him anyway, give me ten minutes to see what I can get on my own. Where’s the harm?”

“I don’t know—”

“At the very least let Eymund try,” she offered innocently. “Lord Gwenvael seems to like him.”

“No!” Her father took a breath, fought for calm. She made sure to look appropriately bewildered, hours in front of her mirror practicing finally paying off. He motioned her toward the door. “Go. Talk to him. You got until I get myself a pint to get something out of him. After that you tell him everything and get him out of here.”

“Yes, Father.” She pushed open the door, walked in, and quietly shut it.

She sat in her father’s chair on the other side of the table. The dragon, in chain mail and a surcoat, had his boot-shod feet up on the table.

He smiled at her. “Well?”

“We’ve got ten minutes.”

“All right.” He dropped his feet to the floor and placed his hands on top of the wood. They stared at each other across the distance. “So what do you want?”

“Five legions.”

“Five?” he asked, incredulous. “Are you mad?”

“No. You want to save that precious queen of yours, don’t you?”

“Ten army units. That seems fair.”

“Don’t insult me, Lord Gwenvael. Four legions.”

“How do I know your information is worth even one army unit, much less four full legions?”

“It is.”

He sat back in his chair. “If what you have to tell me is solid … perhaps one legion.”

“One?”

“That’s fifty-two-hundred men, Lady Dagmar.”

Dagmar let out a sigh, tapped her fingers against the table until grudgingly answering, “Fine.”

“Good. Now tell me what you know.”

“Someone wants your queen dead.”

Dagmar jumped when Gwenvael’s head hit the table, his arms flying out at his sides. “Is that the
best
you have to tell me?” Reason help her, he did have a love of the dramatic.

His head lifted from the table, and he speared her with his glare. “I know this already. Everybody wants her dead. They’ve wanted her dead for years! Tell me I haven’t wasted my time here!”

“Are you done? Because I’m not.”

“Thank the gods for that.” He impatiently gestured for her to continue.

“It’s my understanding that a party from the Ice Lands is making its way south, toward Dark Plains.”

“The Ice Lands? I didn’t know anyone even lived there.”

“They do. You think this terrain is harsh? It’s nothing compared to there. The people there are strong, hearty, and very unfriendly. And the bigger problem for you is that most travel underground.”

“Whatever for?”

“There are sudden, deadly ice storms that hit at any moment of any day in the Ice Lands—hence the name.” He snorted, and she continued. “So the dwarves began digging tunnels. First just leading from mine to mine, clan to clan. But they quickly realized they could make money offering ways in and out of the territory for those other than dwarves.”

“You’re telling me someone’s sent assassins underground? That’s worth about twenty army units, my lady.”

“They’re not assassins. There are hundreds of cults in the Ice Lands. They live to serve the gods who, in my opinion, deserted them long ago. The ones coming for your queen worshipped Arzhela. In honor of her they want your queen’s babes. They want their blood. As you well know, my lord, those hired to fight are vastly different from those who believe in a cause. They’ll stop at nothing. Absolutely nothing to kill your queen and her unborn offspring.”

All drama and humor left the dragon’s face as he stared at her, knowing the truth of her words. He slumped back in his chair. “Are you sure this information is accurate?”

“My source is impeccable.”

“Understood.” He pushed his chair back from the table. “One legion.”

“Excellent.”

He stood and Dagmar knew she had to take her chance now.

“There’s something else.”

Gwenvael looked down at her. “What?”

“The tunnels from the Ice Lands lead through the Northlands, into the south, until they reach the desert lands of Alsandair.”

His face went blank, his jaw slack. “I don’t … what?”

“If they took the right tunnel, they could come up in the middle of your Main Hall and you wouldn’t know it until they speared you clean, tore her apart, and took her babes.” She sat back in her chair. “None of you know about the tunnels, do you?”

“I don’t understand. If those tunnels exist, how come none of your kinsmen—”

“To bring a full army through there would be impossible. The dwarves made sure of that. Plus its use wasn’t for Northlanders but for those from the Ice Lands who rarely call for war against anyone but each other. Most Northlanders don’t even know the tunnels exist. And the few who do are not keen on the idea of battling anything underground. Tunnels are always risky.”

“But
you
know this information.”

“I have learned friends.”

“You said if they take the right tunnels. I need to know which tunnels those are—I need to know all the tunnels.”

Dagmar’s toes curled in her boots. “I could get you that information.” She took a breath. “For a price.”

He rolled his eyes. “Fine. Two legions. Total.”

“No.”

“We’re not back to five, are we?”

“No. One legion, for my father. As you promised.”

“Then I don’t understand—”

“I know who can help you, who can give you the information.”

“All right.”

“All you need to do … is take me with you.”

Gwenvael stared at her a long moment, her back straight, her eyes looking intently at him through those bits of glass. “You want to run away with me?”

It hadn’t been the first time a woman had asked him, begged him even, to take her away from her life. But Dagmar only laughed. “By all reason! Of course I’m not asking to run away with you!”

“Then what are you asking me for?”

“The one who can give us the information is no more than a day’s ride from here. Even less if we’re flying. I go with you and help you get this information, and before you say it, you will need me to help you get this information. Then you bring me back.” She snapped her fingers. “Even better you can take me to Gestur’s.”

“Who the hell is Gestur?”

“He’s my uncle. Loyal to my father.”

“And why would you want to go there?”

“I have my reasons. Besides, he’s planning to come out here anyway in another month or so. I could return with him. It would be my own little holiday away.”

“Before you start enjoying your holiday, your father will never let you go. All that Northman Code to contend with.”