What a Dragon Should Know (3 page)

“Don’t push your luck with me, little miss,” he grumbled.

Of course she would. She was so good at it.

As her father walked out, a servant rushed in. “My lady, Brother Ragnar approaches.”

She nodded and stood, her appetite long having left.

“Look all”—Kikka sneered, her husband still ranting about “all the bloody coin you spend!”—“another male who won’t be bedding our little Dagmar.”

“And then there’s you, sister.” Dagmar leaned down and finished on a whisper, “Who will apparently fuck anything.”

Heading toward the doors and her respite from idiocy, Dagmar heard her brother snap, “What did she say? What are you doing?”

Gwenvael skimmed the note quickly. “The Reinholdt wants
you
—they’re very clear on that ‘you’—to come to his territory to save the lives of your unborn children. You know, personally, I don’t appreciate him trying to order my lovely queen about, but what really bothers me—”

“Is that the barbarians already know I’m having twins?” At Gwenvael’s nod, she added, “And if they know that, they might already know I’m no longer as fierce as I once was.”

“You won’t be expecting forever, Annwyl. And once the twins are here, you’ll be as violently cruel and madly bloodthirsty as you always were.”

“Now you’re just trying to make me feel better.”

“Is it working?”

“A little.” She closed her eyes, and he knew she was in pain, the “twinges,” as she called them, happening more and more lately. She took a cleansing breath and went on. “But even if I wanted to go to the Northlands myself, Fearghus will never let that happen. And Morfyd! Gods, the whining.” Gwenvael’s older sister, a powerful Dragonwitch and healer, could wear the scales off a fast-moving snake when she was in a mood. “Besides, someone I thought adored me told me I was too
fat
to travel.”

“That is not what I said, although I love how all of you willfully misinterpret me. And how quick we are to forget I did notice that your breasts had grown even fuller and more lovely. If that’s possible.”

Annwyl laughed and shook her head. “Not even a modicum of shame.”

“Not even a teaspoonful. Now, we both know you can’t travel, so what would you like me to do? Want me to write them back for you? I think we both have to admit that I have a way with the written word that you do not, my lovely.”

“This is very true.” She turned a bit on his lap so that she looked directly at him. “But I thought perhaps you could go in my stead.”

“Me? Go back to the Northlands?” he scoffed. “I’d rather eat bark.”

“Do you think I like asking you to take this risk? Especially with the reputation you left behind?” She raised a brow. “Ruiner.”

“You know, they weren’t virgins,” he argued as he’d been arguing for decades. “They stumbled upon
me
at the lake. Took advantage of
me.
They used their tails in a manner I found enticing, and I did what I had to do to survive the horrors of war.”

“Is it true you, and you alone, is specifically mentioned
in
the truce?”

“As long as I keep my distance from Lightning females—you may also know the Lightnings as the Horde dragons, my beautiful majesty”—he gave her his most appealing smile but she only stared at him, so he continued—“I can go into the Northlands for short periods of time.”

“Then I need you to go. But to be quite honest you’re the only one I can send.”

The admission surprised him. “I am?”

“I can’t send Morfyd. She’s female, and the Lightnings would snag her faster than you can lure a local girl to your bed.”

“What a lovely analogy. Thank you.”

“Besides, your sister is needed here because she’s the only one who can stop Fearghus from killing his own parents.”

Gwenvael barely stopped his angry frown, determined to keep the conversation as light as possible. “I see Mother still refuses to believe your babes are Fearghus’s.”

“I don’t know what she believes, and I don’t care. She hasn’t been here in six months since she was first told and that’s fine by me.” Gwenvael knew that to be a lie. That fight had been the ugliest he’d seen among his kin, and though all of Fearghus’s siblings had stood by him and Annwyl that day, the whole thing had hurt Annwyl more than anyone wanted to admit.

“I can’t send Keita,” she went on, “because she’ll have all the men turning on each other and won’t even remember why I sent her. Besides, when is she ever here for me to ask?”

Gwenvael couldn’t argue with her on that. His younger sister was more like him than anyone in their family. Only a couple of decades apart, they’d always been close and understood each other well. Yet he’d noticed that over the past few years, Keita had been spending almost all her time as far from Devenallt Mountain and Dark Plains as she could manage. She had her own cave but was rarely in it, and when she did return home, things often became uncomfortable between her and their mother. When he thought about it, Gwenvael couldn’t remember a time when mother and daughter had gotten along, making family get-togethers quite intense. Then again, Gwenvael lived for that sort of tension and often found perverse pleasure in making it worse.

“Of course there’s Briec, but—” Annwyl looked for words but couldn’t seem to find anything to say about the arrogant, silver-haired dragon, and ended with, “Do I really need to expound on Briec?”

“Not to me.”

“And Éibhear is still too much a babe. Besides, to be quite blunt, you’re the most politically savvy of the entire bunch.”

Gwenvael smiled, shocked and truly flattered by her statement. “Do you mean that?”

“Of course I do. I’m not blind. And one should always know the strengths and weaknesses of the allies they have surrounding them. My father used to say that … you know, before he went off and destroyed something or someone.”

She chewed on her thumbnail, a habit she’d developed over the last few months as her stress level grew. “In the end, I’m sure you’re the only one who can truly do this.”

“And I’m sure you’re quite correct on that point, but what do I get out of it?”

Annwyl dropped her hand into her lap. “Get out of it?”

“Aye. What is my reward for doing this task you’ve set for me?”

“What do you want?”

Grinning, Gwenvael craned his neck forward a bit and, using his thumb and forefinger, gently pulled the bodice of her dress forward.

“Stop that!” She slapped at his hands and laughed.

“Come now. I’m just asking for a moment to immerse myself in the lush garden of your bosom.”

“The lush garden of my …” Annwyl shook her head. “You’re not immersing yourself in any part of me, Lord Gwenvael.”

“Now, now. I’m only asking for a chance to play with them a bit.” He stuck his nose in her cleavage and Annwyl laughed and pushed at his head.

“Gwenvael! Stop it!”

The front door slammed open and Fearghus stalked in. “What the hell’s going—” Black smoke billowed from Fearghus’s nostrils. “Get your nose out of there.”

Taking his sweet time, Gwenvael looked up into Fearghus’s raging face. “Oh. Hello, brother. What are you doing here?”

Dagmar smiled warmly when the gates opened and several monks came in, two pulling a large cart weighed down with books. Books brought for her.

“Brother Ragnar.” She briefly bowed her head in respect.

“My Lady Dagmar. It’s so good to see you, my dear.”

Brother Ragnar, a longtime monk of the mysterious and rarely seen Order of the Warhammer, had been bringing books to Dagmar since she was ten. It was the one thing about her father’s fortress and the surrounding towns that kept her sane—non-warring travelers who always had information she found of use. Brother Ragnar was definitely her favorite of all their regular visitors, but she’d met and talked with many—most of them monks or scholars—over the years, learning much about a world she’d never seen. They brought her books, news, and gossip that she often used to help her father and her people, but it was Brother Ragnar who’d actually tutored her in reading, writing, and negotiation skills.

He’d taught her much from the beginning, suggesting ways she could get what she wanted from her kinsmen without ever appearing as if she were trying. “Why be a battering ram, my dear, when you can simply knock on the door and be let in?”

He’d been right, of course. Like he always was.

Dagmar took his right arm since his left hand held onto his traveling stick. She never could see much of his face because of the cowl he always wore but doubted he was extremely old based on the sound and strength of his voice. And although he’d been wounded badly, his body broken and weak, he hadn’t lost his spirit. The eyes that gazed at her from the darkness of his cowl were a vivid blue with strange flecks of silver throughout the iris and were always bright and lively.

The Order forced Brother Ragnar, even with his body broken, to walk everywhere although she’d offered more than once to purchase him a horse. But it came down to the sacrifices monks of every order were forced to make, which Dagmar would never understand—wasn’t life difficult and painful enough without adding more misery to it?

“I’m so glad to see you, Brother.” She squeezed his gloved hand. “You’re looking well.”

“It’s still pleasant out. Although I don’t look forward to winter.” Winter in the Northlands was a hard time for all of them, and only the most hearty—or stupid—trekked through the winter storms to reach the Reinholdt lands.

“Well, you’re here now. And we have much to discuss.”

“Yes, we do.” He gestured to the cart. “And I’ve brought you some wonderful new books I think you’ll enjoy.”

She glanced in to the cart and smiled. “You bring me the best presents.”

Placing Brother Ragnar’s hand on her arm, she led him and his comrades to the Main Hall for warm wine and food. “So, Brother … any more on my uncle?”

“Much, I’m afraid. I don’t like it, Dagmar. I don’t like it one bit.”

“Nor will I, I’m sure.”

“Did you send a message to the Southland queen as I suggested?”

“I did, but my father was not exactly pleased.”

“She is a woman,” he teased. “Her weakness is obvious.”

“But her reputation, Brother …”

“I know. She is quite insane, but she has near a hundred legions at her disposal, my lady. Imagine what even one legion could do to help your father.”

“But if she is completely insane as everyone says, will she understand what danger she’s in?”

“My lady, most Southland monarchs are quite mad. But they are always surrounded by the most reliable and clever minds of our age. Queen Annwyl will be no different.” He squeezed her hand gently. “No worries, my lady. If the queen does not come herself, I have no doubt she’ll only send her most respected representative in her stead.”

How long should a dragon of my stature be expected to survive without a warm, willing pussy at my disposal?

For days he’d been traveling through the cold and unforgiving Northlands over Oceans of Despair and Forests of Death and Rivers of Bile. He didn’t call them these names out of caprice. He called them that because that’s what most of them were named in some form or another.

And after so many days of constant travel through what he was now convinced was a form of hell, he was still without a woman. He tired of men; he wanted to see females. He wanted to smell their hair and taste their skin and lose himself in their bodies. He sure as hell didn’t want to see one more angry, snarling, unattractive Northland male.

Such were the thoughts racing through his head when Gwenvael came in sight of the mighty Reinholdt fortress. More useless, worthless Northland men with their worthless codes and rules. He briefly debated shifting to human but decided against it. He needed the advantage with The Reinholdt and his warrior son The Beast.

Decision made, Gwenvael landed in front of the Reinholdt fortress gates in all his dragon glory.

Clawed feet slammed into the ground, shaking the fortress walls; gold wings stretched far from his body, the slow, even movements stirring up much dirt and air. Then Gwenvael leaned back his head and unleashed a line of flame into the sky.

When he tired of that, he looked down at the humans staring up at him. “Go on,” he offered magnanimously. “Feel free to piss on yourselves and cower helplessly.”

Gods, sometimes his generosity overwhelmed him.

Dagmar picked up a book from the floor and quickly flipped through the pages. So focused on her work, she didn’t realize anything might be amiss until Canute got to his feet and snarled at the door. She was already looking in that direction when one of her brothers walked in with nary a knock. Typical rude Reinholdt male behavior, but Canute charged him anyway. Dagmar stopped her pet with a simple, “No.”

The dog was already in midair, teeth bared, but he automatically jerked back, hit the ground, and hastily rolled over. He snarled and snapped a little for show before coming back to Dagmar’s side.

“What is it?”

Her brother Fridmar, third born to The Reinholdt, leaned casually against the doorway and ate an apple. In between bites he mumbled, “Dragon outside.”

“Yes, well, I’ll get right … wait.” She looked away from her work. “Pardon?”

“Dragon,” he said calmly. “Outside the gates. Eymund called an attack, but Da told me to get you first.”

Dagmar carefully placed the quill on the desk and slowly turned in the chair, placing her arm on the back of it. “A dragon? Are you sure?”

“It’s big, scaly, and has wings. What the hell else could it be?” She would have perhaps been less annoyed if he hadn’t made that reply with bits of apple flying out of his mouth.

“Well what kind?”

Her brother frowned. “Kind? It’s a dragon, I said.”

It amazed her she had the patience for this anymore, but what she’d learned early on and what her sisters-in-law could never seem to grasp—her brothers and father moved no faster than was absolutely necessary. Yelling at them, screaming … waste of one’s time. So Dagmar plodded along until she got what she needed. She called it the “water against rock” method. “There are different kinds of dragons, brother. There’s purple. Blue. Forest green.”