What a Dragon Should Know (19 page)

“Your name, dragon. What is it?”

“Ragnar the Cunning, of the Olgeirsson Horde.”

“Fitting.” She gazed into his handsome face. “And why are you here now?”

“I have contacts at the Great Library. I would have preferred you not found out that way, though.” He leaned back in his chair. “Why were you looking for me?”

“Trying to confirm a rumor about Jökull’s truce with the Horde.”

He chuckled. “Where did you hear that?”

“Is it true?”

“No. Although it’s a brilliant rumor to start, don’t you think?”

“You know the actions of every horde?”

“Don’t need to. I only need to know your father’s territory is on my father’s territory—and Olgeir the Wastrel isn’t making any truces with humans. He considers you more … well, like your kitchen dogs. Pets that amuse and take scraps off the floor, but have no other real purpose.”

Dagmar rested her elbow on the table and her chin in her palm. “If I thought I could manage it—I’d kill you where you sit.”

He gave her a surprisingly warm smile. “I’ve always had a great fondness for you, Dagmar. A very great fondness. If I could have protected you from being hurt, I would have.”

“But you want something more. Don’t you? That’s why you’re here now.”

“Always quick.”

“Just as I’ve been taught.”

“Your Fire Breather. The Gold.”

She felt her stomach tighten, not enjoying the mention of Gwenvael one bit. “Deserted me for the night, I suspect.”

“You know he didn’t. But he was foolish to bring you here. Foolish to think he’d be ignored by my father’s spies or that the truce between the Hordes and the Dragon Queen would keep him safe.”

Dagmar let out a breath, struggled for calm. “You have him.”

“No. I have no need of him. But my father’s Horde has long memories and we’re just as protective of our females as your kinsmen. Chances are he will not last the night … unless I help him.”

“You mean for a price.”

“A price I suspect you’re willing to pay to get him back.” He took her hand in his and studied it. “Has he seduced you too, Lady Dagmar? Like he has so many others? Has that cold heart you always professed to have been thawed by a Fire Breather?”

Dagmar would give him nothing he could feed on, nothing he could use again in years to come. But she couldn’t deny to herself that she feared for Gwenvael’s safety. She’d seen firsthand what her kinsmen did to those who’d involved themselves with the wrong woman or sullied a kinswoman’s good name.

She knew that as she sat here across from the lying Horde dragon, Gwenvael suffered horribly at the hands of his enemies. She also knew hysteria would get her nowhere. If she kept calm, cold, and just as merciless, perhaps she could get them both out of this.

“At the moment, we’re business partners. And that’s all. You know me well enough, my lord. Know that when I want something, I’ll do what I have to in order to get it.” She leaned back in her chair and folded her hands primly on her lap. “We both know I need him alive if I hope to get what he promised me from that mad bitch queen. So what’s your price? What do I need to do to get you to bring the Southlander to me—alive?”

“It’s simple.” His small smile turned wide and brilliant. “Help me start a war.”

* * *

Gwenvael gritted his fangs and bit back a cry of pain as the blade of a dagger was forced under his scale and then lifted, tearing away the scale from its flesh anchor. But it was not removed completely. No. That was a weaker form of torture. Instead a small, jagged piece of metal was placed between scale and flesh and the scale pressed back into place. In minutes the flesh would seal again to the scale, enclosing the jagged metal inside. The pain of that would only get worse as the hours went on.

It was a very old form of torture but had been quite popular in his grandfather’s day.

When the Lightnings had first dragged him into the city tunnels, he’d thought they wanted information from him. Information he’d never give, but he’d assumed they’d try. Yet for hours, they hadn’t said a word to him. They hadn’t asked him questions or demanded anything. They’d simply beaten him until he shifted to his dragon form, and then they’d chained him from a thick steel pipe. After that they kept hitting him, again and again. If he passed out, they woke him up with water or herbs and went back to beating him. When they paused from beating him, one of them would lift several of his scales and put the metal bits underneath.

A good portion of his body was covered now, and as he hung from the chains manacled to his wrists and ankles, all he felt was pain. Excruciating, nearly unbearable pain. And it would only get worse. That much he knew.

It had crossed his mind to call out to his kin, but he’d decided against it. It would take them days to get to him, and in that time they’d have started another war with the Lightnings. He wouldn’t be responsible for that.

With the scales back in place, the hitting started again. Someone had very big fists and seemed to enjoy hitting Gwenvael’s face with them. By the tenth hit, he slumped in his chains.

That’s when he heard her voice for the first time. “Gwenvael,” she sang. “Gwenvael. My dear, dear heart.”

“He’s out again. Give me some water.”

“We’re out.”

“Then get some, you idiot.”

A claw gripped his jaw and lifted his head. “Don’t you worry, Fire Breather. We’ll get you taken care of.”

“It’s time to fight, Gwenvael,” the voice told him so sweetly. “It’s time to live. You must come to me. Come to me as quick as you can.”

Gwenvael nodded. “I will.”

“You are awake then? Good. So we can—”

Snapping his mouth open, Gwenvael wrapped it around the Lightning’s snout. He bit down, enjoying the screaming, and unleashed his flame. The Lightning’s purple scales would protect him to a degree, but he couldn’t breathe through flames the way Gwenvael’s kind could. So he kept the flame strong, drowning the bastard in effect, letting him twitch and struggle.

He heard other screams, knew the Lightning’s kinsmen would come to protect him, but they didn’t and eventually the one in his maw went limp. Gwenvael released him, staring down at the half-seared face of his torturer.

“Gods, look at him.”

Gwenvael raised his head. More Lightnings, their swords covered in blood, watched him.

“And look at this.” One of them swiped up something in his claw and showed it to the other two.

“They’re still doing that? Ragnar’s going to have a fit when he finds out.”

“We’ll worry about that later. Let’s get him down.”

“Can you walk?” one of them asked, and Gwenvael nodded.

“Can you shift to human?”

He nodded again. If nothing else, he’d definitely try.

“All right then, lad. Come on.”

Dagmar saw Gwenvael being helped out of the tunnels by three other Horde dragons.

“My brother and cousins,” Ragnar murmured.

She rushed to Gwenvael’s side and lifted his head. “He needs a healer.”

Gwenvael surprised her by shaking his head and pulling away from the three who held him. She wasn’t sure where he’d found the strength. “No,” he said.

“She’s right, Fire Breather. I can see what they did to you,” Ragnar added with a frown. “Let me help you.”

“Help? From a Lightning? I think I’ve had all the help I can stand from you bastards.” Gwenvael took her hand.

“Don’t be foolish,” Ragnar argued. “Let me help you.”

“No. I’ll find my own help.”

“In the Northlands? Do you really think more of my kin aren’t out looking for you? Or that our Dragonwitches will help your kind?”

Gwenvael tugged Dagmar away, stubbornly refusing to hear anything else Ragnar had to say.

She glanced back at the Horde dragons watching them, and Ragnar gave a small nod of his head. She looked away and let Gwenvael drag her through the now-quiet streets.

“Where are we going?” she finally managed to ask.

“Someplace safe. She calls to me and says I’ll be safe.”

“Who?”

Gwenvael grunted suddenly, stopping to bend over at the waist, his hands resting on his thighs. That’s when she saw all the blood and bruises riddling his human body as they must have been riddling his dragon one. But there were not only bruises and open wounds. There was something else. Under his skin? She didn’t know, couldn’t be sure. But she knew he was in pain—real pain he was fighting hard not to show.

“What’s wrong?” She gently rested her hands on his arm and he jumped back from her as if scalded. “Gwenvael, what is it?”

“Nothing. We have to go. She calls.”

“Not until we take you to a healer.”

“No human healer can help me.” He pulled her around a dark corner. “When I shift, get on my back.”

“You can’t do this here. Everyone will see.”

“They’ll only see you and only if they look hard. If we move fast enough, we can do this.”

“But Gwenvael—”

“Don’t argue with me,” he snapped, but then his voice calmed. “Please. Just do as I say.”

She had no choice. “All right.”

He walked away from her, and she watched as flames surrounded his body. When the flames died, he was dragon again.

“Now.”

She rushed to his side and grabbed hold of his mane. His tail lifted her from behind, seating her on his back. His wings moved, and they were airborne.

A few people looked up, frowning at the sight of a woman apparently flying above the city, but by the time they blinked and looked again, she’d disappeared into the clouds.

Rhiannon flipped through another ancient tome she’d found buried in the back of the royal archives. This area was for the scholars, witches, and mages. Unlike many dragons she knew, Rhiannon never cared much about learning for learning’s sake. She was a scholar only because it was necessary to be one as a witch. To be quite honest, she found this sort of research deadly boring. Yet she didn’t have much time and she knew it.

Annwyl’s body was simply not made to carry the kind of offspring she was near giving birth to. For those, like Rhiannon, who could see the tendrils of Magick wherever they looked, the power surrounding Annwyl almost blinded the Dragonwitch. For someone like Rhiannon, an actual birth of this kind would have exhausted her human body, but her natural, Magick-infused defenses would have most likely kept her healthy. But Annwyl was a true human warrior. There was absolutely no Magick inside her. No otherworldly skills that had been kept dormant until now. Her gift was her rage. The power of it was like a sudden storm that could wipe out an entire village in a night.

In the end, it was this pureness of Annwyl’s spirit and strong will that attracted those around her, from the lowliest peasant soldier to the heirs of Rhiannon’s throne.

Yet knowing all that hadn’t helped Rhiannon find a way to assist the human queen. She’d brought in the best and even the most controversial Dragonmages she knew of throughout the land. Even now, they researched and toiled in other caverns of the archives and library, trying to find a way to help Annwyl.

Rhiannon flipped to the last page and slammed the book shut.
Another useless piece of Centaur crap,
she thought, tossing the book into the pile on her left while her tail grabbed hold of another tome from the pile on her right.

“You’re up late this eve, my queen.”

As much as Rhiannon wanted to sigh and flop dramatically to the ground as Gwenvael always did when something bored him beyond all hope, she simply gave a small smile and answered, “Yes, yes, Elder Eanruig. Much to do.”

“Right. Before the birth of those children.” He walked across the room to one of the shelves, his tail slithering along behind him. He’d never seemed to have much control over that thing. Not the way most of her kind did. She couldn’t help but equate it to some lowly snake slithering across the ground, hoping to dine on whatever pile of shit it happened to find along the way. “We really must discuss what we’ll do with them once they’re born.”

Rhiannon looked up, not liking the sound of that statement at all. “Do with them?”

“Yes.” He grabbed something off the shelf and turned to face her, his tail scooting behind him. She was surprised it didn’t rattle as it moved. “The Elders and Your Majesty must discuss where the offspring will be taken once they’re born.”

“Taken? Why would they be taken anywhere?”

“You can’t seriously be considering allowing a human to raise them?”

“A human and my son, Elder Eanruig. And since the offspring will be both human and dragon this only makes—”

“Your son, my queen, is hardly the type to raise anyone’s offspring. Especially his own.”

The metal tip of Rhiannon’s tail that she sharpened at least once, if not twice, a day, scraped across the stone cavern floor. “I’m not sure as to your meaning, Elder.”

He walked toward her. He was an old Gold dragon, his golden hair nearly white with age, his scales no longer bright and clear but dull and worn. Though the more she’d gotten to know this dragon, the less she believed age had anything to do with it. Bercelak’s father was nearly nine-hundred years when he’d passed on and he’d been as beautiful then as he’d been when she’d first met him. He’d definitely aged, but he’d never lost his energy or his love of nearly everything. Eanruig the Scholarly, however, had none of that to lose. He lived his life in books and believed in the strict boundaries of bloodlines.

To him, her mother Queen Adienna had been perfect simply because she’d mated someone of her equal. Rhiannon lost that potential for perfection when she was Claimed by Bercelak, a low-born dragon of the Cadwaladr Clan. A breed of warrior dragon that fucked, fed, and fought. From when she was a young hatchling, Rhiannon had heard the Cadwaladrs referred to as the battle dogs of the dragon royals. And that was how Adienna had treated them. Wars in far-off lands that needed no finesse or a ready truce? Send in the Cadwaladrs! Need a siege to last until the final starving body was dragged from the fortress ten years from now? Send in the Cadwaladrs!

More importantly, though, the Cadwaladrs didn’t mind. As long as they could continue to fuck, feed, and fight, they didn’t care where you sent them or what you expected them to do.