What a Dragon Should Know (2 page)

Before giving herself a cursory glance in the full-length mirror beside her bed, Dagmar carefully placed her spectacles on her nose. She didn’t need them to read, but she needed them for everything else. All those years ago, it had been the monk, dear Brother Ragnar, who gave Dagmar her first pair of spectacles when he noticed how often she squinted any time she looked more than a few inches past her nose. He made the pair himself and she’d been wearing them ever since.

One quick look in the mirror proved nothing truly horrible with her ensemble, so she stepped from her room and allowed her dog to race out in front of her. Dagmar locked her door and double-checked to make sure it was securely locked, before proceeding down the stone halls of her father’s fortress. She’d been born here and had never gone farther than into the closest town. She knew she would die behind these walls one day, unless she could convince her father to give her a small house in the surrounding woods outside the gates. Tragically, she’d have to wait at least another ten years before she was firmly in the “spinster” category.

In the Northlands, females didn’t stray far from their kinsmen until they were handed off to their husbands. After three failed attempts at marriage, she doubted any man foolish enough would come along willing to risk his neck among the Reinholdt Clan just to get into her bed. Which, when she was honest with herself—and when wasn’t she?—she found very much a relief.

Some things came naturally to those of her sex. Being accommodating, loving, charming, and endearing—she knew many women who naturally possessed these gifts. Dagmar, however, possessed none of these traits—although she could pretend she had them for short periods of time. If pretending got her what she wanted, then why not?

Because Dagmar knew there were worse things in this world than pretending to be a caring, demure woman. For instance, actually
being
a caring, demure woman. The Northlands were a rough, hard land and not for the meek of heart or weak of spirit. To actually care, or to actually
be
as weak as the Northmen expected their women to be was an excellent way to die young.

Dagmar’s intention was to live to be a hundred. At least.

Intently studying the papers in her hands allowed Dagmar to ignore everything that went on around her. The violent fights, the drunken kinsmen littering the floor, the writhing bodies in dark shadows.

Another early morning in the Reinholdt Fortress.

She’d taught herself a long time ago to simply block out all of the extraneous activity that did nothing but distract her from what was important.

An easy enough skill with her dog, Canute, walking boldly beside her, keeping watch and protecting her. She’d raised him from birth and now he was her loyal companion. He was one of the many battle dogs she’d bred and trained for her father since she was nine winters old, but Canute was hers and no other’s. For the last three years, he’d protected her like Canute’s father had protected her. Viciously. So viciously, no one else could get near her. She adored it.

Dagmar was well aware it was strange for a woman to be responsible for the dogs that a warlord like her father would use during battle, but he’d been unable to ignore the way she had with canines. But most especially, he couldn’t ignore the fact that she’d trained every battle dog within his province to respond only to her voice, her command. She’d only been a month shy of her tenth birthday when she’d plotted, planned, and executed her first victory. She clearly remembered standing in front of her father, every vicious, uncontrollable battle dog standing in front, beside, or behind her at attention and waiting for orders. Squinting up at her father, for even then her long-distance sight had been failing, Dagmar softly explained, “I am sorry your trainer lost his arm, Father. Perhaps you need someone who can handle these animals a bit better, with kindness rather than brutality.”

“You’re just a girl,” he’d snarled back, gesturing at her with that trainer’s torn and blood-drenched arm. “What do you know of war and battle?”

“I know nothing,” she very nearly whispered, her eyes downcast. “But I do know dogs.”

“Show me then. Show me what you know.”

Lifting her gaze to meet her father’s, she’d pointed at one dog, then motioned to one of the guards. Only one of the eighteen dogs charged over and tore into the guard that had once referred to her as “that ugly girl.”

Her father watched the dog do what he’d been trained to do, not at all concerned with the guard screaming for help.

“Very good,” he’d finally said, but she’d known the test wasn’t over.

“Thank you.”

“Now call him back.”

They both knew this to be the true challenge because the Reinholdt battle dogs could often be uncontrollable once the bloodlust got them. Many of them were often put down by their own handlers at the end of battle.

So, still keeping her father’s gaze, Dagmar again raised her fingers, gave a short whistle, and motioned with her hand. The dog had dropped his screaming, crying, and bleeding prey immediately, trotting back to her side and sitting in the spot he’d left. His tongue hanging out, blood on his muzzle, he’d stared at Dagmar, waiting for her next command.

At the time, her father had only grunted, walking off with the trainer’s arm still in tow as it left a bloody trail behind him. Yet by the time her sixteenth winter passed, Dagmar had complete control of the kennels and any dog—working or pet—on her father’s lands.

Stopping abruptly when Canute did, Dagmar waited until a chalice flew past her head and into the wall beside her. Another fight between one of her brothers and his wife.

Not even bothering to look, she stepped over the rolling and dented chalice on the floor and headed to the Main Hall. Her father sat at the main dining table; several of her brothers sat near or across from him as did their wives, but the chair next to him was vacant because it was Dagmar’s chair. Something she knew annoyed her sister-in-law Kikka, who sat glaring at her from across the table.

As she walked in and took her seat, her father shoveled food into his mouth as if afraid the thick porridge would try and make a run for it. As always, she ignored the sight of her father feeding.

In her world, there were worse things than bad table manners.

“Father.”

Her father grunted. He’d never been a talkative man, but he especially had little to say to his only daughter. After twelve sturdy sons from three different wives—two had run away and Dagmar’s mother had passed away during childbirth—he never expected a daughter. And he never expected a daughter like her. When drunk, he often bemoaned the fact that she hadn’t been born a man. He could do more with her if she was useful, rather than something he simply had to protect.

It should hurt her that after all this time her father still didn’t recognize what she did for his fiefdom. How much she contributed, including the defenses she’d designed, the dogs she’d trained to save the lives of his men during battle, or the important truces she’d help to arrange. But why waste time being hurt? It wouldn’t change anything and would only take precious time out of her day.

Dagmar reached for a loaf of bread and tore it apart. “The new batch of puppies looks very promising, Father. Very strong. Powerful.” She tore the half of bread in her hands once more and gave Canute a portion.

Her father grunted again, but instead of waiting for an answer she didn’t expect, Dagmar dug into the hot porridge one of the servants placed before her. Their mornings together, when he wasn’t off defending his lands, were often like this. In fact, she’d become so very used to the silence or occasional grunt that when her father suddenly did speak to her, Dagmar nearly choked on her food.

“Pardon?” she said, once she’d swallowed.

“I said what message did you send out a few days ago with my seal on it?”

Dammit.
“You allow me to use your seal and sign your name to almost all correspondence. So you’ll have to be more specific, Fa—”

“Cut to it,” he snarled.

So she would. “I sent a message to Annwyl of the Dark Plains.”

He stared at her for so long, she knew he had no idea who she meant. “All right.”

Without another word, he stood and picked up his favorite battle ax. Mornings were for battle training in the Northlands, when the two suns were in the sky but the air was still at its coldest. As her father walked out of the Main Hall, Kikka put down her spoon and loudly asked, “Isn’t Annwyl of Dark Plains also called the Mad Bitch of Garbhán Isle?”

Dagmar had only a moment to look coldly across the table at her worthless sister-in-law when The Reinholdt stormed back in, Dagmar’s brothers suddenly disappearing in the face of their father’s rage.

The blade of The Reinholdt’s ax slammed into the dining table, the sound of cracking wood scattering the remaining servants. Before Dagmar could speak a word, her father yelled,
“You sent a message to that crazy bitch?”

Gwenvael stared at the Queen of Dark Plains and worried. She seemed so weak. Weaker than he’d ever seen her before. And pale, which didn’t fit a warrior queen who spent most of her time outdoors with her troops, killing all those in her way. Her skin had always been golden brown from the sun. Not as brown as Talaith and Izzy, but they were from the deserts of Alsandair where everyone was born in varying shades of brown. Annwyl was not.

Yet these last few months, as her belly grew larger and her twins more active inside her, Annwyl had seemed to have none of the glow of other first-time human mothers he’d seen throughout his travels. Instead, she looked drawn and tired.

“What is it, Annwyl?”

At least she’d finally stopped crying, but now she stood at the window and silently stared down into the courtyard.

“What’s wrong, my queen? You’re not your usual self.”

She smiled. “I’m not your queen.”

“You are when I’m here. And as your loyal and most loving of subjects, I just want to help.”

“I know you do.”

“So what is it, Annwyl? What is it that has you so worried that I’d bet five gold pieces you haven’t even told Fearghus.” When she turned farther away from him, he sat down in one of the sturdy straight-back chairs and held his hand out to Annwyl—he wasn’t fool enough to approach her again when she was in a mood. Not with those damn swords no more than arm’s length from her. “Come tell Gwenvael what you cannot tell my dear—but not nearly as handsome or charming—brother.”

After a long moment, Annwyl took Gwenvael’s hand and allowed him to place her on his lap. He stroked her back while she dug into the pocket of her gown. She handed over the piece of parchment, and Gwenvael immediately looked at the wax seal still stuck to part of it. He didn’t bother immediately reading the letter itself because he’d found that
who
letters came from mattered almost as much, if not more, than what was actually stated inside.

“Whose seal is this? I don’t recognize it.”

Annwyl let out a sigh. “The Reinholdt.”

“The Reinholdt?” He frowned in thought; then his body jolted. “Good gods! That madman from the north?”

“The very one.”

“Honestly …” He glanced again at the letter. “I didn’t know anyone in the Reinholdt Clan could write.”

Dagmar patiently waited while her father ranted. He must have had another sleepless night, because he lasted longer than usual. Although she was impressed by two things when her father got like this toward her. Not once had he ever touched her in anger or with violence and not once had he ever made his screaming fits personal. While more than one of her sisters-in-law had called her “plain bitch” or “ugly sow” when wittier words had failed them, her father always kept it about his issue. And his issue was usually that Dagmar had overstepped her bounds.

Usually … she had.

When her father finally stopped long enough for her to speak, she said, “I think you underestimate what Queen Annwyl can do for us.”

“Besides bring her love of blood to our door?”

“Father,” she soothed, “you can’t listen to rumor.” She smiled. “That’s my job.”

“Ohhh, you have a job now?” Kikka asked sweetly, all smiles.

And, all smiles herself, Dagmar asked her, “I didn’t know Eymund bought you a new dress. It’s beautiful!”

Her brother Eymund, who’d been conspicuously absent upon their father’s return, walked back into the Main Hall. “What? What new dress?” He glared at his young wife. “New dress?”

Kikka’s glare was almost worth every moment of having to deal with The Reinholdt.

Dagmar turned back to her father and raised her voice to be heard over her brother’s yelling. “Now, Father, I do understand your concerns. But we cannot ignore the kind of ally Queen Annwyl would make. It is believed she has near a hundred legions at her disposal. All of them trained and ready.”

Her father rested his big fists on the table, and Dagmar knew she was no longer talking to the frightening warlord feared throughout the Northlands, but Sigmar Reinholdt. The man who cared greatly for his people and his kinsmen. “It’s Jökull you’re worried about. Isn’t it?” he asked, not looking at her.

“With good reason. We can no longer ignore your brother.”

“I ain’t been ignoring him!”

“He’s increasing his troops, buying them apparently. Your men are clearly preparing for a siege. I want to help and Queen Annwyl allows me that.”

“I don’t need your help, little miss.”

“No. You need hers. And I see no shame in it.”

Her father cleared his throat, glanced around, and muttered, “You know this ain’t ya fault.”

Unfortunately, she didn’t know that. But when she didn’t reply to his statement, her father took a large breath and slowly let it out. “What are we giving her?”

“Information.” They could afford to give her little else.

“You and that bloody information.”

“It’s what I barter in.” She leaned forward, looking him right in the eyes—one of the few unafraid to do so. “I need you to trust me on this.”

He snorted and stared down at the table, Dagmar patiently waiting.

When he finally grabbed hold of his ax handle, yanking the weapon from the table, she knew she’d won—or at least gotten a short-term reprieve.