What a Dragon Should Know (41 page)

“Now her death is on your head, human.” He placed Annwyl’s twins in Dagmar’s arms. “The question is … Will the twins’ deaths be on your head as well? I think so.”

“Wait—”

He turned from her, snapped his fingers, and when Dagmar blinked again she was no longer safe in the Garbhán Isle castle. She was underground in a tunnel somewhere, the babes in her arms crying because they’d felt the last gasp of their mother.

And at her feet was Annwyl’s naked corpse, the wound from where they’d opened her up to get to the babes no longer bleeding since there was nothing left inside her to bleed out.

Slowly Dagmar raised her gaze and kept raising it until she could look into the face of the nine-foot beast standing before her. The light from the torches they used to allow them to clearly see their work as they dug out one of the recently closed tunnels glinted off the creature’s horns.

“It seems today,” the Minotaur said softly, grinning down at her and the babes, “the gods have decided to treat their most loyal servants with gifts.”

It was something none of them had ever heard before. At least not in the context of true pain.

Their mother cried out.

Gwenvael spun around to look at her, along with everyone else in the room, as Rhiannon sat forward, her hand over her chest.

“Oh, gods. She’s dead, Fearghus.” She looked at her eldest son. “He took her from me. He ripped the life right from her body.”

They were all moving for the door when she said, “No.” She shook her head, still trying to get her breath back. “She’s gone.”

“What do you mean she’s gone?” Fearghus snapped.

“I mean she’s gone. The babes are gone. They’re gone. He took them.”

“No.” Morfyd stepped forward, her eyes unfocused as she saw what her mother saw. “He didn’t take them. He sent the babes away.”

“Where?” Gwenvael asked. “Where did he take them?”

Rhiannon closed her eyes, going inside herself for more information.

Bercelak pushed past his children and siblings and crouched in front of his mate. “What is it, Rhiannon?”

“He wanted me to see. To see what he did because seeing through her pain makes it harder—” She gripped Bercelak’s hand, her face contorting as she tried to see past a god’s tricks to the truth.

Rhiannon snatched her hand away from Bercelak and abruptly stood, her face red with rage as she snarled,
“That bastard.”

Fearghus moved toward his mother. “What is it? What has he done?”

“He sent them to the Minotaurs.”

The room fell silent, everyone standing for a moment, brutally stunned. Then Fearghus was stalking across the room and tearing the door open. Without even realizing it, he ripped it off its hinges, Briec and Gwenvael forced to step aside as it flew by.

They all stormed into the Great Hall, Talaith and Izzy waiting for them all.

The Nolwenn witch had felt it, too. She knew what had happened to her friend and the twins.

“They’re not alone,” Rhiannon called after them, and as one they all turned to face her.

“Who’s with her?” Fearghus demanded.

When his mother’s eyes rested on him, Gwenvael felt the breath stop in his lungs. “Dagmar?”

His brother asked him something, but he couldn’t hear him. He couldn’t hear anything above the roar in his ears as Gwenvael realized what had happened to Dagmar—and what
would
happen to Dagmar if they didn’t get to her and the babes in time.

Fearghus slammed his shoulder, snapping his attention back in the room.

“What?”
Gwenvael snarled.

“Will Dagmar buy us time?” Fearghus demanded.

“Yes,” Gwenvael nodded, already running toward the Great Hall doors. “She’ll buy us time.”

Dagmar stared up at the Minotaur standing over her. His eyes were brown, his hair shaggy and unclean, his face bovine with a flat, moist snout covered in some kind of unpleasant-looking mucus. He wore nothing more than a cloth made of some animal skin around his hips and a necklace made of what she would guess was pure gold. The chain was thick and broad and the medallion that hung at the end of it, the size of a small plate. She recognized the symbol of the goddess Arzhela immediately.

Dropping to one knee in front of the head Minotaur, Dagmar said, “I’m so happy to have found you, my lords. I’d taken the children when the chance presented itself, but it was not easy.”

“You
took the spawn?”

She nodded, but did not raise her gaze. “I knew you waited here, and at the death of their mother it seemed the most opportune time.”

He shoved the body at Dagmar’s feet with his hoof. She was glad her head was lowered and he couldn’t see the wince his actions caused.

“This one.
This
is the great Blood Queen of the South?”

“Yes. Giving birth is what killed her, my lord. As you can see, the … uh … spawn drained her of her very life.”

“Good. The whore deserved it.”

Another Minotaur stepped closer, crouching beside the body. He pressed big, meaty fingers against her throat, then nodded. “She’s dead.”

The head Minotaur stepped around Annwyl’s body and kicked it, sending it flying.

Dagmar bit the inside of her cheek when she heard it slam into a far wall, bones crushed from the pressure. The great human queen landed limply on the rocky ground, her remains unnaturally twisted.

It took all of Dagmar’s self-training to not cry out. To not order them as Only Daughter of the Reinholdt to treat the remains of the Great Blood Queen with reverence …

The Only Daughter of the Reinholdt …

“And as for you—”

She saw fur-covered hands reaching for her. “I am the Only Daughter of the Reinholdt,” she snapped. “You will not put your hands on me! And know that my father sent me here as an ambassador to the south so that I may assist you in your holy quest in retrieving the spawn of the demon queen.”

“Why”—another of them demanded—“would he send his daughter on such a mission?”

She got to her feet, the babes still tight in her arms. “He knew the demon queen would only trust a woman. And because I am The Beast.”

“You? You’re The Beast?”

“My father knew sending me here was dangerous, but no one else would be able to get close enough.”

“Or had the strength of will of The Beast to be around the whore.”

“Very true, my lord.” She looked at Annwyl’s broken body and her expression of disgust was real enough—but most likely not for the reasons they thought. “I’ve seen many things in that place that will keep me up at nights. Many horrors. But my father will be proud, for I have retrieved the spawn as he has commanded.”

“You’ve done well.” The head Minotaur praised, reaching for them. “Now we can cut their throats and head home this very night.”

“No.” Dagmar turned her body away from him to keep his hands off them. “We cannot kill them here. We must return with them to the north and give my father the prize of cutting off their useless little heads.”

“We cannot do that. They need to die before those dragons can find us.”

“We’ll have more to bargain with if they live.”

“Going home was never our intent, my lady. Killing them is. If any of us survive that and make it home alive, then it will be an extra gift from the gods. But our main goal—our only goal—is to see these atrocities dead before we do anything else.”

Would they understand the hypocrisy of referring to the twins as atrocities when they were standing cows?
Talking
standing cows?

No. Probably not.

“I cannot allow that,” she said with as much royal rudeness as she could muster. “Their deaths are not for …
you.”

“But the gods—”

“Your only purpose here, bovine, is to ensure my safe passage home. They will come for us and you will fight to protect me and most likely die. That is your only task.”

The males stood in confusion, glancing between each other. She knew she had them. Men were always so easy for her to twist when she needed to.

Tragically, Dagmar hadn’t counted on the female.

“She lies,” the female hissed, moving out from the shadows. Her dress was also made of animal skin but covered her from shoulders to hooves. She had no horns as the males did, but was slightly shorter than the tallest among them. The brown cape over her dress was wool. She had the hood pulled up to cover her hair and Dagmar could see the runes sewn into the fabric.

A priestess of Arzhela. Of some power, too.

“She protects those things she carries, with her very life.” She slammed her fist into the shoulder of whatever male stood closest to her, eliciting a grunt. “And you fools believe her.”

Dagmar could barely understand the female’s words because of the damage that had been done to her throat, which bore the old scar of a sword cut that went right across it. She could have gotten it in battle, but most likely it was the sacrifice she made to Arzhela. A true servant of the goddess that once was.

The priestess came closer, her hooves stomping loudly on the rocky ground. She stared hard at Dagmar as she approached.

“You’re wrong,” Dagmar tried again, attempting to sound bored and unimpressed. “My task is as simple as yours. Retrieve the spawn, return to my father. The Reinholdt.”

“She lies,” she hissed again.

“Are you doubting my word as a Northlander? Are you doubting I’m a Reinholdt?”

“You are a Reinholdt, Lady Dagmar. I have seen you before when I’ve passed through the Reinholdt lands. You
are
Dagmar Reinholdt. But you lie.” She leaned in close, her wet nose sniffing around her. “She has the smell of Rhydderch Hael all over her.”

“She is his disciple!” one of the males accused.

“No.” The priestess gave a small smile. “No. She worships no one. No god protects her. Cares for her. Even Rhydderch Hael. He is the one who sent her here. For us.”

“And the spawn?”

“They have failed him. He wants nothing to do with them.”

She reached to touch one and Dagmar immediately turned her body away.

Her voice low and controlled, she growled, “Keep your grubby, cow hands off them.”

The priestess leered. “The spawn are mine.” Her gaze moved to the males. “The woman … is all yours.”

Dagmar didn’t even manage the thought that she should run before a hand gripped her hair and yanked her back, the priestess quickly ripping Annwyl’s babes from her arms.

“No!” She reached out for the babes, desperate to get them back. Desperate to protect them with her life.

The head Minotaur stepped in front of her, his hand wrapping around her throat. “How could you not worship the gods? Even now they reward our sacrifice”—he shoved her back into the other Minotaurs—“with you.”

Soldiers, guards, and servants—the humans—all quickly moved out of their way as Gwenvael and his kin poured from the castle into the courtyard. They immediately shifted, Addolgar and Ghleanna heading off in opposite directions to scour the countryside, calling on their sons and daughters to join them. Rhiannon and Morfyd headed toward the lake to call upon gods to help them. Leaving the four brothers and their father.

Gwenvael, Briec, Éibhear, Bercelak, and Fearghus would start where the hoof prints were first located and move out from there, hoping that they were no more than a few leagues off.

But as Gwenvael took to the air, he heard a voice calling to him. He looked down and saw that it was Izzy. She waved her hands wildly and screamed his name.

He dropped lower. “What is it, Izzy?”

“Annwyl’s horse! Can you not hear him?”

Briec was by him now and they hovered for a moment trying to hear around and through the other noises of humans.

“I hear him,” Briec said. They both could. The horse was banging against his stall. He could have merely gone mad, sensing his mistress was dead. But Gwenvael didn’t think so. And neither did Izzy, it seemed. She took off running, cutting through and around humans with ease while her uncle and father flew low until they reached the queen’s personal stable.

Izzy ran inside even as her mother ran up behind her telling her to wait.

Éibhear moved past them all, grabbing hold of the stable roof and yanking it off with one great pull.

None of them had ever seen Violence act this way. He’d always been the calm center of the storm that was Annwyl, which was why Fearghus had chosen the stallion for his mate in the first place.

“Mourning?” Briec asked.

“I don’t think so.” Fearghus dropped a bit lower. “Izzy. Let him out.”

Izzy gripped the metal bolt holding the stall gate closed and locked, and yanked it back. The gate slammed open as the horse hit it again with his front hooves and without a moment’s hesitation, he charged out, running toward the great gates.

The horse no longer seemed mad with grief. Instead, he had a purpose and a destination.

“Open the gates! Now!”
Fearghus yelled to the guards before taking off after the beast, his brothers and father right by his side.

They grabbed her now-empty arms—and reason help her but she felt that emptiness to her soul—and dragged her back across the tunnel floor to where they’d stopped digging. They threw her to the ground and she scrambled back up.

Her mind desperately searched for a way out of this, but the power of the priestess over these males was absolute. In the north, a priestess of power was the one woman no man would dare argue with. Unfortunately the Minotaurs were no different from her kinsmen.

“You’ll have to forgive our roughness, my lady,” the head Minotaur said with absolute disdain. “It’s been months that we’ve been on this road and our priestess is rarely accommodating. But truly you won’t live long enough to mind that much.”

“You will pay for your betrayal of the Northland Code.”

“We are from the mighty Ice Lands. We are the true Northlanders. So any code you southerners use means nothing to us.”

And it was as the males were moving closer to her that Dagmar saw her, standing in the midst of them—unseen. Except by Dagmar. She seemed taller this time and no longer the poor sword-for-hire. How could Dagmar not have seen it before? How could she not have known?