What a Dragon Should Know (8 page)

Closing his book, he asked, “What did Gwenvael do now? Do I need to contact my mother? Are we already in war, or is it simply heading our way?”

Brastias, whose scarred face looked grim at the best of times, smiled. “Any time I start a conversation that way, all of you ask me the same questions.”

“My brother starts trouble the way horses shit when they walk. And we all know that.”

“It’s nothing like that, I’m afraid. And you might prefer that it were a problem with Gwenvael instead.”

“What’s wrong?”

“You need to see. Telling you will reveal nothing.”

Brastias led him out to the training fields. As Annwyl’s armies had grown, so had the multiple areas used specifically for training. The one Brastias took him to was the one they used for the new trainees. Briec’s daughter was one of those trainees. She spent most days with her training unit, but came and went from the castle as she felt the need. And although her mother—his dear, sweet,
quiet
Talaith—waited impatiently for Izzy to lose all interest in being a warrior, Briec feared that day would never come, for Izzy talked and dreamed constantly of being in battle, of being a warrior.

Yet every time Briec saw his Izzy she had a new bruise or cut or some part of her was swollen to twice its normal size. When she did join them all for dinner, she’d come in with a scowl that could terrify the gods, limping or with her arm in a splint or bandages wrapped around a nasty head wound. While eating she’d fall asleep at the table, and Talaith and Briec would take her to her room so she could sleep in her own bed. By morning she was gone, back out with her unit for more training, more bruises, more pain.

To say it drove his Talaith mad would be a grave understatement. For sixteen years she’d done all she could to protect a daughter she’d never held in her arms. Izzy had been brutally taken from her by those who worshipped a goddess hell-bent on revenge. They’d used Izzy’s life as the yoke that kept Talaith in line, training her to one day kill on order. When mother and daughter finally met, all was wonderful. Until Izzy decided she wanted to be part of Annwyl’s army. After so many years of trying to protect her daughter, of doing things she’d never be proud of to keep her daughter safe, Talaith now had to worry her precious and only child would be killed on the battlefield. It was a concern any parent of warriors might have, but Talaith simply refused to accept that this was what Izzy wanted. At least for now.

Talaith clung to the hope that Izzy, who had a tendency to walk into walls or trip over her own large feet, would bore of this like she seemed to bore of most things. And although he’d never admit it out loud, part of him hoped the same thing. Izzy may not be his by blood, but she was his daughter in every other way. He didn’t want to see her harmed or put at risk any more than her mother did. In truth, Talaith and Izzy were the few beings he had any tolerance for. Even when they annoyed him, it never entered his head to blast them with flame—and dust the remaining ashes from his life. There were few about whom he could say the same.

Briec leaned against the wood fence surrounding the arena, briefly regarding the other army officers and some of Annwyl’s Elite Guard standing around with him. “Now what?”

Brastias rested his arms against the top of the fence and let out a sigh before he began. “When we took Izzy in, it was with the understanding that if she failed, she’d have to go. Not only for her safety, but for the safety of those in battle with her.”

“Of course. I’ll not have my daughter in danger because she has some pipe dream of being a warrior.”

“Aye,” Brastias mumbled. “Pipe dream.”

Briec flinched a bit. “How bad is she?”

“You need to see.”

Brastias motioned to one of the trainers and that man called out, “Iseabail, Daughter of Talaith, come forward and fight!”

Briec could see where this was going. Brastias, weak human that he was, wanted Briec to be the one to break the news to Izzy that she still had much more training to do before she moved to the next level. Not good, because his daughter had little patience for the normal way of things and she wanted to be a soldier in Annwyl’s army
now.

Izzy stepped into the training area. She had more bruises on her face, and her lip had been split open. But none of that took away from the beauty she’d gotten from her mother. Although at only seventeen winters she was still all legs, having not really filled out yet. And she was still getting taller. Right now, she was as tall as Annwyl, able to look the six-foot-tall human queen directly in the eye. But in a few more years, Izzy would blossom, rounding out a bit to resemble her mother even more only with light brown eyes and lighter brown hair.

Already, though, the unworthy local boys had been looking closely at Briec’s daughter. A little too closely. And those who had tried to move past mere looking, Briec, Fearghus, and Gwenvael took great delight in slapping around until they learned that anything
but
looking at his daughter could get a man killed.

Weighed down with a short sword and the full-length metal shields Annwyl’s army favored for close in battles, Izzy glanced around the arena. She wasn’t looking for anyone, he’d guess, but her mind had wandered. Izzy’s mind wandered a lot, it seemed.

Izzy spotted him and her grin grew wide. “Daddy!” she squealed and waved excitedly with the hand holding the sword. She almost hit herself in the head with it too, and had apparently forgotten she’d seen Briec only that morning near the stables.

He smiled back at her. “Hello, little one.”

“Are you here to watch?”

“I am.”

She scrunched up her nose nervously and said, “Oh. Well, remember … I’m still learning!” And she gave him that hopeful look that tore his heart out.

He nodded at her and muttered to Brastias, “It’s only been seven months. Perhaps, you could give her another—”

“You have to see.” Brastias motioned to the trainer, who motioned to a huge bear of a man. A man Briec recognized from battles they’d been in together. This was no fellow trainee, but one of Annwyl’s favored warriors, whom she affectionately referred to as “Slaughter-Bear.”

Briec felt his anger grow, wondering why they were trying to push his daughter out. Most trainees had until they were twenty-one winters to prove they were worthy of any more time and training before they were sent packing. “This is cruel, Brastias. I won’t allow—”

“You have to see,” Brastias said again. “Go!” he yelled at the two combatants, and Izzy smiled and nodded.

Briec did see then. He saw so clearly that he knew his problem was worse than he could have imagined. Worse than he’d ever dreamed of. For the first time in his life he didn’t know how he was going to handle something. Because he knew this would get dangerously ugly before it ever got better. And he knew there’d be no avoiding it. Not now.

Every warrior standing outside the training ring grimaced when they heard bone break and a cry of pain seconds before Annwyl’s favored warrior flew into the fence, knocking part of it and himself completely out.

“Oh!” Izzy said, her teeth briefly gnawing her bottom lip. “Sorry, Captain, about your … uh … face.” She grimaced and slowly peeked over at Brastias. “Sorry about that, General. I guess I forgot to back off … again.”

Slowly, so slowly, Brastias looked at Briec. The expression on the man’s face, the tic under his eye made it clear what Briec needed to do.

But how was a dragon, any dragon, supposed to tell the woman he loved that her only daughter, not yet eighteen, would be going off to war?

Dagmar made sure the last of her dogs were in their runs, fed, and cared for. It took some time to calm them down, the fear of the dragon lingering, but for being not even a year old, they’d done well. They hadn’t backed down from the dragon at all. Good. She couldn’t afford for the dogs to be cowering during battle.

After saying good night to Johann, Dagmar headed back to the fortress, Canute by her side. When she walked into the Main Hall, she wasn’t exactly surprised to find her kin in the midst of a fight. It was a verbal altercation, not yet moving into a physical one. Although it most likely would. Her brothers needed very little reason to fight and as long as she stayed out of their way, she rarely got injured.

Yet the arguing stopped as soon as she walked in, her brothers immediately focusing on her.

Dagmar paused. “Yes?”

“He’s in your room?” Eymund asked, leaning against one of the long dining tables.

“Yes. He wanted to take a bath.”

“A bath?”

“Yes. In a tub. Not everyone feels the need to face the freezing cold water of the river.”

“That’s all well and good, but he shouldn’t be in your room, sister.”

In no mood for any of this, Dagmar walked off, tossing over her shoulder, “I know. He might be writhing all over my bed like a big cat or sniffing my shoes.”

“Or having a hearty snack.”

It was something in his tone that made Dagmar stop. “I sent up cheese and bread.”

“That’s not hearty. Not for
him.”

“Is it true?” Valdís rested his arm on Eymund’s shoulder. “Da says he’s that dragon from earlier only changed to look like a man. Can they really do that?”

“Yes. It’s true.”

“That must be from those gods you don’t believe in.”

His sarcasm unappreciated, she said, “I am not, once again, explaining my belief system to—” She stopped abruptly. They were all smiling. Her kinsmen didn’t smile unless they were drunk or they’d killed something. They wouldn’t kill the dragon, or even try, since he was under the protection of their father for the night. Then what had they done?

Dagmar glanced around the room, looking for something that might tell her what was going on. Something out of place or missing …

She scanned the room again, counting this time. “Where’s that puppy from Tora’s litter?” Unlike the rest of the puppies, who were already in training, the too-small, scared little bundle would become a house pet instead of battle dog. He’d feast on scraps, play with children, and basically live a happy, if useless, life.

“What puppy?” Eymund asked, trying to look appropriately innocent.

Dagmar glared at them all. “You bastards!” she nearly yelled, lifting the gown of her skirt and tearing across the hall. Her brothers’ laughter followed her as she ran through the back hallway to the stairs and up to the second floor.

She was panting by the time she reached her closed bedroom door, horrified she could actually feel a tiny bit of sweat trickling down her back. She didn’t
sweat!
And that her brothers made her exert herself in any way was something she’d be getting retribution for at a later date. Yet for now …

Dagmar pushed her room door open, but the dragon was not in the tub. Quickly surveying the area, she finally spotted his wet, naked ass trying to wiggle under her bed.

“Come here, little one,” he crooned seductively. “Just a little closer, you yummy little thing you.”

Disgusted, appalled, and angry beyond anything she could ever remember before, Dagmar grabbed the naked bastard by his ankle and yanked him out from under her bed, her outrage temporarily providing the strength she needed to move such a large, dog-eating son of a bitch.

“Oy!”
he yelped before turning over and cradling that frighteningly large weaponry he had between his legs. And, if she weren’t so upset, she might notice what an amazingly gorgeous human body he had. Unlike her kinsmen who were muscles on top of muscles, some of them appearing to have been born without necks because the size of their shoulders hid the evidence, the dragon at her feet was large but lean. No fat, no oddly shaped, overdeveloped muscles. His thighs were strong and powerful, his abdomen flat and tight, with an interesting but clear delineation between it and his hip bones.

Staring down at him, she realized her fingers twitched and her tongue rubbed the roof of her mouth, but she decided to ignore all that in favor of her anger.

He glared up at her. “I don’t appreciate the stone burn against my balls, woman!”

“And I don’t appreciate you going after one of my dogs—again!”

“Oh. That.” He cleared his throat and gave a little shrug. “Someone opened the door and threw it in. I’d just assumed it was a little treat from you to me.”

So the little barbarian did have a temper after all. At least when it came to her dogs. And her temper was in full swing as she raised her leg and brought her foot down over his cock.

He knew he had the area protected by his hands, but Gwenvael still curled on his side, grunting in pain as her foot slammed down on the area near his kidney instead.

“Stay away from my dogs, dragon!
All
of my dogs. From the smallest to the largest,” she ordered, marching over him and over her bed to track down the little fur ball hiding on the other side. “Every dog in this fortress and on these lands belongs to
me.
You are not to touch them, speak to them, or go near them in any way.”

She marched back over the bed and over him, with the puppy now in her arms. She petted him and crooned to him softly.

“It’s a dog, little barbarian,” he sighed with absolutely no pity. “And only a dog. Sometimes I use their bones to pick my teeth.”

With a snarl, she leaned down and grabbed a handful of his wet hair, nearly yanking it from his head.

“Ow! Get off!” He slapped at her hands, trying to get the unhinged female to release his precious and lovely hair. Women always spoke of how they loved when his hair draped across their bodies and how they loved to stroke it before they eventually started stroking him. The last thing he needed was some mad woman removing it.

She gave one more strong tug before she released him and stepped out of his reach. “Listen well,
creature.
Touch my dogs and I’ll do to you what I do to the male dogs I decide not to breed!”

With fascination, Gwenvael watched Dagmar carefully and precisely rein in her sudden burst of temper. When those grey eyes locked on him again, they were as cold as ice.

“Now that we have that clear, I’ll leave you to finish your bath, Lord Gwenvael.”