The Reinholdt himself seemed to be completely clueless unless he had a war ax in his hands. Surprisingly short for a Northlander, The Reinholdt made up for it with width—his shoulders and chest disturbingly large, his muscles near busting from his clothes. Yet beyond his appearance, the stumpy Northlander reminded Gwenvael a bit of his own father, Bercelak the Great. His father was never as happy as when he was killing someone or something in battle—politics absolutely bored the older Black dragon.
Gwenvael scratched his head. Yes, yes, he could read the old Reinholdt well enough. But it was the girl…dammit! She was the key. He knew it! It wasn’t merely the knowledge she had about Annwyl either. There was something else about that girl…woman…whatever. Really, if he didn’t know better, he’d swear she was a dragon with those damn cold eyes and features. She had a young face, but those eyes were filled with ageless knowledge that she used for her own selfish gains.
Not that he couldn’t admire that a bit since he did the same.
He had to go back. He knew he did. And he realized now that going back just to take her and seduce her would not work. Not with her. She wouldn’t swoon at a mere look from his human self. She wouldn’t be entranced by the extraordinary beauty of his face or the exquisiteness of his human body. Nor would she be intimidated by threats and yelling.
He’d have to go a different way, but first he’d have to get in and see her. To go back in his true form would be useless. He’d have to be human and…
Gwenvael smiled, the etiquette of the Northland rulers and its people coming back to him in a sudden flash. Yes, yes. That would work. The woman he’d faced today knew her etiquette, kept her own council, and played by the rules. At least…she did as far as everyone else was concerned.
It would only buy him a night, but that would be enough.
He’d make it enough, because he wouldn’t fail Annwyl on this. Not this. She’d nearly broken his heart when she sent him off, kissing his cheek and holding him for a long time in a hug before telling him, “Don’t listen to the others. I know you’ll be amazing in the north. Just be careful and watch your back, Gwenvael.”
That’s when Gwenvael knew she had more faith in him than any of his own blood. She was entrusting him with her life and the lives of her babes. And if he had to go so far north that he entered the forbidden Ice Lands himself, he’d do it. He wouldn’t let any harm come to Annwyl.
He walked to the mouth of the cave and stood there a moment, staring down at the countryside below, until that scent he knew so well tore into his nostrils. He should have caught it sooner, but he’d been deep in his thoughts and now he only had a moment to use the shadows around him. A gift from the blood of his loving Grandfather Ailean, Gwenvael’s scales changed colors until he became one with the cave shadows surrounding him.
Right on time too, as they came into view seconds later. Four of them, all big, bold…and purple.
Lightning dragons. Also called the Horde dragons. He’d fought their kind for the first time during a war nearly a century ago. They were barbarians but mighty warriors, and he had the permanent scars to prove it.
These days, some would say the Lightnings lived in peace with the dragons of the Southlands, but that wasn’t remotely true. There was a truce, but it was a delicate one, easily broken at any moment. All that kept a new war from starting was the fact that the Lightnings were broken up into fiefdoms, similar to the way the Northland humans were. They didn’t consider themselves monarchs but warlords. They were often so busy fighting each other, they rarely had the energy or time to take on the armies of the Southland Dragon Queen.
Still, Gwenvael had moved carefully through the territories leading to his Northland destination. Olgeir the Wastrel controlled the Outerplains—the borderlands between the north and the south—as well as the territory overlapping the Reinholdt lands, and he’d never bothered to hide his outright hatred of Queen Rhiannon. He kept the truce, but not happily. And Gwenvael didn’t doubt for a minute what Olgeir would do if he caught one of Rhiannon’s male offsprings on his territory. Especially the one the Horde males referred to as “The Ruiner.”
The Lightnings moved past the cave, but one stopped, hovering in front of the entrance.
Gwenvael didn’t move or make a sound. He certainly didn’t charge the bastard. He wasn’t here to fight and he wasn’t a fool who thought he could take on a Lightning scout party and come out still intact.
The Lightning sniffed the air and inched a bit closer. As Gwenvael could smell the lightning inside the barbarian, the barbarian could scent the fire in Gwenvael.
So Gwenvael slowly lowered himself into a crouch, readying his body and flame to attack.
The Lightning was mere inches from entering the cave when Gwenvael heard the caw of a crow overhead. The Northlands were simply inundated with crows, it seemed. And, at the moment, Gwenvael had never been so grateful, as the crow’s shit unceremoniously landed on the Lightning’s snout.
The dragon’s eyes crossed as he tried to see it and he snarled. “Why you little mother—”
“Come on, you idiot!” another voice yelled farther ahead. “Move!”
Wiping the shit from his face, the Lightning followed after his comrades.
Letting out a sigh, Gwenvael stood at the very edge of the cave and looked up at the crows overhead. There had to be hundreds of them making good use of the limbs and vines that protruded from the mountain’s rock face.
“Thank you for that,” he offered kindly. And in answer, another crow unloaded itself, and Gwenvael hastily stepped back. “Oy, you tiny bastards! Watch the hair!”
When all those damn birds began to laugh at him, he was not pleased.
Chapter 4
Dagmar exited the library that only she ever went into and that only she ever maintained with Canute faithfully by her side. His paws silently padded against the stone floor as he kept pace with her.
It was time for training, and she didn’t like to be late. But she wasn’t exactly shocked when her father fell into step beside her, smartly staying on the opposite side of Canute.
“Well, that went well,” he grumbled. Her father had never been one for wasted words or preamble.
“Come to gloat?” she asked.
“No. Come to find out what you’re planning.”
Dagmar kept her gaze straight ahead and her expression purposely blank. “What makes you think I’m planning anything?”
“You’re still breathing, ain’t ya? Never known a day when you ain’t planning something. Plotting is what they call it.”
For once Dagmar didn’t have to step around people as they moved through the Main Hall; people automatically moved out of the way of The Reinholdt and anyone who happened to be with him.
“I’m not planning anything,” she assured him. “But don’t be surprised when it comes back in another day or two.”
“‘It?’ Don’t you mean ‘him’?”
“It. Him. Whatever.”
“And he’ll come back to what? Tear the place down?”
“Doubtful. He won’t want to harm the one who holds the information.”
“Always so sure, you are. Always so damn sure you’re right.”
With a shrug, she left her father by the doors leaving the Main Hall. “When have I ever been wrong?” she smugly asked.
Dagmar walked through the courtyard and around to the side near one of several barracks. She passed groups of men training hard to be the warriors her father expected. The Reinholdt had no patience for weakness or complaints of injuries. You fought and you fought well every time