"Comforting."

"Grab hold of my long, luxurious mane and hoist yourself up."

"I don't hoist, dragon."

"Grab hold then."

She put the strap of her satchel across her shoulders and grabbed onto his mane. She felt his tail slide under her rear and lift her. She gave a startled squeal.

"Just being helpful," he said before she could start stabbing at his tail with her eating knife. "Now tighten your thighs against my neck and hold on to my hair."

He stepped off the edge of the building and his wings extended from his back. The Northland winds caught him, lifting them up. He glided for a bit before moving his wings to take them higher. Dagmar stared out over the world, fascinated by what she saw. To look down on everything was amazing, to feel this free was addicting.

He flew her around the town and lands for nearly an hour. She had no idea why he stayed out that long, but she didn't complain. Why bother when she loved every second of it?

He brought her back to the fortress and she pointed out her window to him. He landed against the wall, his claws holding him in place. She clung to him, terrified she'd slip off his back and fall to her death straight below. But then his tail wrapped around her waist and lifted her up.

"Open your window."

She did, and the tail carried her inside. It didn't unwind from her waist until her feet touched the floor.

"I have to say, Lady Dagmar, that is the best time I've had in quite a while where I was not the one bedding a woman."

Dagmar placed her elbow on the windowsill, her chin resting on her fist. "I know it was hard for you not to give him direction."

"It was! He was a mess."

She curled her lip in distaste. "And messy. If you understand the difference."

"I do."

"Think my sister-in-law enjoyed it?"

"How could she when she spent the whole time thinking about how she was fooling your brother?"

"How do you know she was thinking that?"

"I know. I've seen that look before."

She bet he had.

"In the morning, Lady Dagmar, I'll need you to trust me."

"That doesn't sound very good."

"It will. But you'll have to trust me."

She nodded, hoping that he would trust her as well-even though she most likely wouldn't deserve it.

He walked back toward his room, his steps light even as his talons tore into the stone face.

Canute growled behind her and Dagmar turned, raising her hand. Canute immediately sat. "Good boy."

Then she felt it, sliding across her a.s.s, briefly sliding under her dress and between her legs ...

By the time she spun around, the tail was gone. She leaned out the window and Gwenvael said, "See you in the morning, Lady Dagmar," before he disappeared into his own room after a flash of flame and naked male taunted her.

She closed her window and put her hand to her chest. She seriously hoped she'd gauged him correctly. If not, she could end up no better off than that idiot Kikka.

Except that Dagmar had much more to lose than mere dignity.

Chapter 9.

Olgeir the Wastrel of the Olgeirsson Horde spat into the ground beside his claws. He should be angry. They were on his territory. As one of the mighty Northland dragon warlords, his territories ranged from the Mountains of Suspicion in the High North Plains, to the River of Destruction in the west, straight out to the Vile Seas in the east. His territory stopped at the Outerplains, which marked the territorial lines between him and that dragon-b.i.t.c.h queen.

Although he dreamed of ruling all the Northlands, it was the thought of claiming that Southland b.i.t.c.h's territory that made him hard. He and several warlords had briefly banded together and declared war on Queen Rhiannon more than a century ago, but the lot of them couldn't stop bickering amongst themselves long enough to put up a decent defense, much less a proper offense. Attacking faster than anyone thought they would, those prissy Southlanders swarmed over the Northland borders and decimated some of the finest warriors Olgeir had ever known.

He'd tried to warn the other warlords. Tried to warn them about Rhiannon's consort. Bercelak the Vengeful was no pampered monarch who liked to play warrior. He was one of the Cadwaladr Clan, low-born lizards the Southland royals used like the humans used their battle dogs. Calling them to duty when the royals had a war or needed protecting, tossing them sc.r.a.ps, and locking them outside in the cold when there was peace. But none of that lot seemed to mind; instead they spent most of their lives going from one battle to another, even fighting with humans as human when the dragons were at peace. Yet among the Cadwaladr, it was Bercelak who had the most brutal reputation in all the dragon nations.

Olgeir still remembered what happened when one of Bercelak's warrior-sisters was captured by Northland warlords during a war several centuries ago, when Rhiannon's mother held the throne. Bercelak captured the eldest sons of the enemy warlords and tore their scales off, piece by piece. He sent the scales back, each batch wrapped up like a present, to the corresponding fathers. He included no written message, nor did the ones who brought the pieces back have anything to impart. But his message was clear ... Either his sister was released-wings intact-or the warlords would be getting wings and limbs next as "gifts."

Bercelak still ruled by the current Dragon Queen's side, but he was older now. Those prissy sons of his went into battle the last go round. They fought well enough, but Olgeir didn't worry about them like he did their father-the Horde simply hadn't been prepared then. Yet he still had to beware of the Cadwaladrs. Last Olgeir had heard, they were fighting in the Western Mountains, but when he decided to strike, he had to make sure they were dealt with first.

And Olgeir would strike. He'd see that dragoness brought to heel and her land made his, if it was the last thing he did.

First, though, he had to deal with that treacherous son of his.

He had many sons, Olgeir did. Nineteen last count. But this one, his eighth born ... he was the smartest of the lot. And could cause the most problems. He'd already turned at least two of his cousins to his cause, and Olgeir had no doubts at least one of his sons would follow the traitor. He was persuasive, that one, always plotting and planning to be warlord, as if Olgeir would simply hand it over to him.

Olgeir had always warned that idiot's mother he read too much, spent too much time with those mages and monks uttering the countryside. Now he thought he was better than his father.

And, unfortunately for him, he'd have to learn the hard way he wasn't.

A strong claw closed over Olgeir's shoulder; one of his many nephews leaned in. "I just received word a Southland dragon was spotted over Reinholdt territories."

Olgeir's lip curled. "Anyone we know?"

"Not sure yet."

He motioned to three of his grandsons. "Send them to check it out."

"They may have to bring him down."

"So? We have what we need." And she's perfect, he inwardly sighed as he thought of the prize safely chained inside his mountain fortress.

His nephew sent off the three with their instructions and came back to his uncle. "And what about that lot?"

Olgeir looked at the ones caught traveling through his territories. It was because of them he was out here before the two suns rose. Their kind were rarely sighted this far from the brutal Ice Lands. But when they were seen-this time because of a tunnel cave-in-alarms went up. They were unstable, as most from the Ice Lands were, but mighty fighters in their own right. Even dragons had to be careful around them.

There were over forty of them, all standing tall and powerful, but they were nothing more than animals, the lot of them. Yet these animals had a higher purpose. A higher purpose he had no problem supporting.

"Take them to the tunnels near the bridge and send them on their way."

"You know where those tunnels lead, Uncle. Are you sure?" Olgeir grinned, entertained by how every one of the beasts had carved the G.o.ddess Arzhela's name into their chests with knives. They hadn't even bothered to wipe off the blood and some of the wounds weren't healing very well. But they were zealots, and that's what zealots did.

"Oh, I'm sure." He patted his nephew's shoulder. "Let them go to her. Let them honor their dead G.o.d."

He headed back to his den, his guards behind him. "If they kill her, half our battle is won."

Dagmar was well into the middle of an odd dream involving dessert cream and a dragon's tail when her bedroom door banged open. She sat up immediately, still caught between being awake and asleep when she yelled out, "I did not lie!"

Three of her brothers stood in her doorway staring at her. Which ones? She had no idea. All she could see were blurry outlines.

"What is it?" she demanded loudly over Canute's hysterical barking. "Canute!" The dog fell to a low, threatening growl while she reached over to the small table beside her bed, her hands trying to find her spectacles.

"Father needs you downstairs. Now." She recognized Valdis's voice, felt his hand press her spectacles into her palm.

"Why? What's wrong?"

"Just get dressed. We'll wait for you in the hall."

She didn't have time for a bath, so she had to make do with scrubbing up at the basin and hurriedly getting dressed. As soon as she tied the scarf over her hair, she walked into the hallway and immediately her brothers pushed her toward the stairs. The moment they entered through the door into the Main Hall, Dagmar sent Canute off for a break and a chance to play with the other dogs in the side yard. Once the dog disappeared through the doorway, Valdis grabbed her wrist and dragged her to her father's private rooms.

He pulled the door open and pushed her in. She immediately saw her father at the big table that took up most of the room. As usual it was covered in maps and missives from troops who were stationed at key points throughout the countryside.

On the opposite side of the table was Gwenvael. As soon as the door opened, he turned around with a huge grin and exclaimed, "Eymund!" Then he saw her and his expression crumbled. "Oh. h.e.l.lo, Lady Dagmar."

"Lord Gwenvael. Valdis, would you have a servant bring me-" But her brothers were long gone, the door slamming behind them. Shaking her head, she walked over to the table. "You asked for me, Father?"

"Aye. Uh ... Lord Gwenvael here needs that information you've got."

"No."

Her father pointed a finger at her. "Look-"

"I said I was sorry," Gwenvael cut in, expertly rolling his eyes like a small child.

"That's very big of you. And yet I am in no mood to be forgiving."

Her father slammed his hands against the table and stood.

Dagmar motioned him to the door. "May I talk to you outside for a moment, Father?"

She walked out into the hallway, her brothers-all twelve of them-nowhere to be found.

Waiting until her father stepped outside, she closed the door and faced him. "What is going on?"

"He needs to go."

"Why? He's been utterly polite and-"

"I don't want to make a big thing of this, girl, but he needs to go. Today. So just tell him what he wants to know."

Now it had begun, and she had only one chance to make this work with all involved. First-her father.

"And lose out on a perfect opportunity?" she asked, her heart beating fast, although she knew her face showed her father nothing.

"What opportunity? What you think you'll get from him?"

"Father," she said, making sure to add a note of impatience, "if you're simply going to hand the information over to him anyway, give me ten minutes to see what I can get on my own. Where's the harm?"

"I don't know-"

"At the very least let Eymund try," she offered innocently. "Lord Gwenvael seems to like him."

"No!" Her father took a breath, fought for calm. She made sure to look appropriately bewildered, hours in front of her mirror practicing finally paying off. He motioned her toward the door. "Go. Talk to him. You got until I get myself a pint to get something out of him. After that you tell him everything and get him out of here."

"Yes, Father." She pushed open the door, walked in, and quietly shut it.

She sat in her father's chair on the other side of the table. The dragon, in chain mail and a surcoat, had his boot-shod feet up on the table.

He smiled at her. "Well?"

"We've got ten minutes."

"All right." He dropped his feet to the floor and placed his hands on top of the wood. They stared at each other across the distance. "So what do you want?"

"Five legions."

"Five?" he asked, incredulous. "Are you mad?"

"No. You want to save that precious queen of yours, don't you?"

"Ten army units. That seems fair."

"Don't insult me, Lord Gwenvael. Four legions."

"How do I know your information is worth even one army unit, much less four full legions?"

"It is."