She found it almost amusing the female had the nerve to ask. "I am Dagmar Reinholdt, Only Daughter of The Reinholdt."

"You're The Beast?"

"Some would say."

"I have to admit, you don't see it right off ... until you look in those eyes." Rubbing her forehead and wincing, Esyld went to a small table covered in dry herbs, half-burned ritual candles, several different daggers, and a wand. "I will say I appreciate how protective you are of him. He deserves that."

Not about to ask the same question yet again, Dagmar instead tried, "What's your connection to him?"

"Not what you think." She flashed Dagmar a smile over her shoulder. "He's my nephew."

"Nephew?"

"Aye." She brought a large bowl, a clean cloth, and a sharp dagger over to the bed. "My sister is Queen Rhiannon. When she came into power, I fled. I'm now called Esyld the Traitor by her court."

"And are you?"

"Not in a few centuries. Now"-she glanced down at Gwenvael-"help me tie him to the bed. And gag him."

It wasn't the first time he'd woken up to find himself tied to a bed. Nor was it the first time he'd woken up to find himself tied to the bed and gagged.

But usually when he woke up bound and gagged, he was always experiencing wonderful pleasure. Not pain. At least not this kind of pain. Pain so raw and brutal he tried to shift back to his true form several times but couldn't. He sensed it had something to do with the collar around his neck. It held great power and cut down on his.

Someone had tied him face down on the bed so they could rip something out of his body. Something vital? He had no idea. He only knew it hurt and he wanted the pain to stop. Needed it to. He couldn't think with all this pain. Couldn't understand where he was or how he'd gotten here. He couldn't see because of all the sweat pouring into his eyes, burning them. Yet he could hear a soft voice telling him it would be all right. Nothing to worry about. Just a bit more. But he knew she was lying. He knew this pain would last forever, and he didn't understand why she didn't just kill him. No one should suffer like this. Least of all him.

He felt the blade enter his flesh again and he screamed, the sound somewhat m.u.f.fled behind his gag.

G.o.ds, why wouldn't she just kill him?

Dagmar heard Gwenvael's m.u.f.fled scream again and she pulled her legs up onto the boulder she sat on, wrapping her arms around them. She'd tried to stay inside but her constant threats to Esyld finally forced the dragoness to order her to leave.

She'd gone, Dagmar was ashamed to admit, willingly.

She didn't know hearing someone suffer could bother her so. She'd been through childbirths with her sisters-in-law, some of them terribly difficult, and she'd been the cold, responsible one in the room the midwife always relied upon. She'd also a.s.sisted healers when her kinsmen had been badly wounded. One of her cousins had gotten his leg crushed by his own horse. She'd been the only one who'd stayed to help the healer cut it off. He'd been awake during the whole procedure, begging them not to do it, but Dagmar knew the healer had no choice.

Although she'd been relieved when her cousin finally pa.s.sed out, not once, during any of that, had she ever felt like this-as if she could feel every blade cut, every pull when Esyld tore the jagged pieces of metal from Gwenvael's exhausted body. Dagmar even felt like she could taste the vile concoction Esyld had poured down his throat before she'd begun cutting him open. She'd hoped it would be something for the pain, but it had only been to help Gwenvael's body flush out the poison through his skin.

Gwenvael screamed again, and Dagmar closed her eyes tight, resting her forehead against her knees. She took deep breaths and willed herself to be calm.

Small noises from the woods surrounding her caught Dagmar's attention. She lifted her head and watched the immense wolf pad softly toward her. She smiled at the sight of him.

A canine, any canine, was a welcome sight to her. Without Canute she was quite willing to risk a good mauling for the comfort of a four-legged friend.

"h.e.l.lo." He came up to her without hesitation and, keeping her fingers curled in, Dagmar brushed her knuckles across his head. "You need a bath," she teased.

"You're a brave one." A woman trekked out of the woods and over to Dagmar. "Those who see him are usually afraid of him."

"I do well with canines."

"You mind?" The woman motioned to the part of the boulder Dagmar wasn't sitting on.

"No."

"Thanks." She tugged the large pack she had on her back off and sat down hard, exhaling. "I'm b.l.o.o.d.y exhausted."

She was a warrior woman. A warrior woman who had seen better days ... or years. She looked to be somewhere near her fortieth winter and was covered in scars. There were scars on her face, hands, and neck. Dagmar a.s.sumed she had more, but they were covered by her clothes. It seemed the warrior was too poor for proper armor and had only an undertunic and a padded top, linen pants, and extremely worn leather boots. Her brown hair was long and curly with several warrior braids weaved throughout. But what fascinated Dagmar the most was the color of her skin. She was one of the desert people. Rarely did someone born that far south find their way to the Northlands. And especially not a female alone.

"I'm Eir," the woman said, pulling off her boot and revealing extremely large feet that bled from several blistered spots. She wiggled her toes and groaned in pain.

"I'm Dagmar. No socks?"

"They were so frayed, didn't see the point."

Dagmar opened her satchel. "Here. You can have these."

Eir took the wool socks from her. "You sure?"

"Yes. A ... My friend gave me a new pair. So you can have the extra one. You should wash them first, though."

The warrior shrugged and pulled them on, making Dagmar wince at the lack of hygiene.

"I can wash them later," she promised, and Dagmar decided not to question that.

Gwenvael screamed again, and Dagmar gritted her teeth. The wolf that settled at her feet pressed his extremely large head against her legs. She appreciated the comfort.

"That your friend?"

"Yes."

"Sounds like he's having a rough time of it."

"He is."

"I wouldn't worry. I hear the witch is a good healer." She pulled her old boots over her new socks and sighed. "Much better. Thank you."

"You're welcome." Dagmar, desperate to focus on anything but Gwenvael's pain and her panic, asked, "Why are you here?"

"Doing what I always do. Looking for a good battle to get into. A good fight. Nothing better than stumbling into a war that keeps you busy for a while."

A sword for hire. Some of the most unsteady work Dagmar knew of. "Do you enjoy that?"

"I enjoy wandering. Never staying in one place for too long. A really good battle keeps me busy for a bit, and then I move to the next place." She nudged Dagmar's shoulder with a hand missing its smallest finger. "Know of anything?"

"I wouldn't send you farther into the north. Your kind wouldn't do well there."

"My kind?"

"Yes. Female." Eir laughed, and Dagmar went on. "You'll find more work in the south and I hear there's a huge war in the west. You should go to Dark Plains. I've been told Queen Annwyl has quite a few females in her troops."

"I'll do that. Is that where you're heading?"

"I don't know. I don't know what I'm doing right now."

"I understand." She stood again, and her size roused Dagmar's suspicions. "You're not a dragon, are you?"

"Me?" She laughed. "G.o.ds, no! I wish. I'd love having a tail."

For the first time in hours, Dagmar smiled. "Wouldn't we all. Uh ..."

"Eir," she kindly reminded her.

"Eir. Yes. If you go that way about a half a league, you'll find a dead dragon."

Eir stared off in the direction Dagmar pointed. "Really?"

"There might be something you can scrounge off of him. He had a pouch. Might have something in there you could use." She held up her satchel. "It's as big as this. Although on him, it's just a pouch."

"All right."

Dagmar pointed off in front of her. "And out there somewhere, not sure how far, though, there are a couple of other dead dragons. You might be able to get something off them as well."

Eir grinned at her and Dagmar counted at least twelve scars on that face, one of them a huge gash that ran from her hairline to under her chin. "Thanks. I owe you one. For the socks," she added and laughed.

"You're very welcome." Dagmar rubbed the wolf's head and back as he got to his feet. "Take good care of this one. He has a wonderful temperament."

"Only when he's in the mood." She pulled her heavy pack on and headed off. "Good night to you, Dagmar."

"And to you, Eir." She smiled at the wolf. "Good-bye, new friend." The wolf nuzzled her nose and padded off after its handler.

She watched them disappear into the woods until the door of Esyld's house opened. The dragoness walked out, using a wet cloth to wipe blood from her hands. "It's done."

Chapter 16.

Izzy stared at her mother. The early morning light poured through the bedroom window she stood in front of, making her look even more beautiful than Izzy already thought she was. All that curly, long black hair and that soft, womanly body. Not at all like Izzy with her giant feet, too-long arms, and absolutely no curves to speak of. There wasn't much about herself that she'd consider womanly ... or soft.

She was just plain old Izzy whose life was completely unraveling at the moment.

"What do you mean I can't go?"

"Was I unclear in my wording? I'm not sending you off to war. You're barely seventeen winters."

"My eighteenth is a few months off."

"Then it won't be a painfully long wait."

How could her mother be so flippant about this? Everything Izzy had been training for, everything she wanted to do was moments from her grasp. They wanted her to go with one of the legions to fight a baron lord near the Southland coasts. He'd created his own army and was said to be preparing to march on Dark Plains. Annwyl, as always, wanted to attack first.

Izzy's entire training unit would be going, and it could be the perfect opportunity for Izzy to prove her worth to Annwyl. How could her mother just take that from her?

"This isn't fair." She hated that she sounded like a whining child, but it wasn't fair!

Talaith sighed and faced the window, looking out over the courtyard. "The world is not fair, Izzy. But you'll go nowhere until I give my leave. And don't bother trying to get your father to change my mind. We went round and round about it for the last two days, and my mind is made up."

Izzy knew if her father couldn't convince her mum, no one could.

Tears filling her eyes, Izzy stormed out of her mother's room and down the castle stairs. Her comrades, a few of her fellow trainees heading off to the coast in the next day or so, called to her as she quickly walked through the courtyard, but she ignored them, wanting to be away. She even heard her father call out to her, but she ignored him as well as she ran out the castle gates and toward the river. Once she reached it, she stopped at a random tree and punched it. Bark flew everywhere and the five-hundred-year-old tree jerked a bit. Then Izzy burst into tears.

None of this was fair. She was a good soldier. Very good. And she had every intention of being the best warrior. She wanted to be the Queen's Champion. h.e.l.l, she wanted to be the Queen's General one day. But all that took work and time. Every moment delayed seemed to take her dream farther and farther from her until it was nothing but the pipe dream of a silly girl.

"Why are you crying?"

Izzy turned toward the voice, her gaze rudely examining the girl standing in front of her. She had straight black hair that reached her shoulders and black eyes. She sported a large wound on one side of her face that appeared nearly healed up and she wore a chain-mail shirt and leggings but no surcoat. Izzy would guess they were about the same age, but Izzy d.a.m.n well knew better.

"You're a dragon."

"I am. I'm Branwen the Black."

And based on that wound on her face and the other bruises and scratches, Branwen the Black had been in battle.

Izzy hated her.

"I'm Iseabail, Daughter of Talaith." The most difficult, uncaring, unfeeling mother in the world!

The girl stepped closer, not realizing how jealous Izzy was of her at this very moment. If Izzy had a temper like Annwyl's she would have hit her by now. Oh, if only she had a temper like Annwyl's!

"So why do you cry?" she asked.

Izzy swallowed back her tears and anger. "My mum." She swallowed again, almost losing that battle to her tears. "She won't let me go off to combat with the rest of my comrades."

"How old are you?"

Izzy glared. "How old are you?" she shot back.

"Eighty-three."

"Oh." d.a.m.n.

Then Branwen grinned. "But for dragons that makes me about your age, I reckon. And me mum gives me such a hard time. She acts like I'm still a hatchling. She won't let me go into any battles by myself. I always have to be by her side. My brother's not yet a hundred and he gets to go into battle by himself. It's not fair."

"It's not! But they never see that, do they?"