with their worthless codes and rules. He briefly debated shifting to human but decided against it. He needed the advantage with The Reinholdt and his warrior son The Beast.
Decision made, Gwenvael landed in front of the Reinholdt fortress gates in all his dragon glory.
Clawed feet slammed into the ground, shaking the fortress walls; gold wings stretched far from his body, the slow, even movements stirring up much dirt and air. Then Gwenvael leaned back his head and unleashed a line of flame into the sky.
When he tired of that, he looked down at the humans staring up at him. “Go on,” he offered magnanimously. “Feel free to piss on yourselves and cower helplessly.”
Gods, sometimes his generosity overwhelmed him.
Dagmar picked up a book from the floor and quickly flipped through the pages. So focused on her work, she didn’t realize anything might be amiss until Canute got to his feet and snarled at the door. She was already looking in that direction when one of her brothers walked in with nary a knock. Typical rude Reinholdt male behavior, but Canute charged him anyway. Dagmar stopped her pet with a simple, “No.”
The dog was already in midair, teeth bared, but he automatically jerked back, hit the ground, and hastily rolled over. He snarled and snapped a little for show before coming back to Dagmar’s side.
“What is it?”
Her brother Fridmar, third born to The Reinholdt, leaned casually against the doorway and ate an apple. In between bites he mumbled, “Dragon outside.”
“Yes, well, I’ll get right…wait.” She looked away from her work. “Pardon?”
“Dragon,” he said calmly. “Outside the gates. Eymund called an attack, but Da told me to get you first.”
Dagmar carefully placed the quill on the desk and slowly turned in the chair, placing her arm on the back of it. “A dragon? Are you sure?”
“It’s big, scaly, and has wings. What the hell else could it be?” She would have perhaps been less annoyed if he hadn’t made that reply with bits of apple flying out of his mouth.
“Well what kind?”
Her brother frowned. “Kind? It’s a dragon, I said.”
It amazed her she had the patience for this anymore, but what she’d learned early on and what her sisters-in-law could never seem to grasp—her brothers and father moved no faster than was absolutely necessary. Yelling at them, screaming…waste of one’s time. So Dagmar plodded along until she got what she needed. She called it the “water against rock” method. “There are different kinds of dragons, brother. There’s purple. Blue. Forest green.”
“Forest…” He shook his head. “Right. Whatever. It’s yellow.”
“Yellow?” Dagmar tapped her finger against the desk, being as plodding as her kinsmen and loving the fact they had the nerve to hate when she was. “They don’t have yellow dragons, brother. Do you mean gold?”
“Yes. Fine. Gold then.”
Dagmar blinked. “A Gold? This far north?” She desperately tried to remember what she’d learned about dragons over the years, which hadn’t been much. It wasn’t that she hadn’t believed they existed, but she had doubted they had much to do with humans. Why would they?
The Horde dragons of the north lived deep in the highest mountains, keeping mostly to themselves. Their colors were distinct but simple, ranging from deep dark purples to near white, and they held the power of lightning within them. Like her Northland kinsmen, they were mostly warriors and pit fighters.
The Southland dragons came in an array of colors and had their own queen. Fire was their internal power, and they were often scholars and teachers.
“Who cares how far it’s come?”
“You should. Father should. Why else would a Gold come this far and risk clashing with the Horde dragons? It’s my understanding they’re sworn enemies.” She eyed her brother. “And why does Father want me out there? You do know it’s a myth what they say about virgin sacrifices and dragons, yes?”
“Of course I know that,” he snapped in such a way that Dagmar knew he believed the myth to be true. “And after them three marriages, you ain’t much of a virgin yourself, now is ya?”
“Those last two barely counted.”
“Look, woman”—Fridmar tossed his apple core onto her floor and Dagmar gasped in outrage—“that dragon outside demanded to see Da, and Da demanded to see you.”
“It demanded?” She widened her eyes and blinked at her brother. Her “surprised look” she called it. “You’re letting a dragon demand things of The Reinholdt? Where’s your bravery? Your honor?”
“Would you shut up?” A small tick began in her brother’s jaw. “You get mad when we start killing without…without…” His face twisted up a bit as he thought really hard. It pained her to watch her kin try to think. It honestly physically hurt. “What’s that word?” he finally asked.
“Provocation?”
“Yeah. Right. You get mad when we start killing without that ‘prov’ word, and now you’re mad cause we haven’t killed it yet.”
“I’m not mad you haven’t…there’s a difference between…” She shook her head. “Forget it.”
“Where the hell is she?” Valdís—second-born son to The Reinholdt and most nervous ninny—stormed into Dagmar’s room. “What’s going on? Why are you still sitting here? Father has summoned you.”
“And I don’t jump at every demand. Go find out what he wants first.”
“What who wants?”
“The dragon.” She motioned both away with her hands. “Go and find out.”
Without another thought toward her brothers, Dagmar went back to her work.
Sigmar Reinholdt, Protector of the Reinholdt Lands and People, Warlord of the Northwest Properties, Eighteenth Born to Dechard Reinholdt, Killer of Dechard Reinholdt, and Sire of The Beast turned to face his male offspring.
“She said what now?”
One of his sons—don’t ask him the name, because he really couldn’t remember and didn’t care enough to try—shrugged. “She said to ask the dragon what he wants.”
“And you let her get away with that?”
“You know how she is, Da. Besides, she looked real busy.”
“Busy doing what?”
One son glanced at another son whose name Sigmar couldn’t remember.
“Well?” he pushed when they didn’t answer quickly enough.
“Readin’…I think.”
“Readin’? You couldn’t pull her away
