What a Dragon Should Know
Page 48

He chuckled. “Where did you hear that?”
“Is it true?”
“No. Although it’s a brilliant rumor to start, don’t you think?”
“You know the actions of every horde?”
“Don’t need to. I only need to know your father’s territory is on my father’s territory—and Olgeir the Wastrel isn’t making any truces with humans. He considers you more … well, like your kitchen dogs. Pets that amuse and take scraps off the floor, but have no other real purpose.”
Dagmar rested her elbow on the table and her chin in her palm. “If I thought I could manage it—I’d kill you where you sit.”
He gave her a surprisingly warm smile. “I’ve always had a great fondness for you, Dagmar. A very great fondness. If I could have protected you from being hurt, I would have.”
“But you want something more. Don’t you? That’s why you’re here now.”
“Always quick.”
“Just as I’ve been taught.”
“Your Fire Breather. The Gold.”
She felt her stomach tighten, not enjoying the mention of Gwenvael one bit. “Deserted me for the night, I suspect.”
“You know he didn’t. But he was foolish to bring you here. Foolish to think he’d be ignored by my father’s spies or that the truce between the Hordes and the Dragon Queen would keep him safe.”
Dagmar let out a breath, struggled for calm. “You have him.”
“No. I have no need of him. But my father’s Horde has long memories and we’re just as protective of our females as your kinsmen. Chances are he will not last the night … unless I help him.”
“You mean for a price.”
“A price I suspect you’re willing to pay to get him back.” He took her hand in his and studied it. “Has he seduced you too, Lady Dagmar? Like he has so many others? Has that cold heart you always professed to have been thawed by a Fire Breather?”
Dagmar would give him nothing he could feed on, nothing he could use again in years to come. But she couldn’t deny to herself that she feared for Gwenvael’s safety. She’d seen firsthand what her kinsmen did to those who’d involved themselves with the wrong woman or sullied a kinswoman’s good name.
She knew that as she sat here across from the lying Horde dragon, Gwenvael suffered horribly at the hands of his enemies. She also knew hysteria would get her nowhere. If she kept calm, cold, and just as merciless, perhaps she could get them both out of this.
“At the moment, we’re business partners. And that’s all. You know me well enough, my lord. Know that when I want something, I’ll do what I have to in order to get it.” She leaned back in her chair and folded her hands primly on her lap. “We both know I need him alive if I hope to get what he promised me from that mad bitch queen. So what’s your price? What do I need to do to get you to bring the Southlander to me—alive?”
“It’s simple.” His small smile turned wide and brilliant. “Help me start a war.”
* * *
Gwenvael gritted his fangs and bit back a cry of pain as the blade of a dagger was forced under his scale and then lifted, tearing away the scale from its flesh anchor. But it was not removed completely. No. That was a weaker form of torture. Instead a small, jagged piece of metal was placed between scale and flesh and the scale pressed back into place. In minutes the flesh would seal again to the scale, enclosing the jagged metal inside. The pain of that would only get worse as the hours went on.
It was a very old form of torture but had been quite popular in his grandfather’s day.
When the Lightnings had first dragged him into the city tunnels, he’d thought they wanted information from him. Information he’d never give, but he’d assumed they’d try. Yet for hours, they hadn’t said a word to him. They hadn’t asked him questions or demanded anything. They’d simply beaten him until he shifted to his dragon form, and then they’d chained him from a thick steel pipe. After that they kept hitting him, again and again. If he passed out, they woke him up with water or herbs and went back to beating him. When they paused from beating him, one of them would lift several of his scales and put the metal bits underneath.
A good portion of his body was covered now, and as he hung from the chains manacled to his wrists and ankles, all he felt was pain. Excruciating, nearly unbearable pain. And it would only get worse. That much he knew.
It had crossed his mind to call out to his kin, but he’d decided against it. It would take them days to get to him, and in that time they’d have started another war with the Lightnings. He wouldn’t be responsible for that.
With the scales back in place, the hitting started again. Someone had very big fists and seemed to enjoy hitting Gwenvael’s face with them. By the tenth hit, he slumped in his chains.
That’s when he heard her voice for the first time. “Gwenvael,” she sang. “Gwenvael. My dear, dear heart.”
“He’s out again. Give me some water.”
“We’re out.”
“Then get some, you idiot.”
A claw gripped his jaw and lifted his head. “Don’t you worry, Fire Breather. We’ll get you taken care of.”
“It’s time to fight, Gwenvael,” the voice told him so sweetly. “It’s time to live. You must come to me. Come to me as quick as you can.”
Gwenvael nodded. “I will.”