What a Dragon Should Know

Dagmar shuddered, unable to hide her disgust.

“Don’t be too hard on him,” Eir called back. “He likes you.”

The wolf stepped back and stared at her expectantly, his tongue hanging out. For her dogs, she’d make the sacrifice. But only for her dogs.

Fighting her urge to wipe the slobber off her neck in front of him, Dagmar said, “Thank you, Nannulf.”

The wolf barked. But he was a god, and the sound of it shook the glen, causing the trees to sway and the ground to vibrate.

Dagmar almost fell to her knees, so she quickly pressed her body against the boulder and held on.

“Don’t do that, you big idiot!” Eir snapped. “Now come on.”

Nannulf ran off after his traveling companion, and Dagmar finally wiped at the slobber on her neck. She felt slightly ill when she realized it had already dried on her skin and her flesh began to itch in response.

Determined to wash it off immediately, she turned and came face to chest with Gwenvael.

“Who are you talking to?”

“Powerful gods.”

“Of course you are.”

“You asked.”

“I did.” He brushed his hand across her collarbone. “Rash?”

She looked down at the red irritated area that was becoming redder and more irritated by the second. “Dog slobber.”

“Lovely.” He took her hand and led her through the trees. “Anyway, I heard from Morfyd this morning.”

“Is everything all right?”

“Well, Izzy apparently has sold her soul to Rhydderch Hael. Talaith found out and it looks as if she’s disowned her. And our mother has invited Lightning dragons over for tea. Specifically Ragnar the Cunning.”

Dagmar pouted. “We miss everything.”

“Exactly. We need to get back to Garbhán Isle before everything implodes and we’re not there to witness it—while enjoying wine and cheese.”

“Good plan.” Dagmar stopped walking and frowned.

“What is it?”

“Lord Ragnar’s here? In Dark Plains?”

“That’s what she said. Showed up last night. Why?”

Dagmar examined the ground at her feet. “I wonder if we got all those tunnels—or if Ragnar left a few open for himself.”

Now Gwenvael stared down at the ground. “Shit.”

It would be a much quicker trip with a horse, but she didn’t care. She needed the run. She needed the freedom. She needed her lungs to ache and her muscles to burn. Izzy needed all of that to work through the pain she felt at her mother’s anger.

What she didn’t need, however, was to trip over her own two feet.

Izzy went down face first in the soft grass. Her hands braced her fall and she caught herself before smashing her nose into the ground and breaking it. The tumble itself did no harm and normally she’d be back up on her feet in seconds, but the dread of discovery she’d been living with for so many months had come full circle and all she could do was cry. She thought she’d cried herself out ages ago when Annwyl was dying. But it seemed she still had some tears left.

Izzy feared this crying jag would go on for hours, but she was easily distracted when the ground underneath her feet and legs moved a bit. What if there were snakes under there? She’d walked over a nest once and it had taken her father hours to calm her down.

Nervous, her hate of snakes a strong one, Izzy raised her chest up using her arms and looked down toward her feet. She didn’t see any snakes, but they were tricky, weren’t they? Plotting world domination, as far as she was concerned. She thought about running, but she had her sword sheathed at her side and her shield strapped to her back, so she felt somewhat ready. Her mother often asked her, “Do you sleep with those damn things on?” She didn’t … not often anyway. But better safe than sorry, Izzy always felt.

And she knew her logic to be sound when the ground at her feet slowly rose up. She pulled her legs away and turned over, her palms flat on the ground as she crawled backward.

The ground broke apart and something thin and long poked out from the middle. A snake! Just like she thought. Tricky, evil snakes! But as the snake raised farther up, Izzy realized she knew no snakes that looked like that. Sharpened metal over scales. Purple scales.

Her grandmother had said a Lightning was coming to Garbhán Isle. But she knew something wasn’t right. She could feel it … sense it.

Moving fast, Izzy flipped on to her stomach, her hands shoving hard at the ground as her feet pushed her off. But she’d barely run a foot when that tail wrapped around her neck, lifting her off the ground. The Lightning dragon attached to it pulled himself from the ground, three others doing the same from different spots.

“Find that son of mine,” the dragon holding her ordered. “And bring him to me.”

He shook dirt from his hair and face and lifted his head to look around. He squinted up at the sun, scowling. “Too bloody hot here.”

Since he seemed distracted, Izzy slowly reached for her sword, but the sharpened tip of the tail pressed against her cheek until her head tilted all the way to the side.

“Don’t do anything stupid, girl.” The dragon brought her around so he could look directly at her. Izzy immediately pulled her hands away from her weapon and instead struggled with the bit of tail choking her.

The dragon was extremely old. Older than her grandparents. Unlike her grandparents, though, he was mean. Not unfriendly or grouchy or cranky … just mean. Mean because he could be and because he enjoyed it.