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 scraps, 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 goddess 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 god.”

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 Valdís’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, Valdís grabbed her wrist and dragged her to her father’s private rooms.