“You are awake then? Good. So we can—”
Snapping his mouth open, Gwenvael wrapped it around the Lightning’s snout. He bit down, enjoying the screaming, and unleashed his flame. The Lightning’s purple scales would protect him to a degree, but he couldn’t breathe through flames the way Gwenvael’s kind could. So he kept the flame strong, drowning the bastard in effect, letting him twitch and struggle.
He heard other screams, knew the Lightning’s kinsmen would come to protect him, but they didn’t and eventually the one in his maw went limp. Gwenvael released him, staring down at the half-seared face of his torturer.
“Gods, look at him.”
Gwenvael raised his head. More Lightnings, their swords covered in blood, watched him.
“And look at this.” One of them swiped up something in his claw and showed it to the other two.
“They’re still doing that? Ragnar’s going to have a fit when he finds out.”
“We’ll worry about that later. Let’s get him down.”
“Can you walk?” one of them asked, and Gwenvael nodded.
“Can you shift to human?”
He nodded again. If nothing else, he’d definitely try.
“All right then, lad. Come on.”
Chapter 14
Dagmar saw Gwenvael being helped out of the tunnels by three other Horde dragons.
“My brother and cousins,” Ragnar murmured.
She rushed to Gwenvael’s side and lifted his head. “He needs a healer.”
Gwenvael surprised her by shaking his head and pulling away from the three who held him. She wasn’t sure where he’d found the strength. “No,” he said.
“She’s right, Fire Breather. I can see what they did to you,” Ragnar added with a frown. “Let me help you.”
“Help? From a Lightning? I think I’ve had all the help I can stand from you bastards.” Gwenvael took her hand.
“Don’t be foolish,” Ragnar argued. “Let me help you.”
“No. I’ll find my own help.”
“In the Northlands? Do you really think more of my kin aren’t out looking for you? Or that our Dragonwitches will help your kind?”Gwenvael tugged Dagmar away, stubbornly refusing to hear anything else Ragnar had to say.
She glanced back at the Horde dragons watching them, and Ragnar gave a small nod of his head. She looked away and let Gwenvael drag her through the now-quiet streets.
“Where are we going?” she finally managed to ask.
“Someplace safe. She calls to me and says I’ll be safe.”
“Who?”
Gwenvael grunted suddenly, stopping to bend over at the waist, his hands resting on his thighs. That’s when she saw all the blood and bruises riddling his human body as they must have been riddling his dragon one. But there were not only bruises and open wounds. There was something else. Under his skin? She didn’t know, couldn’t be sure. But she knew he was in pain—real pain he was fighting hard not to show.
“What’s wrong?” She gently rested her hands on his arm and he jumped back from her as if scalded. “Gwenvael, what is it?”
“Nothing. We have to go. She calls.”
“Not until we take you to a healer.”
“No human healer can help me.” He pulled her around a dark corner. “When I shift, get on my back.”
“You can’t do this here. Everyone will see.”
“They’ll only see you and only if they look hard. If we move fast enough, we can do this.”
“But Gwenvael—”
“Don’t argue with me,” he snapped, but then his voice calmed. “Please. Just do as I say.”
She had no choice. “All right.”
He walked away from her, and she watched as flames surrounded his body. When the flames died, he was dragon again.
“Now.”
She rushed to his side and grabbed hold of his mane. His tail lifted her from behind, seating her on his back. His wings moved, and they were airborne.
A few people looked up, frowning at the sight of a woman apparently flying above the city, but by the time they blinked and looked again, she’d disappeared into the clouds.
Rhiannon flipped through another ancient tome she’d found buried in the back of the royal archives. This area was for the scholars, witches, and mages. Unlike many dragons she knew, Rhiannon never cared much about learning for learning’s sake. She was a scholar only because it was necessary to be one as a witch. To be quite honest, she found this sort of research deadly boring. Yet she didn’t have much time and she knew it.
Annwyl’s body was simply not made to carry the kind of offspring she was near giving birth to. For those, like Rhiannon, who could see the tendrils of Magick wherever they looked, the power surrounding Annwyl almost blinded the Dragonwitch. For someone like Rhiannon, an actual birth of this kind would have exhausted her human body, but her natural, Magick-infused defenses would have most likely kept her healthy. But Annwyl was a true human warrior. There was absolutely no Magick inside her. No otherworldly skills that had been kept dormant until now. Her gift was her rage. The power of it was like a sudden storm that could wipe out an entire village in a night.
In the end, it was this pureness of Annwyl’s spirit and strong will that attracted those around her, from the lowliest peasant soldier to the heirs of Rhiannon’s throne.
Yet knowing all that hadn’t helped Rhiannon find a way to assist the human queen. She’d brought in the best and even the most controversial Dragonmages she knew of throughout the land. Even now, they researched and toiled in other caverns of the archives and library, trying to find a way to help Annwyl.