What a Dragon Should Know (Dragon Kin #3)(56)

Someone had tied him face down on the bed so they could rip something out of his body. Something vital? He had no idea. He only knew it hurt and he wanted the pain to stop. Needed it to. He couldn’t think with all this pain. Couldn’t understand where he was or how he’d gotten here. He couldn’t see because of all the sweat pouring into his eyes, burning them. Yet he could hear a soft voice telling him it would be all right. Nothing to worry about. Just a bit more. But he knew she was lying. He knew this pain would last forever, and he didn’t understand why she didn’t just kill him. No one should suffer like this. Least of all him.

He felt the blade enter his flesh again and he screamed, the sound somewhat muffled behind his gag.

Gods, why wouldn’t she just kill him?

Dagmar heard Gwenvael’s muffled scream again and she pulled her legs up onto the boulder she sat on, wrapping her arms around them. She’d tried to stay inside but her constant threats to Esyld finally forced the dragoness to order her to leave.

She’d gone, Dagmar was ashamed to admit, willingly.

She didn’t know hearing someone suffer could bother her so. She’d been through childbirths with her sisters-in-law, some of them terribly difficult, and she’d been the cold, responsible one in the room the midwife always relied upon. She’d also assisted healers when her kinsmen had been badly wounded. One of her cousins had gotten his leg crushed by his own horse. She’d been the only one who’d stayed to help the healer cut it off. He’d been awake during the whole procedure, begging them not to do it, but Dagmar knew the healer had no choice.

Although she’d been relieved when her cousin finally passed out, not once, during any of that, had she ever felt like this—as if she could feel every blade cut, every pull when Esyld tore the jagged pieces of metal from Gwenvael’s exhausted body. Dagmar even felt like she could taste the vile concoction Esyld had poured down his throat before she’d begun cutting him open. She’d hoped it would be something for the pain, but it had only been to help Gwenvael’s body flush out the poison through his skin.

Gwenvael screamed again, and Dagmar closed her eyes tight, resting her forehead against her knees. She took deep breaths and willed herself to be calm.

Small noises from the woods surrounding her caught Dagmar’s attention. She lifted her head and watched the immense wolf pad softly toward her. She smiled at the sight of him.

A canine, any canine, was a welcome sight to her. Without Canute she was quite willing to risk a good mauling for the comfort of a four-legged friend.

“Hello.” He came up to her without hesitation and, keeping her fingers curled in, Dagmar brushed her knuckles across his head. “You need a bath,” she teased.

“You’re a brave one.” A woman trekked out of the woods and over to Dagmar. “Those who see him are usually afraid of him.”

“I do well with canines.”

“You mind?” The woman motioned to the part of the boulder Dagmar wasn’t sitting on.

“No.”

“Thanks.” She tugged the large pack she had on her back off and sat down hard, exhaling. “I’m bloody exhausted.”

She was a warrior woman. A warrior woman who had seen better days … or years. She looked to be somewhere near her fortieth winter and was covered in scars. There were scars on her face, hands, and neck. Dagmar assumed she had more, but they were covered by her clothes. It seemed the warrior was too poor for proper armor and had only an undertunic and a padded top, linen pants, and extremely worn leather boots. Her brown hair was long and curly with several warrior braids weaved throughout. But what fascinated Dagmar the most was the color of her skin. She was one of the desert people. Rarely did someone born that far south find their way to the Northlands. And especially not a female alone.

“I’m Eir,” the woman said, pulling off her boot and revealing extremely large feet that bled from several blistered spots. She wiggled her toes and groaned in pain.

“I’m Dagmar. No socks?”

“They were so frayed, didn’t see the point.”

Dagmar opened her satchel. “Here. You can have these.”

Eir took the wool socks from her. “You sure?”

“Yes. A … My friend gave me a new pair. So you can have the extra one. You should wash them first, though.”

The warrior shrugged and pulled them on, making Dagmar wince at the lack of hygiene.

“I can wash them later,” she promised, and Dagmar decided not to question that.

Gwenvael screamed again, and Dagmar gritted her teeth. The wolf that settled at her feet pressed his extremely large head against her legs. She appreciated the comfort.

“That your friend?”

“Yes.”

“Sounds like he’s having a rough time of it.”

“He is.”

“I wouldn’t worry. I hear the witch is a good healer.” She pulled her old boots over her new socks and sighed. “Much better. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Dagmar, desperate to focus on anything but Gwenvael’s pain and her panic, asked, “Why are you here?”

“Doing what I always do. Looking for a good battle to get into. A good fight. Nothing better than stumbling into a war that keeps you busy for a while.”

A sword for hire. Some of the most unsteady work Dagmar knew of. “Do you enjoy that?”