The woman’s blue eyes cut over to him. Annwyl knew immediately the Rider didn’t realize that she was talking to dragons as well as humans. So when she looked at Celyn, all she saw was a man, which she made clear when she told him, “And you have penis, so do not make me cut it off.”
Talwyn’s hands balled into fists at that, and she glanced at Briec, gesturing to the three Riders. “I’m going back inside to finish my meal,” she ground out between clenched teeth, reminding Annwyl of Fearghus. “Briec and Keita, kill them all. Don’t leave a mess.”
“Wait,” Annwyl stated before Briec and Keita could—because they would—kill them all. They were both already taking in breaths to unleash their flames.
“Annwyl, let us handle this,” Brastias said.
“No need, old friend.”
She walked past Dagmar and Brastias, big, long-handled axe still in her hand.
“Annwyl,” Dagmar argued, “they’re here to kill you.”
“No. They’re not.”
Annwyl walked around the horses of the three Riders to the fourteen men and young boys they had chained behind them. Men and boys whom Annwyl was sure the three Riders had picked up along the way. The way Annwyl might pick up stray puppies while on a campaign.
The males cowered away from her, and Annwyl didn’t bother saying anything to calm them down. Sadly, her reputation as a murdering queen always seemed to precede her, so she didn’t bother to argue the point these days. That always just seemed to upset people more. Instead, Annwyl gripped Addolgar’s old weapon in both hands and swung it over her head. She brought it down on the chains, breaking them.
She pointed toward one of the guard barracks. “You’ll find someone in there to remove the rest of the chains and give you fresh clothes and food. Go. Now. We’ll find a way to get you home later.”
The boys and men ran off, and Annwyl faced the Riders watching her. “First rule in my kingdom, no slaves.”
“They were not slaves. They were future husbands for our daughters and granddaughters.”
“Your daughters and granddaughters can get their own husbands. Preferably ones mutually chosen by both parties.”
“Why would we do that? As queen—if you are—you must know men are too stupid and emotional to make their own decisions.”
“No, actually, I don’t know that.”
Annwyl rested the axe over her shoulder. “Rule number two.” She gestured to Dagmar. “This is my Battle Lord, Dagmar Reinholdt.” She pointed at Brastias. “And this is my General Commander. They speak for me when I’m not available. And mostly when I’m available and don’t want to be bothered—which is kind of right now.”
“You give man position of power? And such a tiny, weak-looking woman?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because he earned it. In blood. And Dagmar Reinholdt is the Beast of the Northlands.”
The lead Rider shook her head and said to the females with her, “I do not know, sisters. Perhaps our Pee-Wee was wrong. This tiny human queen, who gives honor to worthless men and weak-armed women, cannot give us our glorious deaths on the field of battle while at her side.”
“Perhaps not,” Annwyl cut in, lifting the axe off her shoulders and slapping the other end of the handle, beneath the blade, into her free hand, “but I can give you your glorious death right here.”
“Annwyl.” Morfyd raised her eyebrows in warning. “Calm. And rational. Remember?”
Dagmar snorted and Annwyl glared at her friend. “What does that snort mean?”
“Nothing,” Dagmar stated with that wide-eyed innocence that made Annwyl want to slap her against the head! She didn’t—it would be unseemly—but gods, did she want to!
She refocused on the Riders. “Look, I understand you’re all from a different . . .” She struggled to find the right word, and Celyn provided it.
“Culture.”
“Yeah. Right. That. But that doesn’t mean you lot can come in here and start ordering everyone around like you—gods-damn it, Gwenvael!” Annwyl shouted when she heard the damn dragon climbing the side of her house, his talons crunching into the precious—and extremely expensive!—stone that she did not want to hire yet another stonemason to fix.
Eyes wide, everyone turned and looked at the house, then back to Annwyl. She knew they couldn’t see him. As Rhi had once told Annwyl when Rhi was still a young girl, “Uncle Gwenvael is a chameleon. He can blend into anything. He creeps around here all the time. So when you think you hear him and sense him moving around . . . you do. You’re absolutely not insane. No matter what Daddy says.”
So even though no one else could see him, Annwyl knew he was there. So she pointed her axe in the general direction she figured he was in, and warned, “Fuck up that stone again, and I will rip the head from your shoulders!”
Annwyl heard a repressed little chuckle and knew she was right, but she didn’t bother to explain that to her kin. What was the point? So instead she simply screamed at him, “Stop laughing at me!”
“Mum?” Talwyn asked, the Riders seemingly forgotten.
“What?”