It was a brutal battle, the Blood Queen once again proving her name as she hacked away at arms, legs, and heads. The heads were hard to take, so she crippled most of them first and then went from one to the other to the other, finishing them off. As the brothers and their father watched, Morfyd and Rhiannon landed, followed by Talaith and Izzy arriving on horseback. Then the Cadwaladr Clan arrived, dropping from the sky and watching as Annwyl did what she’d always done best.

She went to the last one, who no longer had legs but was still struggling to get away. She planted her foot into his back and held him in place. Then she raised the sword in her hands and brought it down against his neck. The first strike did not take his head, so she hacked and hacked until it fell off.

Then Annwyl stood there, panting, her naked body covered in blood. But she was alive. Very much alive.

And completely insane.

Gwenvael heard a small cry and looked up to see Dagmar walk out of the tunnel. She was dirty, her clothes torn, and she had some blood on her, but she was alive and so were the twins. They were the ones crying, annoyed, it seemed, more than anything. But all four were fine—four because he now included Dagmar’s spectacles in all estimates.

She looked at him, her relieved smile warming him in a way he’d never felt before. He stepped forward, determined to get to her, but her eyes widened and she quickly shook her head. Good thing, too, because Annwyl turned on him so fast, Gwenvael took a hasty step back. She held the blade in both hands, raised high on her side. A move for a running attack.

Fearghus scowled, more confused than angry. “Annwyl?”

Her green eyes shifted toward Fearghus, but Gwenvael saw no recognition of her mate. No undying love and loyalty. As far as Annwyl the Bloody was concerned, all of them were enemies.

“Get on the horse,” Annwyl ordered Dagmar.

Gwenvael shook his head. “Wait—” But his mother caught his arm, pulled him back. She stepped in front of him, prepared to protect her son, and kept her eyes on Annwyl.

“Move!” Annwyl commanded again.

Dagmar did, going to Annwyl’s stallion. The horse lowered himself to the ground and Dagmar climbed onto his back, the babes in her arms making it an awkward ordeal. Annwyl moved toward the horse, her gaze constantly scanning from one dragon to the other. She reached Violence and slid on behind Dagmar. She still held the sword and appeared ready to use it at any second.

“Take his mane,” she ordered Dagmar as the horse stood tall. “Now hold on. He knows where to go.”

Annwyl pointed her sword at Celyn and Branwen. “Move!” The two youngsters fell over each other trying to get out of the way, until their mother grabbed them by their hair and yanked them back.

“Go,” Annwyl told her horse.

Violence reared up then shot off, tearing through the empty space the young siblings left.

As the horse disappeared over a hill, Gwenvael’s Dragon Kin stood silent, unsure what to do next.

Then Addolgar earnestly asked, “I’m confused. Is she dead or not?”

Chapter 29

After all that, Dagmar had really hoped they were heading back to Garbhán Isle, but no. A nice inn somewhere in one of the villages? No. A pub for a pint … or twelve pints, one after the other until she could no longer see straight with or without her spectacles? No.

Instead of any of those lovely ideas, the Queen of Dark Plains took her to a cave. A dark, dank cave. She couldn’t even see her hand in front of her face or the babes in her arms, but of course this place must be safer than the tunnel they’d just escaped from.

She hoped so, anyway.

Thankfully the horse seemed to know where he was going, happily trotting along through the winding black tunnels. Eventually he stopped and Annwyl jumped off. Dagmar could hear the queen moving around and some cursing when she walked into things. But then flint struck rock and a torch was lit. Annwyl walked around the cavern, lighting more torches attached to the walls, and as she did, Dagmar could now see she was not in some random cave Annwyl had stumbled upon. They were in a furnished cave. A dragon’s cave. She let out a sigh of relief and the horse lowered himself to the ground, allowing Dagmar to slip off. Not easy when she was desperately trying not to drop the sobbing babes in her arms.

“Why are they crying?”

The naked queen stood before her, blood covering most of her, and there seemed to be a fresh wound or two, but this … this was the queen Dagmar had always heard of. Tall, powerfully built. Muscles any male warrior would envy and generous br**sts any woman would love to have been gifted with. The only sign that showed Annwyl had once been with child was the horizontal scar across her lower abdomen. But it looked as if it had been there for years.

It seemed Annwyl had a new patron goddess who took much better care of her subjects than Rhydderch Hael, bringing Annwyl back to the way she was before the babes were born—at least physically.

Emotionally, the woman was a mess.

“They’re crying because they’re frightened,” Dagmar explained, hoping the queen took her babes soon. Her arms were growing tired, their abnormally large size turning them into quite the burdens.

Annwyl looked at the Minotaur sword in her hands, then set it down. After that she walked around the large cavern, rubbing her hands together. Dagmar noticed a table and chairs, so she sat down.

The queen turned and faced her again. “I put the sword down, why are they still crying?”

“They’re probably hungry.”

“Then feed them.”