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?”

“I enjoy wandering. Never staying in one place for too long. A really good battle keeps me busy for a bit, and then I move to the next place.” She nudged Dagmar’s shoulder with a hand missing its smallest finger. “Know of anything?”

“I wouldn’t send you farther into the north. Your kind wouldn’t do well there.”

“My kind?”

“Yes. Female.” Eir laughed, and Dagmar went on. “You’ll find more work in the south and I hear there’s a huge war in the west. You should go to Dark Plains. I’ve been told Queen Annwyl has quite a few females in her troops.”

“I’ll do that. Is that where you’re heading?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m doing right now.”

“I understand.” She stood again, and her size roused Dagmar’s suspicions. “You’re not a dragon, are you?”

“Me?” She laughed. “Gods, no! I wish. I’d love having a tail.”

For the first time in hours, Dagmar smiled. “Wouldn’t we all. Uh …”

“Eir,” she kindly reminded her.

“Eir. Yes. If you go that way about a half a league, you’ll find a dead dragon.”

Eir stared off in the direction Dagmar pointed. “Really?”

“There might be something you can scrounge off of him. He had a pouch. Might have something in there you could use.” She held up her satchel. “It’s as big as this. Although on him, it’s just a pouch.”

“All right.”

Dagmar pointed off in front of her. “And out there somewhere, not sure how far, though, there are a couple of other dead dragons. You might be able to get something off them as well.”