She got to her feet, the babes still tight in her arms. “He knew the demon queen would only trust a woman. And because I am The Beast.”
“You? You’re The Beast?”
“My father knew sending me here was dangerous, but no one else would be able to get close enough.”
“Or had the strength of will of The Beast to be around the whore.”
“Very true, my lord.” She looked at Annwyl’s broken body and her expression of disgust was real enough—but most likely not for the reasons they thought. “I’ve seen many things in that place that will keep me up at nights. Many horrors. But my father will be proud, for I have retrieved the spawn as he has commanded.”
“You’ve done well.” The head Minotaur praised, reaching for them. “Now we can cut their throats and head home this very night.”
“No.” Dagmar turned her body away from him to keep his hands off them. “We cannot kill them here. We must return with them to the north and give my father the prize of cutting off their useless little heads.”
“We cannot do that. They need to die before those dragons can find us.”
“We’ll have more to bargain with if they live.”
“Going home was never our intent, my lady. Killing them is. If any of us survive that and make it home alive, then it will be an extra gift from the gods. But our main goal—our only goal—is to see these atrocities dead before we do anything else.”
Would they understand the hypocrisy of referring to the twins as atrocities when they were standing cows? Talking standing cows?
No. Probably not.
“I cannot allow that,” she said with as much royal rudeness as she could muster. “Their deaths are not for … you.”
“But the gods—”
“Your only purpose here, bovine, is to ensure my safe passage home. They will come for us and you will fight to protect me and most likely die. That is your only task.”
The males stood in confusion, glancing between each other. She knew she had them. Men were always so easy for her to twist when she needed to.
Tragically, Dagmar hadn’t counted on the female.
“She lies,” the female hissed, moving out from the shadows. Her dress was also made of animal skin but covered her from shoulders to hooves. She had no horns as the males did, but was slightly shorter than the tallest among them. The brown cape over her dress was wool. She had the hood pulled up to cover her hair and Dagmar could see the runes sewn into the fabric.
A priestess of Arzhela. Of some power, too.
“She protects those things she carries, with her very life.” She slammed her fist into the shoulder of whatever male stood closest to her, eliciting a grunt. “And you fools believe her.”
Dagmar could barely understand the female’s words because of the damage that had been done to her throat, which bore the old scar of a sword cut that went right across it. She could have gotten it in battle, but most likely it was the sacrifice she made to Arzhela. A true servant of the goddess that once was.
The priestess came closer, her hooves stomping loudly on the rocky ground. She stared hard at Dagmar as she approached.
“You’re wrong,” Dagmar tried again, attempting to sound bored and unimpressed. “My task is as simple as yours. Retrieve the spawn, return to my father. The Reinholdt.”
“She lies,” she hissed again.
“Are you doubting my word as a Northlander? Are you doubting I’m a Reinholdt?”
“You are a Reinholdt, Lady Dagmar. I have seen you before when I’ve passed through the Reinholdt lands. You are Dagmar Reinholdt. But you lie.” She leaned in close, her wet nose sniffing around her. “She has the smell of Rhydderch Hael all over her.”
“She is his disciple!” one of the males accused.
“No.” The priestess gave a small smile. “No. She worships no one. No god protects her. Cares for her. Even Rhydderch Hael. He is the one who sent her here. For us.”
“And the spawn?”
“They have failed him. He wants nothing to do with them.”
She reached to touch one and Dagmar immediately turned her body away.
Her voice low and controlled, she growled, “Keep your grubby, cow hands off them.”
The priestess leered. “The spawn are mine.” Her gaze moved to the males. “The woman … is all yours.”
Dagmar didn’t even manage the thought that she should run before a hand gripped her hair and yanked her back, the priestess quickly ripping Annwyl’s babes from her arms.
“No!” She reached out for the babes, desperate to get them back. Desperate to protect them with her life.
The head Minotaur stepped in front of her, his hand wrapping around her throat. “How could you not worship the gods? Even now they reward our sacrifice”—he shoved her back into the other Minotaurs—“with you.”
Soldiers, guards, and servants—the humans—all quickly moved out of their way as Gwenvael and his kin poured from the castle into the courtyard. They immediately shifted, Addolgar and Ghleanna heading off in opposite directions to scour the countryside, calling on their sons and daughters to join them. Rhiannon and Morfyd headed toward the lake to call upon gods to help them. Leaving the four brothers and their father.
Gwenvael, Briec, Éibhear, Bercelak, and Fearghus would start where the hoof prints were first located and move out from there, hoping that they were no more than a few leagues off.