Page 112 of Edge of the Wild

Oliver nodded. “They fly a burning man on their flags, don’t they? Which – I didn’t think most Waste clans made use of true banners.”

“They don’t. All have a symbol, usually carved intel lintels, or onto shields, or inked into their skin. But the Ákafamaðr have true banners, like we do.”

“Notlike we do,” Erik said, a touch petulant – Oliver found that charming, beneath his sudden, new worry about a possible threat. “But they do have banners, yes. And, aside from Aeretoll, they’re the Northern peoples who live closest to the Northern Sea, over on the west coast, across the Gods’ Spine.”

Oliver nodded, his studies coming back to him. “The nearest Southern city to them is Radial.”

“The trading port,” Birger said. “TheÁkafamaðrdo some trading with the South – but not much. They’re deeply distrustful, and they blame everything from a harsh winter to a sore tooth on the South.”

“They’re the reason Radial has a sea wall,” Erik said. “They used to go raiding there. They aren’t farmers. No, they go raiding across the West Sea, or into the smaller, softer clans in the foothills of the Spine.”

“They also have no love for Aeretoll,” Birger said. “They hate the thought of palaces, or farms, or clean, indoor living.”

“They sound lovely,” Oliver deadpanned. “Why do you both sound surprised that they’re here?”

“Because we are,” Erik said. “They never come.”

An unpleasant thought occurred. “They’re not here because of me, are they? Because of Tessa? Your impending alliance with Drakewell?”

Both men gave him careful looks.

“We don’t know, lad,” Birger said. “But I expect we’ll find out.”

~*~

Dinner was a flavorless stew with…some sort of meat in it. But it was warm, and warming, and so Oliver ate until he was full and was thankful for it. Benches had been set up all down the length of the fire pit, on both sides, and the lords and heirs and advisors and guardsmen of Aeretoll stretched their tired feet toward the flames, broke out their pipes, and talked. Of their journey, of the days ahead; of old times, and, even, of ghosts.

“So I heard her wailing–” Askr said.

“It wasn’t a ‘she,’ you dumb sod,” Ingvar said. “It was a wolf.”

“You think I don’t know a bloody wolf when I hear one? No, this was the Wailing Woman, sure as you and I are sitting here. She was calling out to me, and her voice was coming through the chinks in the logs.”

Grinning, Edda said, “Did you answer her?”

“Of course not! I’m a happily married man, I’ll have you know.”

“Da, we found you wandering out in the snow in your small clothes next morning,” Haldin put in, to the great amusement of everyone present.

Erik chuckled quietly, smoke wreathing his head, and Oliver breathed in deep the sharp smell of the tobacco, rich, and peaty, and comforting because it conjured images of Erik’s chambers back home.

Back in Aeres.

With a little not-unpleasant lurch, Oliver realized he’d just thought of Aeres, of Erik’s sumptuous, eclectically cluttered rooms, ashome. It was the first time he’d done so.

As if sensing his regard, Erik lowered his pipe and turned his head toward him a fraction, one brow lifting in silent question.

Oliver’s face heated, which was silly, he thought, giving himself an internal scolding for his emotional dramatics. “I’m fine,” he said. “Just thinking.”

The brow lifted a bit higher.Thinking about what?

“Something good,” Oliver assured.

A smile quirked one corner of Erik’s mouth, and he turned back to the story – and his arm hooked loosely around Oliver’s waist, hand on his hip, and drew him in closer along the bench. Oliver rested his head on his shoulder and listened, tired, but content.

Eventually, when there was more yawning than story-telling, the fires were banked with peat and left to smolder, and everyone sought their bedrolls. Erik and Oliver spread theirs out, overlapping, on the platform in their makeshift chamber, Erik threw an arm over his waist, and Oliver fell quickly to sleep, the rhythm of Erik’s steady breathing in his ear.

He woke some indeterminate amount of time later to a shrill scream.

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