Page 120 of Edge of the Wild

Connor snorted. “He’s not wrong.”

“I hate both of you,” she said, by reflex…except that she didn’t, she didn’t at all. Reginald had come riding to the rescue, and Connor had been trying to pull her away from the fighting, and they were actually decent, both of them, even if polar opposites, and, oh gods, Malcolm was dead…

Her eyes filled with tears, and she pressed the heels of her hands over them, trying to hide, ashamed, heartbroken.

She heard Reginald take a step forward. His hand landed on her shoulder and squeezed. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, completely sincere. “I’m so sorry, Amelia.”

She breathed raggedly through her mouth until she could blink back the tears, and then she let her hands fall to find them both watching her, somber and sympathetic. “What happens now?” she asked. “What am I supposed todo?”

“Well,” Connor said, lopsided smile threatening; his face was no less kind for it. “It seems to me you have some new friends.” He nodded toward the fire-drakes – all of whom had stopped eating and were watching her. The alpha had taken several steps closer, head cocked at a wondering angle.

“You wanted to save Drakewell from the Sels,” Reginald said. “And unless weareall in fact hallucinating, I’d say you’ve found a way.”

The alpha sat again, frill extending. He snorted, and Amelia could swear there was something like a smile in his red-gold gaze.

16

Dawn came earlier than Oliver would have liked, after having been awakened in the middle of the night. Breakfast was a thick sludgy porridge cooked over the fire, tasteless as the stew, but, at least warm. It along with some strong tea went a long way toward making the morning bearable.

Sunrise found Oliver – dressed in rich blue velvet and black wolf fur, his hair freshly braided – standing at Erik’s side at the top of a wide, flat, stone-ringed hill, awaiting the arrival of the clan chiefs.

All the Aeretollean lords stood in attendance as well, braided, groomed, decked out in a tasteful amount of finery. Ragnar was there as well, with two of his men, his most trusted, Oliver figured. Aside from a chief, clans didn’t have rank, but he figured a pecking order was only natural.

Across the far side, two heads appeared over the edge of the hilltop, then shoulders, torsos. Oliver recognized theJotunns straight away, with their tall, lean builds, and their gold hoops. Next came representatives from the rustic Bryti; six other clans whose names Oliver had forgotten, in the crush of new information.

On his other side, Birger gave a low, curious hum as a chief dressed in cured seal skins appeared, flanked by two of his men bearing what looked like harpoons. “The Ákafamaðr. The Aggressors.”

Men now stood in a ring all around the hilltop, with only a small space left open. Just as Oliver was about to lean over and ask Birger about them, the Beserkirs joined the group.

He immediately wanted to rescind his initial comparison of Bjorn to a bear, because this chief might have actually been one, walking upright on his hind legs. His hair was a wild, dark thicket, not braided so much as knotted – around bits of bone; Oliver recognized a few vertebrae that might have belonged to a dog, or a person, it was a toss-up. The ends of his hair had been braided into his beard, which had been separated out into a series of strands braided with more bones, so that the whole of his head seemed one great piece of macrame. It would have been laughable if not for his ruddy, square face, and the malice shining in his gaze. He was hulking, and dressed in shaggy brown and white bear hides, his cowl sporting the ears of the beast, one that he’d no doubt killed and dressed himself.

Then, with a start, he noticed that one of the men flanking him was the young bear-shirt that he’d seen in the dungeons at Aeres, his face painted once more, his pale eyes cast low, refusing to lift to any of their faces.

Erik sucked in a quiet breath, and Oliver knew that he’d noticed.

The sun finally breached the sawtooth gaps between the mountain peaks, and golden light fell in bright shafts across the valley. The lords and chiefs of the council were all in attendance.

One of the Úlfheðnar generals lifted a horn and gave one long, low blast.

Ragnar stepped forward, arms spread, projecting his voice, the epitome of showmanship. “Gentlemen! Lords!” He turned, grinning wolfishly. “Scoundrels! Knaves! Whoremasters!” This was met with cheers and jeers, the clan leaders grinning and offering rude hand gestures. Oliver heard Askr’s distinctive booming laugh.

Ragnar turned again, so he faced Erik, and, arms still stretched, bowed deeply. When he straightened, his smile was smaller, humbler – though his gaze was mocking. “And kings,” he said. “Welcome Erik Frodeson, King of Aeretoll,cousin, to Dreki Hörgr, the Place of Dragons.”

Erik inclined his head in a deep, graceful nod.

A collective cheer went up, though Oliver noted a few dark, hateful looks sent Erik’s way.

When the smattering of applause had died down, Ragnar’s grin went wolfish again. “A fitting place for a dragon rider, eh lads? The Great and Powerful King has found love at last. I present to you his paramour, His Lordship Oliver Drake, Consort of Kings, Blood of Drakewell, Tamer of Dragons.”

A cheer from the Aeretolleans.

And a few shocked exclamations and murmurings from the clans.

A faint buzzing started up in Oliver’s ears, nothing like the fritzing of his senses when the cold-drake had been…communicating with him, for lack of a better word. No, this was good old, ordinary panic. His pulse lurched and stuttered. A glance proved that Erik was frowning, brows drawn low over a gaze that plainly asked Ragnar what in the hell he was doing.

Drake. Ragnar had called him a Drake.

The wolf-shirt chief caught Oliver’s gaze and winked. The bastard.

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