Page 126 of Edge of the Wild

“Maybe,” Oliver said, “it would be a good idea not to antagonize your cousin. We have few enough friends here as it is.”

The smile immediately gave way to a frown – Oliver nearly chuckled at the suddenness of it. “Ragnar isn’t a friend – not to anyone. He can be useful, at times, but that” – he gestured back the way Ragnar had disappeared – “was him trying to set us at odds. He’s very, very good at that, and he takes great enjoyment from it. He looked angry, didn’t he? Startled? Like he couldn’t believe I’d react that way?”

Oliver nodded.

“He’s a fantastic actor. He ought to be on a stage in the Crownlands somewhere, reciting monologues.” He inclined his head to a serious angle. “Neverforget that. Ragnar looks after Ragnar, and no one else.”

~*~

It was a windless, cloudless afternoon, and even as it began its descent toward the far horizon, the sun offered faint traces of warmth against Oliver’s face, and the back of his hands, where he’d taken his gloves off.

He’d first removed them to scratch at his eyebrow, then, when frostbite didn’t immediately set it – honestly, how did Erik go around bare-handed, each finger set with a cold, metal ring? – he’d kept them off, and fiddled now with a bit of loose silver thread at the hem of his tunic in an effort not to fall asleep. Once he’d finally sat down – on a long, narrow wood bench set up down the length of the gaming field – he’d realized how very tired he was, more tired than he’d thought down by the lake. He was yawning continuously, and Erik’s shoulder just to his left was looking more and more inviting as the minutes ticked on.

The band wasn’t helping.

If it could be called a band.

He used the termmusiciansloosely. A group of fur-wrapped children had trotted out to the center of the field some time ago, each bearing an uneven, handmade bell that clacked rather than chimed, and if they were playing a song together, it was nothing like the wild, rich display of the Crownland Bell Carolers back home.

Finally, the children bowed, people shouted approval in lieu of clapping, apparently, and the performance was at an end.

“Thank the gods,” Oliver said around another yawn.

Erik chuckled. “The next part will be better. Watch.”

Oliver groaned quietly – but the next groupwasbetter. A group of Refrs in their fox-fur capes settled cross-legged in the snow, in a semi-circle, each of them toting a drum of varying size. A group of caped women joined them, their hair loose, save at the ends, where unpolished, crudely-shaped silver beads and bones had been attached, weighting the whole of their hair so that it moved as a unit, red and brown curtains swaying as the drums began, and they fell into a dance.

The drummers kept up a rolling, ever-changing beat that reminded Oliver, appropriately, of the darting and weaving of a fox on the run. The dance mimicked it, mixing quick, light steps with sudden, bold, martial movements that spoke of war, of death.

Despite the heaviness of his eyelids, Oliver found himself entranced. When it ended, the women bowing deep, hair falling forward like the closing curtain of a theater, he drummed his hands on the edge of the bench along with everyone else in applause.

Then, finally, it was time for the games to begin.

The first event was spear-throwing. Targets were set up at one end of the field, and the first two competitors – a Bryti and aJotunn – stepped forward and accepted the bundle of spears offered them.

“Each man has five throws,” Erik explained, leaning in close to do so, the heat of his breath and the tickle of his beard a welcome tease against Oliver’s ear. “The one with the best three tosses is declared the winner, and moves on to challenge the next opponent.”

“How many compete, usually?”

“Anywhere from twenty to fifty, depending.”

“Wonderful.”

“The spear is the most common weapon in the Wastes: it’s the easiest to make and maintain, and requires the least amount of iron. The only steel up here was bought, rather than forged.”

Oliver whispered, “I feel like a fair-minded Aeretollean king would simply give them the steel,” to which Erik chuckled, and bumped him lightly with an elbow.

Despite the raucous cheers and jeers of the crowd, and the enthusiasm of the participants, Oliver found himself drifting off, time and time again. He woke once to find that his head had finally tipped sideways onto Erik’s shoulder, and that Erik had shifted his arm around his waist to keep him from tumbling off the bench. Assured in the knowledge that Erik would wake him if it was necessary, he let himself drift some more.

Once, he woke to find that two contestants had come to blows, and were being pulled apart by a pair of laughingJotunns while the crowd shouted its own laughter.

He woke next to a pinch at his side, and lifted his head to find the spectators sitting in front of them getting up – and being replaced by Beserkirs. A glance at Erik revealed a stoic profile, but he smoothed his hand over the place he’d pinched, a soothing and warning gesture all in one.

Oliver blinked the grit from his eyes and resolved to stay awake, even if he had to shove a handful of snow down his shirt. The Beserkirs didn’t speak to them – didn’t even look at them, or anywhere besides the action, where a wrestling match was preparing to take place. But Oliver sensed a bristling energy emanating from their backs. They were ready for a fight at any moment, from any quarter.

The sun sank in the midst of the wrestling, and torches and braziers were lit, the orange flame light dancing across the trampled snow, burnishing the bare arms of the hulking Úlfheðnar who was finally declared the overall winner.

Birger was sitting on Erik’s other side, but Leif hadn’t joined them yet. “Did he go when I was asleep?” Oliver asked, yawningagain. Gods, but he needed a proper lie-down. “What’s his event?”

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