Page 127 of Edge of the Wild

“This one,” Erik said, nodding toward the field. Two gangly teenagers were running lengths of rope down the length of it, attaching them at intervals to the stakes that had been driven into the ground that afternoon. It created two lanes, along which a pair of women began to sink narrow poles topped with brackets.

“What is it?” Oliver asked, as more teenagers hurried along to place torches in each bracket, and then lit them with tall, burning iron brands.

“A mounted competition,” Erik said. “It’s called Eggtog.”

“Egg…what?”

“Think of it as a relay race of sorts,” Birger suggested.

“With fire,” Erik added.

“It’s usually clan versus kingdom,” Birger said. “The Aeretollean lads against the clan lads.”

“Who usually wins?” Oliver asked.

In unison, with so much displeasure in their voices it left Oliver smiling, they said, “They do.”

“Well, maybe the luck’s changed this year.”

He got two disbelieving snorts, and he chuckled.

In the orange-red glow of torchlight, two horses were led forward – ponies, really. They were short, stocky, and shaggy, with tangled manes that stuck up in all directions, and bridles made of rope. No saddles. The young lords queued up behind them, shaking out their arms, stretching their shoulders. Leif, Oliver noted, was the last in line for the Aeretolleans – he was the fastest, could make up the most for lost time. Oliver felt a little pulse of pride, as if he were his own nephew.

But then he considered the clan youths, and a lowering thought occurred: while Leif and his friends had grown up riding the heavy draft-crosses upon which they’d traveled here, and powerful, big-strided cavalry mounts…the clan boys were familiar with the small, no doubt fleet-footed ponies that awaited them now.

He wished them silent luck, and settled in to watch.

A pennant dropped, to signal the start, and the crowd began shouting and never let up. Haldin was the first rider for the kingdom – probably best, given he had to be the slowest, Oliver thought with an inner chuckle – and took a running leap and landed on the pony’s back from behind. The pony started beneath the weight, and Haldin kicked it forward into a gallop straight away, its small legs flashing and blurring.

The object, it seemed, was to gallop all the way down the course, plucking up one of the torches along the way and, on the return run, to lean all the way down, nearly sliding sideways off the pony, to touch the torch to a line of rope that had been pressed down into a channel in the snow. An oil-soaked rope. A line of fire rippled across the lane, as Haldin threw his torch into an unlit brazier, slid off while still in motion, and the next lordling took his turn. It was Náli, much more graceful – and seemingly more energetic than he had been – and he dug his heels into the pony’s flanks when they reached the line of fire, and jumped over it.

“This could go very badly,” Oliver said, mildly, “though I suppose that’s the point.”

Náli lit a second string, leaped the first, and slid down like liquid smoke, the pony whirling and ready for Edda to leap aboard.

Oliver realized that he’d pitched forward at the waist, that he’d dug his fingertips into the legs of his trousers – that his pulse was flying. He could admit that it was a little bit thrilling.

The clan boys had taken an early lead, but through the efforts of Náli and Edda, the kingdom boys were gaining ground. More ropes were lit, more fire was leaped, and the gap between the two teams drew tighter and tighter, closer and closer.

By the time Leif took the reins and kicked the pony into a gallop, the kingdom team wasahead.

“Go, Leif!” Erik shouted.

“There you go, there you go, there you go,” Birger murmured under his breath each time horse and rider took a jump. The pony didn’t flinch from the fire, well-used to this sport.

Along the bench, the din from the Aeretollean lords reached a fever pitch, as Leif spun, and raced back, lengths ahead of his competition.

Oliver caught a glimpse of the clan boy’s snarling face, and realized what was about to happen the moment before it did. “No–” he tried to shout, but his voice was swallowed up in the chaos.

Both riders still carried torches. The clan boy swayed to the side, and chucked his right at Leif’s head.

But even without looking, Leif seemed to be expecting it. He ducked low, dodging the fiery brand, heeled his pony forward, and took the last jump – and the victory, tossing his own torch into the burning brazier and crossing the finish line to thunderous applause.

Oliver let out a huge, deflating breath. “Gods. That was…”

Erik, clapping, grinning, said, “Wait until the contests of strength tomorrow.”

“How delightful.”

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