Page 137 of Edge of the Wild

Ragnar grinned. “Who do you think? The Ákafamaðr. With the Sels’ blessing.”

“They worship only one god.”

“Yes, well, it’s apparently all right to make use of an old religious practice so long as you aren’t worshipping it yourself.” He hedged a step backward, frowning. “Truth told, I advised against using them.” He shuddered. “They give me the creeps.” He turned as if to leave.

“Ragnar.”

He paused.

“Iwillkill you for this. No blood tie in the world can stay my hand after what you’ve done.”

Ragnar tilted his head, and his expression became sympathetic. “Oh, Erik. You won’t live to have the chance. If you’re lucky, maybe the fever will claim your lover before the Fangs do.” With that, he turned, and he left.

~*~

“We’re in the mountains, somewhere,” Birger said, some time later. Erik had bundled Oliver into his lap and petted his hair absently, shocked each time his palm kissed that hot, hot forehead. He was burning up. “They strapped us to ponies and took a narrow trail. We arrived here at dawn – I was awake, but pretending not to be. You stirred once, but they clubbed you again.”

That explained the continued pounding of his head.

“Ragnar said ‘Fangs,’” Erik said.

“Aye.” Birger looked spooked, maybe for the first time in Erik’s lifetime of knowing him – but in the way of all things Birger, it was a resigned sort of spooked. “We’re at one of their camps. I saw the buggers when we arrived.”

“Your cousin,” Náli put in, “has handed us over to cannibals.”

“Maybe that means there aren’t that many of them,” Magnus said. “You know, because they ate each other. Ow!” he exclaimed, when his brother smacked him.

Erik expected a wry comment from Oliver – but Oliver was silent, snuffling quietly in his sleep.

Erik smoothed his hair again, chest so tight it hurt to breathe.

“We’re going to be eaten,” Leif said in a flat voice, head still tipped back, gaze still fixed on the ceiling. “That seems about right.”

“Not right away we won’t,” Birger said. “There’s an arena outside.”

~*~

Oliver was flying. Cottony white clouds shredded as he dove through them, looping and spinning; he raked claws through them, and heard the rushing of the wind in his ears. Down below – far, far below – the jagged peaks of mountains passed, snow-topped and wreathed in more clouds. He gave a cry, a searching shriek, half glad for his freedom, half frantic to find his family. They were down there, somewhere, just as he had been, before the Horned Ones came for him, and made him hurt, made him suffer, made him kill. He had to find them before it was too late.

Oliver woke with a start, coughing, choking. His body ached, his head throbbed, and he wanted to claw his own skin off it was so tender. He rolled onto his side, struggling to catch his breath, and cool hands touched his throat, his brow. Patted him on the back.

“Shh, it’s all right. Just breathe. It’s all right.”

Erik.

And his old friend Fever, raging through him, making every tiny movement painful and heavy.

Erik rubbed his back, and he was finally able to draw a breath. And then another. The spasming of his lungs eased, and he sat up, with quite a lot of help from Erik. The room around him swayed, the fever making him drowsy and dizzy.

But then he froze. Nearly choked again sucking in another breath.

The ceiling.

His voice was a croaky mess, but he managed to say, “I’ve been here before.”

Everyone stared at him. It was probably not the most relevant realization to have upon waking up to find oneself imprisoned in a cave, but, well, it was the first thing that rushed to the forefront of his fever-addled brain.

“This cave,” he explained. “I’ve seen if before.”

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