Page 140 of Edge of the Wild

When he was sixteen, he’d learned that they were in fact very real, and their numbers were stronger than he’d imagined, during that year’s Midwinter Festival, when he and Ragnar, and their fathers, had joined a party that had gone hunting them in the mountains. They’d killed two, but the rest of the party they’d tracked had disappeared, as if into thin air, more experienced mountaineers than any AeretolleanorÚlfheðnar.

He’d not gone looking for them since. He had to make peace with the clans of the Waste, but there were some things best left to the dark corners of the world.

He’d not thought to end up here. Not like this – not ever.

Shock had numbed him during the march from the tunnel, out into the sunlight, into this arena – where a crowd of watchers was piling up along the top of the fence, more Fangs with sharpened teeth and hungry laughs come to spectate the blood sport – but he forced it away, now, as they halted him in the center of the ring with the tips of their spears digging at his ribs. His worry for Oliver, for Leif, for Birger, for everyone, could reduce him to blind panic if he let it. It had always been that way in battle: the trick was to focus on the facts at hand. To take in his surroundings and act in the ways he could; to focus on what he couldchange.

His manacles were rusted iron; great patches had flaked away. Good steel would break them – but he didn’t have any of that.

He counted at least fifty observers now, and growing by the minute. Some were sneering, someeating, all staring at him.

His party – and he had to think of them in that way, now, dispassionately, because if he thought of them as lover, as darling nephew, as old friends, he couldn’t do this – were behind him now, chained to a section of wall. They had use of their feet, but that wouldn’t do much good.

Náli, he noted, was kneeling down, his bare hands pressed to the snow. Whatever he was trying to do, his eyes had gone milky white.

For the first time, Erik felt a spark of hope.

“Look alive,” one of his captors barked, prodding him in the side. “While you still can,” he added with a dark chuckle.

There was a rattle, and then a cheer from the audience, as a gate slid back, and leather-armored fighters came marching in, armed with spiked clubs and small shields. Rumpled hide masks concealed their faces, narrow slits cut for eyes and mouth – the hide, Erik knew, hadn’t come from any animal.

Five of them. Five opponents at once.

He’d had worse odds before – but he hadn’t been bound, weaponless, and surrounded by cannibals, then.

His talkative captor leaned in again to whisper, “Which one of those pretty boys back there is your favorite? The one with the white hair? He’s already on his knees. Someone ought to put his mouth to good use.”

“Nah,” another said, leaning in on Erik’s other side. “I think it’s the red one. Look at him: he’s soft. Doesn’t even look like he has to shave.”

His opponents formed a loose half-circle in front of him, twitching in their eagerness, gaze bright with excitement through the holes of their masks.

The first captor said, “What about the yellow-headed one? The big one?”

“Nah,” the other said. “He’s too big. You think a king wants to fuck anyone who could turn the tables on him?” Another nasty chuckle. “No, it’s one of the two with the bare chins. Maybe both.”

Some sort of indiscernible chant was starting up among the spectators on the wall.

Erik said, “Am I to fight unarmed? With my hands bound?”

“If we feel like it.”

“Here. Have this.” Cackling, the captor on his left shoved a rusted, iron blade beneath his nose, its handle wrapped with dirty rags.

The two captors in front of him split away, and retreated.

The spear tips poking into his sides withdrew, as the other two began to follow suit.

Erik took a slow breath.

Now.

He whirled, and, rusty or not, the blade he’d been given was heavy enough to smash open the back of the cackling man’s skull.

He fell, boneless and choking on his own blood.

His fellow turned, aghast – but not fast enough. Erik looped his bound hands over the man’s head, rusty manacles pressed to his throat, and pulled.

The man gasped, and choked. The spear landed in the snow, and he reached up to claw at the backs of Erik’s hands. His back arched, every muscle straining.

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