Page 144 of Edge of the Wild

Percy snorted.

Lars held very still and quiet and allowed himself to be scented. Magnus looked as if he might faint, but kept gamely upright, holding Náli throughout.

It was the Corpse Lord, eyes half-open, glazed slits, his face pale and smudged with fresh shadows, veins standing out blue in his temples, who Percy lingered over longest: ruffling his hair with deep, curious breaths.

“He can sense his magic,” Oliver said, first as a guess, but then knew it must be the truth. “Wow.”

Náli’s lips flicked upward in a tired grin. His voice was faintly slurred when he said, “Good dragon.”

Percy licked his cheek with his thin, forked blue tongue, and drew back, finally.

“Well.” Birger heaved a deep, tired sigh, propped his hands on his hips, and surveyed the arena full of corpses – old and new. “What now?”

It was Erik’s turn to sigh. He scrubbed a hand down his face and shook his head. “They got spooked and took off, but this is their camp. They’ll be back.”

“Then we don’t have long,” Birger said. “We have to get back to Dreki Hörgr.”

“And be set upon by every clan of the Waste?” Erik said. “We have to get back to Aeretoll.”

“Which is nearly a week’s ride,” Leif pointed out, “and we have no horses or supplies.”

“We’ll raid the camp. Something. I don’t…” Erik shook his head, and it was the most lost he’d ever looked.

Lars said, “Any chance your beastie could fly us up out of the mountains.”

The thought had occurred to Oliver.

But Erik said, “Oliver’s never ridden a dragon, and now you want all of us to? We’ve no harness, no saddle, and, besides, it can’t carry us all.”

“Then what are we going todo?” Magnus asked.

Scowling, Erik said, “I don’t–”

And the unmistakeable sound of several bows being drawn reached their ears, echoing through the deep well of the arena.

Oliver snapped his head around to find that they’d been surrounded again, archers poised on top of the wall. But these weren’t Fangs; these wore fur, and leather, and cowls with ears and fangs. Bones braided into their beards.

Beserkirs.

“You’ve got to bekidding,” Leif hissed.

Percy lifted his head and emitted a bugling shriek of warning, wings spreading. Oliver laid a hand on his neck, staying him, just a moment, just to see–

“King Erik,” a voice called down.

A big, broad man, his sword on his hip, rather than in his hand. With a start, Oliver recognized the Beserkir chief, the one who’d given him a death glare all through the council meeting. A glance at Erik revealed his flicker of shock upon recognition, one that quickly hardened to kingly anger.

“Chief Oddmarr,” he shouted back. “Your arrows can’t pierce a dragon’s hide, and if you kill all of us, he’ll kill you.”

“I’ve no quarrel with that beast,” Oddmarr said, “nor with you, Your Majesty.”

Erik’s brows shot up.

“But I’d have your cousin’s head on a spike if I could,” the chief continued. “It seems the Beserkirs and the kingdom of Aeretoll finally have an enemy in common.” A harsh breeze scraped through the arena, lifting snow. “Can we talk?”

~*~

“Five months ago, the Úlfheðnar said they were tired of quarrelling and wanted to work out a treaty. A real one,” Oddmarr said, ten minutes later. The arrows had been put back into quivers, save the few guards left up on the wall looking out for the Fangs’ return. They stood against a section of wall, against the relative windbreak of an open gate. Náli was sitting on a corpse, and Erik kept reaching out every few minutes to steady Oliver with a grip at his elbow. His palm had been cool, before, but when Erik touched his neck, now, he felt the fever spiking again.

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