Page 21 of Edge of the Wild

It was easier, then, to slide back into the old role. He let his grin widen; let the set of his shoulders soften. “My boys – my nephews – could learn a thing or two from you. You’re stoic.”

The boy’s gaze shifted, quickly, to Bjorn, and then returned. His throat moved as he swallowed.

“Not like my boys,” he continued. “Leif would do all right. He’s my responsible one – the first born, you know. Older siblings always have the level heads. Rune, though” – he shook his head, and let his grin become wry – “Rune would go charging right in, all flash and fury and no sense. Rune would get himself in trouble, and then Leif would have to jump in as well, to protect his little brother. That’s what always happens with those two.

“That’s what happened…” He paused, intentionally, and let his smile fade; let some of his actual pain bleed through into his voice. “That’s what happened two nights ago. Rune got himself in trouble – only, Leif was too far away to wade in. By the time he got there, the damage had been done.”

The Beserkir boy had gone totally still, listening so intently he quivered with it.

“Rune was attacked two nights ago. He was stabbed. We don’t know – the physician isn’t sure…” It was an act, the way Erik swallowed and glanced away, only it wasn’t an act at all, the way his chest ached. He sighed and glanced back at the boy. “The man who stabbed him was a Yuletide Feast guest. He was Úlfheðnar.”

The boy spoke for the first time. His eyes widened, and his chains rattled and caught as he sat forward, suddenly. “Úlfheðnar?”

“One of my cousin Ragnar’s men,” Erik confirmed, grimly. “He came into my hall, sat at table, broke bread with our guests, and then he waylaid Rune in the training yard. In the dark, while Rune was drunk.”

Surprise had smoothed even the suggestion of age from the boy’s face.

“Leif arrived, and the villain was caught – his name was Ormr. Did you know him? Or of him?”

The boy nodded. Dampened cracked lips and said, in a dry voice, “One of Ragnar’s generals.”

“What else do you know about him?”

“He’s…” The Beserkir hesitated, but, after studying Erik’s open, curious expression a moment, continued. “He leads the skirmishes against our clan. There was a night raid, in the summer. I saw his face in the torchlight – he was smiling while our longhouse burned.”

Ah, Erik thought. Ragnar, as expected, hadn’t exactly been forthcoming about all the little details.

“This night raid. Did they take war prizes?”

“Yes.” The boy’s face hardened. “My brother. My sister.” He shifted forward again, testing his bonds. “Becauseyour bloodthinks that–”

Erik held up a hand, silencing him. “Ragnar is my cousin. My distant cousin. But Ormr was no blood of mine. Nor are most of the Úlfheðnar.”

The boy sneered. “One is enough. It’s ambitious blood, and it only wants to take, and take, and take, andruleover everything.”

“Over everything?” Erik cocked a single brow. “How ambitious of me.”

“You oppress my people,” the boy continued, winding himself up, “and you go to bed with soft Southerners, and your blood ispoison, greedy poison–”

“Now, hold on,” Erik said. “We’ve done this song and dance before, and it’s very tedious. Go back to that first thing – I’veoppressedyour people? How have I done that?”

“Ragnar–”

“No, no. Not Ragnar. Úlfheðnar and Beserkir skirmishing is not any of my business. I’m not the king of the Waste, but of Aeretoll. How have I, personally, oppressed your people?”

He hadn’t expected to have to argue his case, Erik could tell. His mouth worked a few moments, nostrils flared as he panted for breath, winded from anger, from stress. “I – it’s–”

“I venture into the Wastes once a year, during the festival,” Erik said. “I sit down with the clan leaders and chiefs, we break bread, we talk about trade – those clans willing to trade. Your clan wants nothing to do with my ‘Southern’ customs. So I ask you: how have I oppressed your people?”

The boy stared at him a long moment, face twitching. Then he exploded. “We have nothing!”

“Nothing?” Erik asked, mildly.

It seemed to provoke him – as intended. “You and your fine velvets and silks! Your rings! Gems in your hair!” He turned his head and spat on the floor. “We live in hide tents! We eat raw meat, when the fires won’t stay lit in the driving snow…when my mother got sick, the shaman chanted over her, and said it was the gods’ will…he wouldn’t even allow her ice rose at the end! The Úlfheðnar burned down our longhouse, and we never replaced it! We havenothing! You and your riches…” His voice was halfway to a sob now. “Your warm beds, and your horses, and your crown. Why should you have that, when we have nothing?”

And here, Erik knew, was the heart of the problem, though he hadn’t expected such a confession from among the ranks of the most feral of the clans.

“What’s your name?” he asked, gently.

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