Page 22 of Edge of the Wild

The boy sniffed and lifted both cuffed hands to wipe at his nose.

“We have you here. We control when you eat. What harm could it be to give your name, at this point?”

Resistance held another moment.

“I’m not your enemy, son.”

“I’m not yourson.” He deflated. “My name is…Yngvi.”

“Hello, Yngvi. I’m Erik.” His knees were starting to ache from holding his crouched position, but he didn’t dare move, not now that he was making progress. “I admit to you, readily, that I executed the Beserkirs who killed my brother-in-law – before you were even born. But I have not taxed your people. I have not implemented my will upon them – have written no Beserkir laws, nor refused to come to a negotiation table. There is no trade between our peoples because the Beserkirs will not meet with me.

“For all of my life, it’s been the espoused view of Beserkir chiefs that the Kingdom of Aeretoll is one steeped in wastefulness, obscene wealth, and Southern manners. But someone…someone has told you that we have oppressed you.”

A flicker of nerves in the tear-bright eyes, now. A new uncertainty – he’d said too much, and now regretted it.

“Not that you aren’t a bright lad,” Erik continued, “but, in my experience, sentiments like the ones you’ve shared today aren’t those of a young man proud of his origins. Nor of one content with his lot in life. Perhaps you arrived at them on your own, but, as a Beserkir, the clan that shuns our way of life the most vehemently…I think not.

“Who helped you to feel this way, Yngvi? Who told you that I’d oppressed your people?”

The chains clinked as the boy shifted his weight. His gaze cut to Bjorn, to the door, to the far wall. “No one,” he gritted out.

“No one? Not your father? Your clan leader? Your friend?”

“I saidno one.”

“All right.” Erik showed his palms in acquiescence, and stood, fighting not to show the way it pained his knees. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. Bjorn, turn him loose.”

Yngvi and Bjorn both said, “What?” at the same time.

Erik turned to his captain, met his incredulous stare, and nodded. “Do it.”

Bjorn held his gaze a moment longer, silently, questioning, then set the torch in a bracket on the wall and pulled out the keys.

Erik watched as Yngvi, wide-eyed with shock, was uncuffed, and Bjorn pulled him ungently to his feet. Followed behind them as Bjorn marched him down the long hall, and down a dark tunnel, one that led in confusing turns and curves toward the surface, and a hidden door that would spill them out beyond the palace grounds, at the edge of the woods. Erik carried a small pack full of dried meat and a water skin, and the torch, its light streaming overhead in the cold draft that whipped down the tunnels, threatening to douse the flames.

They turned a last corner – the boy stumbling, Bjorn catching him and shoving him on – and silver moonlight skimmed across the floor, along the walls, a cold counterpoint to the sputtering orange glow of the torch.

“Move and I’ll gut you,” Bjorn said, reaching with one hand to unlock the heavy iron grate and push it open. The hinges squealed.

It was snowing, a swirl of small flakes that kissed their faces, flashing wet and metallic in the moon and torchlight. Bjorn shoved the boy one last time, and he staggered forward, went down on one knee, and then turned back to face them, his face an animal mask of eagerness and distrust. In all his fur, he still didn’t manage to look like a bear – no, this bear-shirt was more a half-starved dog.

Erik tossed the pack down at his feet. “Run home, Yngvi. Stay there.”

The boy stared at them a long moment, breathing harsh through an open mouth, breath steaming. Then he snatched up the pack, turned, and bounded off into the trees.

Bjorn turned to face him, his judgement silent, patient, but bristling with unasked questions.

Erik watched the last flash of fur in the moonlight, before snow-laden branches sprang together and Yngvi was gone from sight. He said, “Someone in the Waste is trying to convince the Beserkirs that they should be unhappy with their lot, and that it’s somehow my fault.” He turned an arched-brow look on his friend. “I’ve given that one something to think about, and, with any luck, by the time we get to the festival, the barbarians will be at each other’s throats.”

~*~

After supper – which consisted of more wine than food for the sickbed minders – Leif finally stretched out on the sofa in his brother’s room, kicked off his boots, and fell into a deep, if not altogether comfortable sleep.

Revna stuck stubbornly to her chair, swaying she was so tired. She didn’t resist when Tessa eased the wine cup from her grip.

Tessa sent Oliver a helpless look.

He shook his head, but was gathering breath to try, one more time, to convince Revna to seek her own bed – when the door opened.

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