Page 61 of Edge of the Wild

“Take your medicine,” Erik said. “I’ll be here.”

~*~

A supper tray of pork, pork, and more pork came up, with an afterthought crust of bread. Oliver picked at just enough of it to stop Erik from scowling; they shared a cup of wine, Erik undressed and washed, and then it was time. Oliver placed three drops of Olaf’s tincture under his tongue, the taste sharp and minty and overpowering, and then lay down beneath the covers, inside the welcoming circle of Erik’s arms. His stomach jittery with nerves, he wasn’t sure if he would sleep – but he did drift off, between one note and the next of the low, old song that Erik was humming.

It was dark for a time; he didn’t know how long.

When he opened his eyes, he knew that he was no longer inside his own body.

He stood at the edge of the lake, looking out across its moon-silvered surface. It was night. Stars wheeled, and thin, patchy clouds scudded past a nearly-full moon. His breath misted, when he exhaled, but he couldn’t feel the cold in his lungs, nor on his face – nor on his feet, which were bare, as were his calves. The wind flapped the tails of his dressing gown around his legs.

The scent of cookfires reached him, and he started walking, drawn inexorably forward.

It didn’t take as long as it should have, to circle the tip of the lake, and head for the trees. He seemed to take three strides, four; saw the dance of flames, and the snow-dusted humps of hide tents; five steps, and he heard laughter, and singing, joking; six, and stood behind a fire ringed by men dressed like Ragnar, drinking from skins while a great haunch of meat roasted on a spit made of fresh-split sticks. Grease dripped down into the fire, sizzled on the stones.

One man said, “Admit it: you fucked a sheep once.”

“I did not!” the accused shouted, red in the face, slurring a little.

Raucous laughter followed.

The accuser stood, licked grease off his fingers, and staggered off into the trees after declaring he needed to piss. He disappeared between two trunks – and, moments later, there was a scream.

And another – another. High, blood-curdling screams of pain and terror.

The men at the fire stood, all off-balance from alcohol.

“Olar!” one shouted.

Oliver started walked, tugged again, as if compelled. He skirted the campsite, moved toward the trees, and stood, waiting. Ready to witness what occurred next.

He did not view it as himself – as his awake, conscious, quick-to-panic self – but as an objective observer, as though this was merely a fiction story he’d come across in one of his books. It made sense to him, what he saw – was believed out of hand, because no part of someone’s imagination should be doubted.

Oliver stood, the wind tugging without teeth at his gown, and watched a shape glide out of the trees. It moved on all fours, naught but a play of shadows on the snow. He had the impression of size, of height and of length. He could hear the snow crunch beneath its feet; heard something dragging along behind. He heard a whimper, a strangled, bubbling yell, and then a crack, and then silence, save the tread of feet, and the whipping-behind of – of a tail. He saw the way it lashed the shadows, saw the glimmer of moonlight on a white like polished pearls.

Then it glided from beneath the cover of the trees, stood bold in the moonlight, and stretched fully upright. A triangular, horned head, and a long, serpent neck on sloped shoulders. Its body was of a size with a very large draft horse, though the overall beast was larger, given the length of his slender, scaled, claw-footed legs. A sequence of ridges started small at its withers, and grew larger at its hips; ran like jagged teeth down the length of its long, tapered tail.

A dragon. Perfect, pearlescent white, its leathery white wings folded up at its sides, their spiked tips dragging in the snow. It held the missing man in its jaws, his still form dangling, dripping blood.

As Oliver stood, the creature turned its –hishead; Oliver sensed it was a male, just as he sensed that it knew him, somehow, that it offered him no threat, only recognition. Its eyes glowed blue as sapphires, that same, ethereal-bright color from Oliver’s dreams. His visions.

It stared at him a long moment, made a low, rushing sound through its slanted nostrils, then turned and continued on, unbothered. The dragon made its way down to the lake, where a broken place in the ice offered a hole through which he ducked his head, and slipped sinuously through, down into the water, gone in one elegant flash of white scales in the moonlight.

Oliver’s vision washed blue, a sudden tide of it. His ears popped.

When he could see again, he stood amidst a colonnade of trees. Men were screaming. In front of him, a man lay slumped back against a tree trunk, body struck-through with arrows. He was whining like a frightened, cornered animal, and above him stood a two-legged, furred creature with antlers. It reached down, and forward, its posture nothing human, and with a flick of one hand – moonlight glinting off sharp points – it slashed the man’s throat.

It straightened, and turned toward Oliver. Its pale face was streaked with black, but human eyes stared out at him. The whole thing was human, was just a man, but clothed and costumed and painted up to look like something otherworldly.

The air around him seemed to pulse, though, a throbbing that lifted off his skin, and into the forest. Behind the figure, something moved through the trees, laced with shadow; it coalesced into the dragon, again, with its blue eyes. Its growl was a low, reptilian pulsing edged with a hiss. And when it neared the antlered shaman, it lowered its head, and the growl became a low, wounded sound of pain.

Oliver saw blue, again.

And then he saw clouds –from above. He dove and ducked through them, the white shredding like sugared confections. Down below he saw vast stretches of white snow cut with shining ribbons of water: creeks, streams, rivers. Pine forests huddled at the feet of the great, granite mountains, all of it so small from up here, so insignificant. A herd of wild deer raced across the tundra, no bigger than ants. And then, over the next patch of forest, a caravan of humans and horses and reindeer-drawn sleighs.

His vision went blue.

He stood at the mouth of a cave, a dark hollow that led down into an icy hillside, dark, studded with stalactites like fangs. As he passed inside, he heard the drip of water, and a low, now-familiar rumbling. Magnus’s voice said,“That is no bear.”

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