Page 74 of Edge of the Wild

Hay exploded from the other wagon, and Askr barreled out spitting hay stalks and cursing under his breath.

“Still proud of your plan?” Erik asked.

Askr rumbled unhappily, but said, “Aye. I didn’t hear anything better coming from anyone else.”

It was a good plan, truth told, if itchy at the outset and, no doubt, cold by the end. They’d agreed ahead of time to splitting into three groups. Erik would lead one, Askr the second, Lord Dagr the third.

Ragnar would lead his own group, an uncounted-on fourth group.

Dagr worried Erik, a little. Ingvar had offered, and would have been a better choice mentally, but Ingvar, getting on in age, wasn’t the best candidate for floundering through the snow after dark, potentially while fleeing an enemy. Lord Edda, Ingvar’s son, was to go with him; Erik had more confidence in his courage than that of the older lord.

The farmland around Redcliff was too vast and sprawling to guard every approach to the keep, but after a day spent consulting maps, they’d come to a consensus on the most likely spots. Their own hiding places had been chosen accordingly.

Erik hadn’t told his lords about Oliver’s assertion that a dragon was part of the enemy party, but if one was, they should be able to see or hear it. Erik thought it most likely a trained bear on a chain – he hoped that was the case, too.

A narrow goat path led out the back of the hay shed, hugged the stone wall until it passed beneath a canopy of bare-limbed trees, and eventually reached a gate that would give them access to a patch of forest beyond. They made their way slowly and cautiously while the grooms bellowed for the cows and the melee of eating covered any other sounds. The sun was setting by the time they’d all filed through the gate, secured it, and gathered beneath the sentinel pines. Erik motioned to two men-at-arms, and with nods they went to scout the area. Another two gestures split their groups, sent them on their way.

Askr saluted with his axe, and led his men down the hill between the tree trunks with a wave.

Dagr nodded, and his contingency headed for Red Creek, a half-mile distant.

“Uncle,” Leif whispered at Erik’s side. “Do you want me to go with him?” Even more quietly, “I’m not sure I trust him in this.”

Pleasure over his perception didn’t drown out Erik’s worry. “I’m not sure I do either,” he whispered back, and turned to face his nephew. “But, no. I want you by my side.”

Disappointment flickered in Leif’s gaze, there and gone again.

He thinks I don’t trust him, Erik thought.He thinks I’m watching him to make sure he doesn’t blunder.

I’m watching you because I could never forgive myself if anything happened to you.

Erik squeezed his shoulder. “Come. We should get to our position.”

Leif nodded, and fell into step beside him.

~*~

Despite the cold, nightfall saw Oliver up on the parapet at the front of the keep, looking out across the village, its windows glowing with candlelight, and out the gates, across the farmland, toward the forest. The lake gleamed still and bright as glass, beneath the moon – a moon nearly full in a cloudless sky, the snowy fields and plains glazed silver in its light. If anyone or anything approached the keep, it would be visible.

Supper was under way in the great hall below, and Askr’s wife – a stern-faced, formidable counterpart to her husband’s affable blustering – had offered Oliver a place beside her. He’d declined, as politely as he could. His stomach was too full of nervous butterflies, to start, and sitting at a table of women had felt far too on-the-nose. He’d come up here, receiving nods from the guards left on duty, and tucked himself into a windbreak along the crenelated rooftop, watching, waiting, hoping to see nothing at all.

He kept remining himself that Erik and Leif were both strong and capable; that they knew what to expect and how to defend themselves.

Oliver let out a slow breath, saw it mist to vapor in front of him. It did little to settle his nerves.

Behind him, the sound of uneven footfalls. A step, a scrape, a thump that didn’t belong to a human foot.

His first thought, the jerk of instinct, was too ridiculous to name – the moment he thoughtanimal, he knew he was wrong. (He didn’t dare thinkdragon.) A subtle glance over his shoulder proved that a stooped man approached, one with a pronounced limp, walking with the aid of a heavy walking stick.

A young man, Oliver realized, as he drew alongside him, and not the graybeard he’d expected. He would have been tall had he stood erect, and his shoulders were still broad, though muscle and fat had melted away – if they’d ever existed – and his left leg lagged behind. The moonlight afforded a glimpse of fiery hair – but cut short, cropped so it fell around his ears, more like Oliver’s own, and he had no beard. The nose and square jaw were unmistakeable though; coupled with his hair, it was obvious who the boy’s father was. This was Lord Askr’s son.

“Hello,” Oliver said, facing the landscape again, not wanting to be caught looking too closely. He knew too well the weight of scrutiny, and didn’t ever want to wield it against someone else who might feel…different.

“Your lordship,” the young lord greeted, his voice deep like his father’s, but more somber. “Apologies for not taking part in your welcome last night. I haven’t much stomach for war councils, these days.”

“Neither do I,” Oliver said. “I never have, really. But I keep getting plopped down in the middle of them.” When he sighed, the young lord chuckled.

Oliver turned to face him, and offered his hand, the way they did in the South. “Though you doubtless already know, I’m Oliver Meacham. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

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