Page 79 of Edge of the Wild

Erik held his ground, shoring up his grip on his sword. “Pikes to the fore,” he barked, and Magnus issued the order down the line. Askr’s men and what remained of Dagr’s fell in behind the line of pike-bearing guardsman that quickly formed. A horn sounded, distantly, from the keep.

“They’ll be sending riders,” Askr said, shouldering his way in on Erik’s left side.

On his right, Leif had picked up a dead bear-shirt’s spear and held it in one hand, his sword in the other, gaze trained on the approaching dragon, jaw clenched tight beneath his beard.

“We can’t run,” Erik said, facing forward again. “It’ll be on us. You should send your riders back; it’ll only set upon them.”

“And we’re to fight it alone?” Askr roared. “Two fronts are better than one!”

He wasn’t wrong.

Pinpricks of light appeared: torches, moving quickly, carried by riders.

Where was Ragnar?

Erik tried to recall all that he knew of dragons, the things he’d learned in books. “Cold-drakes don’t breathe fire,” he called. “They can’t burn you. If it comes at you with an open mouth, run your pike down its throat. Its most vulnerable at the join of leg and chest, between the big scales there.”

The line of torches streamed forward. The moonlight glinted faintly off the silver buckles and chasing of the tack of a lead horse, one that was only a dark smudge against the snow, far ahead of the others. Its rider bore no torch. It would be close enough for the beast to scent the horse, soon. It might provide a distraction.

The dragon kept coming.

A figure materialized beside it. Tall, still, shrouded – a man-shaped shadow with antlers. A shaman.

Oliver’s words floating back to him, his assertion that the shaman was somehow manipulating the creature, that it was hurting him.

“Give me a bow!” he roared down the line.

Rustling, clacking of weapons, and then a strong yew bow was thrust into his hands. He dropped his sword, took up the new weapon, and accepted the arrow Askr handed off. Nocked, drew, aimed. Felt a twinge in his shoulder that was a good reminder he needed to practice his archery more – stilled, breathed, and fired.

The arrow found its mark – but passedthroughthe shaman. The shape blurred, wavered, and then resettled.

It was only a mirage.

“Fuck,” Leif breathed.

“Here.” Askr shoved another arrow toward him. “Shoot the fucking dragon this time!”

Erik nocked again.

Down the length of the arrow, he saw that the lone, benighted rider had pulled to a halt, close enough now to make out his slight shape as he slid down off the horse and came the last distance on foot, cloak streaming behind him. Close enough for the moon to light his fine velvets, to chase along the silver stitching, and wink off the stitched-on gems. Close enough to show curls bounding on his shoulders. A wedge of face appeared, as the rider looked up at the dragon.

He shouted, and a voice reached them, thin from the distance. “Hey! Hey, look at me! It’s me you want.”

The dragon paused, cocked its head.

“Oliver.” Erik dropped his bow, picked up his sword, and ran.

~*~

There had to be something more appropriate to shout at a dragon thanhey, but Oliver was all panic, no creativity at the moment. He’d nearly swooned off the horse twice on the ride from the keep, the blue washing over his vision, a growl that he now knew to be the dragon’s roaring in his ears. But now, finally, he was here, and floundering to run through the deep snow, and shouting “hey,” because he could see Erik’s host arrayed against it, and he knew that some of them would die if he didn’t manage to turn the dragon around.

Close enough to feel the breeze from the whipping of its tail, he skidded to a halt, and tried again, hands cupped around his mouth. “You’ve been calling me! I’m here! Look at me!”

It halted. Its head cocked. Then its neck craned around, and Oliver saw the vivid, glowing blue of its eyes.

A blue that swallowed him. He could see nothing else – but he could hear the low, pulsing growl of the dragon. Not a threat, but a plea again, an inquiry. And beneath its voice, another: a quiet but sinister chant. A human voice.

That’swhat was hurting the drake. It was an old and foreign tongue, some lost language whose words Oliver didn’t recognize…but he understood them, somehow.You are mine as I am yours.Let ice speak to fire, and blood speak to blood. The sky shall be ours.A king for a king, a throne for a kiss, when the dragons sing, the throne shall be his.

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