Page 92 of Edge of the Wild

Snorri’s gray brows shot up as he turned to Oliver. “That’s right! You’re of the Drake line, aren’t you?”

Oliver pushed his half-empty bowl away, stomach churning unhappily now. “Yes. On my father’s side.” He wasn’t going to waste the effort of explaining his bastardy at this juncture.

Snorri grinned. “Well, I’ll be damned. We’ve not had a dragon rider in an age.”

Oliver frowned. “You seem…much less astounded than everyone else about this.”

“Because I’m not.” He glanced between him, and Erik, then nodded. “Come on, then, if you’re gonna let the soup get cold. I’ve something to show you, young Drake.”

~*~

Outside of the mess hall, Long Reach proved to be a rabbit warren of narrow, low-ceilinged hallways with doors set at intervals, and fully-enclosed glass lamps providing light. The arrow slit windows had liftable glass panels over them, lined at the edges with fur to keep out the cold, but everything else, down to the irregular iron doorknobs, was far more primitive than anything at Aeres.

Snorri led them around a half-dozen corners and up two short flights of stairs – then down another set, until Oliver couldn’t have found his way back to the mess to save his life. Finally, the hallway reached a dead-end, and a door. “Watch your step,” Snorri cautioned, as he opened it and led them inside, lantern held before him.

Even with the warning, Oliver flailed a moment, when he realized the floor was a good foot below the threshold. Erik caught the back of his tunic, steadying him easily, and without a word, but let go the moment he had his balance.

They were in what looked to be a store room, one full of old trunks and crates, the tops caked in a thick layer of dust. Snorri set the lantern on one near the center and began rummaging. “Let’s see…I think it was this one…no, not there. I thought it was along the back wall…maybe…aha.” He stood, triumphant, hefting a crate. Oliver moved the lantern over so it could be set upon the trunk, and dust exploded up, making all of them cough as Snorri lifted the lid.

Inside was…a tangle of cracked, old leather. Rusted buckles.

“Here we are.” Snorri reached in and lifted it out, and after a moment of staring at the long straps gone stiff from time, and parsing out the flat, padded bit of leather they were attached to, he realized what he was looking at.

“A saddle.”

“A dragon saddle,” Snorri said, and pressed it into his hands.

Oliver was helpless but to take it. The saddle itself weighted almost nothing; there couldn’t have been a wooden tree beneath the padding, like there was on a horse saddle. Only a flexible seat with old, falling-apart fur stitched beneath. It was the harness that had the heft to it: the thick, reinforced leather straps that must have secured the saddle around belly and chest, not unlike a horse’s girth and breastplate.

“If I’ve got it correctly,” Snorri said, “your feet go here” – a set of rusted metal rings, one on each side, sewn into fixed straps, which must have been stirrups – “and this ring” – on the pommel – “attaches to a harness on the rider. That way you don’t get dumped off when you do a spin.” He huffed a laugh, and dug back into the crate. “This would be the bridle.” Again, it didn’t look dissimilar to a horse bridle, only larger; rather than a bit, metal rings were affixed to either side of the noseband, and then connected beneath through a bit of chain that could slide. “This way,” he said, drawing on the chain, “you can steer, but the creature can get its mouth open, should you need it to in battle.”

“So it can bite your enemies?” Oliver asked, at first joking…but then gulping when he realized that wasexactlywhat the contraption was intended for.

“Aye. If a good war horse is a weapon beneath you, imagine the power of an adult drake under saddle. It must have been a fearsome sight.”

It was almost frighteningly easy to imagine.

“How – how did you get this? Why is it here?” When Oliver looked up from the tangle of leather in his hands, Snorri was giving him a smile too good-humored to be called smug.

“It was left here by its last owner.” He reached into the crate, and came out with a bit of rolled-up parchment, secured with a leather tie.

Oliver set the saddle carefully down to take it from him, and when he unrolled it, he found a faded ink and watercolor drawing of a man astride a saddled dragon. The dragon was white edged with blue, its wings folded; it was diving. And the grinning, bearded man atop him had red hair. Long, braided, deep auburn hair.

“That,” Snorri said, “is Percival Bracken. Bastard grandson of the then-Duke of Drakewell.”

~*~

When a hand pressed on his shoulder, he sank down onto a trunk that someone had helpfully moved into place – when had that happened? The parchment in his hands shivered, and he realized it was because he was shivering; he took a deep breath and willed himself still. “How long ago was this painted?” he asked, shocked by the steadiness of his voice.

“Eighty years, give or take,” Snorri said, scratching his beard in thought. “It was well before my time, obviously. But it’s always one of the favorite stories from the old-timers on long nights ‘round the fire.

“Young Percy had a wild streak – he liked adventure – and when he came to grips with the fact that he couldn’t inherit and would never have the honor of the Drake name, he set off from Drakewell and went traveling. He wound up on a merchant vessel, and then in Aeretoll, and stayed there. He eventually joined the guard here, at Long Reach; said he fit in better with the scoundrels and commons here than anywhere he’d ever been. Perhaps you heard stories of him back home?”

“I know his name – I read it in the family ledgers. I asked Uncle, once, what happened to him – I was” – a humorless grin stretched his mouth at the memory – “worried that, if he’d been run off, or killed, the same might befall me. He was the only other bastard listed in the whole family tree, and I…Anyway.” He shook his head. “Uncle said he went off on his own, but that no one ever heard from him again. I always thought it sounded terribly sad.”

As a boy, he’d envisioned Percival Bracken as alone, destitute; shivering through winter in some hovel, drinking himself to death; perhaps dying of disease in some squalid back room of a brothel. He’d been an anxious child, and hadn’t been able to imagine a happy ending for an illegitimate nobleman’s son.

But now…the idea of traveling, of sailing, of making easy friendships and setting off on adventures without a single care for propriety or the responsibility of inheritance…it sounded rather wonderful. No springtime balls, or endless tourneys; no gossip, no hateful looks.

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