Page 109 of Edge of the Wild

“But I’m a Drake.”

He jabbed a finger toward Connor’s retreating back. “Which is only atheoryhe has. There’s no guarantee at all that the beasts will give a fig for you, Drake or not.”

To her surprise, she was offended. She stood up straighter. “If my choice is between taming a dragon to save my family’s duchy, or marrying Reginald L’Espoir, I’m going to choose the dragon every time.” She levered a note of authority into her voice on the last, and Malcolm’s lips pressed together into a thin, flat line.

Finally, he let out a deep breath and said, “As if I could ever sway you on anything.” He rolled his eyes.

Amelia smacked him lightly in the chest. “Good. Then stop arguing.”

The torchlight receded more by the second, and they started walking again, chasing its glow to the mouth of the cave.

“No!” A shout. Connor.

They broke into a jog. Amelia drew her knife as they pushed through the curtain of trailing roots, and had their eyes assaulted by torchlight. Much, much more of it than there’d been before.

Amelia blinked against its harshness, hand tightening on her knife.

She saw her own men, and Connor’s, all on their knees – at spear-point. Hands behind their backs. The men holding the spears wore heavy, gold-chased plate armor, and helmets that covered their faces, with only narrow slits for their eyes, the skin around which had been painted a shocking, deep purple. She didn’t have to search for the serpent embroidered onto their surcoats to know who these men were.

Sels.

Seles’s indomitable fighting force, hellbent on colonizing all of the East, and beyond.

The quiet, choked sound of weeping drew her gaze to a patch of moss just beyond the cave mouth, where Connor knelt over a crumpled body. The sightless eyes of his child bride stared up at the canopy, her throat a jagged red ruin, blood seeping into the moss all around her.

“Shit,” Malcolm breathed.

An unfamiliar man’s voice, its accent harsh and clipped, said, “She fought. That was unwise.”

Amelia turned toward the speaker, and saw a Sel in even finer armor step forward, his purple surcoat emblazoned with serpents, and stars, and sunbursts. The Sels worshipped only one god, and had always said it was his will that they embark on their, in their own words, Ascension to Greatness. This man was a captain, and held a long, bloodied sword in one gauntleted hand. With the other, he reached to push up his visor, revealed a square, harsh, pale face, streaked around the eyes and across the bridge of his hawkish nose with purple pigment.

“Lady Amelia Drake,” he said. “As you can see, we have you surrounded.”

“Fuck,” she murmured, and dropped the knife.

14

There was only one advantage to sleeping in a tent, Oliver discovered, and that was the need to huddle close for warmth. Their first night beyond the relative comfort of Long Reach, their vast party of Northmen had made camp before nightfall, at the edge of a glistening, frozen-over lake, erecting small, dome-shaped tents made of hide, and wood, and bone. After a disappointing – though thankfully hot – meal cooked over a fire, Oliver and Erik had bedded down on a pallet of straw and furs, fully-clothed. Erik had hooked an arm around his waist and dragged him in close straight away. “You’ll want to be touching.” Dragged a heavy black bear fur over them both.

The wind had picked up, once night fell, and it had sounded like the wailing of a widow, or the shrieking of a demon, beating at the hide of their tent. “It’s only the wind,” Erik had said, more than once, large hands rubbing soothing circles across Oliver’s shoulders. But Oliver had shivered, and wriggled, and, when, exhausted, he’d finally found sleep, he’d awakened the next morning to find that he’d crawled completely on top of Erik, his face mashed in his warm throat. Erik had chuckled over that, and kissed the top of his head.

Now, they neared the end of their journey, at last.

A clear dawn had, slowly, over the course of the day, become crowded with a white haze of cloud. When the scout at the head of their party sounded his horn, alerting them to their impending arrival at Dreki Hörgr, fat, dark snow clouds lay crouched on the horizon.

Oliver let out a deep breath that plumed as white mist before him, and flexed his stiff fingers on the reins. He’d thought to arrive with a lump of fear in his stomach, but was too cold and tired now to care about more than shelter and food.

At sound of the horn, Leif sat up tall in his saddle, his horse jigging in response, picking up on his obvious anticipation. Oliver saw a faint grin touch his lips. However strenuous the journey, and whatever lay ahead, the crown prince of Aeretoll was eager to arrive at the home of his forebears.

“Everyone,” Erik called, raising his voice to a small shout to be heard, turning left, and then right to address the breadth of their company. “Formation!” He glanced over his shoulder at Oliver, and said, more quietly, “Ollie, to me, right here.” On his right side, he indicated with a wave.

In his rightful place as consort.

Oliver felt the first, unlooked-for flutter of something like nerves in the pit of his belly, as he gathered his reins and heeled his horse up so he rode abreast of his lover. He earned a quick, but true smile from Erik, before the king turned to ensure the others were falling in line.

The uneven, constant crunch of snow that had marked their journey thus far became a flurry of sound as horses broke into trots, and canters, and even a gallop from a few, by the drumming sound of hooves punching through snow. Oliver turned his head, watching, as each of Erik’s lords and their heirs steered into position, into a pattern that they all knew, clearly by heart. Snow sprayed as horses were reined up, or urged on; calls and shouts and jeers rang out across the empty expanse of white wasteland around them.

A column formed. First Erik and Oliver, alone at the front. Behind came Leif, and Birger, and Náli. Then Askr, Haldin, Ingvar, and Dagr’s heir, now fatherless. Each row was one greater than the row before, all of the lords at the head, and then all the guardsmen and men-at-arms after that. Then the reindeer-drawn sleighs that bore their supplies and belongings, three-abreast.

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