Page 111 of Edge of the Wild

Ragnar and his men had set off from Redcliff in the middle of the night two nights before, right after the slaughter of the bear-shirts. “They need me,” he’d said of his clan, and ridden off into the dark, without even a lit torch, his remaining men cantering along behind him. Once they’d rounded the lake, and were approaching the King’s Hall, Ragnar rode down to meet them, on his shaggy, scarred mount, his hair in tooth braids, his breath steaming in the chill, grinning at them.

“Ho, cousin!” he called, waving. “Your palace awaits.”

Erik rolled his eyes, but reined his horse to a halt, and, to Oliver’s surprise, slid down out of the saddle. He handed the reins to Oliver.

“Where are you going?”

“It’s tradition,” he explained.

Ragnar halted his horse between Magnus and Lars, between the banners, all but leaped from his saddle, and walked forward to meet Erik – to embrace him in what looked like a spine-crushing hug.

Oliver couldn’t see Erik’s face, but he could see Ragnar’s, and the delight in his smile was reminiscent of the smile he’d worn the night Oliver first met him, when he’d thrown open the doors of the great hall and sauntered into the middle of the Yuletide Feast like a patron saint. Just as then, it was a smile that sent a prickle of unease up the back of Oliver’s neck, though he would have been hard-pressed to explain why. Erik was stern, Bjorn was frightening, Askr was a blowhard…but none of them left him wary the way Ragnar did. And the worst part, when Ragnar’s gaze shifted up to him, still astride his horse, he suspected Ragnarknewthat.

Ragnar pushed Erik back at arm’s length, hands gripping his upper arms. His gaze stayed on Oliver, though, and his grin became sly. “Still have your dragon-rider, I see.”

Simple words, but they forced all the air from Oliver’s lungs. He sat up straight in the saddle, and tried not to let it show, keenly aware, suddenly, of the crate they’d stowed in one of the sleighs: the saddle, the harness, the bridle, the painting. He didn’t plan to use it – how could he? He hadn’t the first idea how to – but the knowledge of it, possessing it, stirred up a funny feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Erik’s response was muttered, and inaudible, but it left Ragnar with his head thrown back, laughing too hard, and too loud.

Erik turned back around, rolling his eyes. But then his face cleared, and he held out a hand in offering.

Oliver took a deep breath, and dismounted.

~*~

Prior to leaving Drakewell, Oliver had scoured every book on Aeretoll – and the North – that he could find in Drake Hall’s vast library. He’d examined sketches of longhouses, documented in an old book with flaking pages, written by an anthropologist who claimed to have ventured “all the way” to the harbor at Aeretoll. Oliver had seen longhouses with sod roofs in the village of Aeres, but the King’s Hall dwarfed them all.

Two generous stories high, the exposed timbered ceiling captured and echoed sounds strangely; a clever system of hides kept the snow out of the smoke vents, but allowed the smoke to leave the house. A gallery-style loft ran the length of both sides of the open, upper floor, split-log railings in place to prevent unwary sleepers from rolling off in the middle of the night. A long, narrow pit ran down the center of the first floor, filled with smooth river stones, and set with three huge cast iron kettles on frames; fires burned beneath all three. To either side, rooms of a sort had been established with the help of tacked-up animal hides, curtained off areas that wouldn’t provide any actual privacy, but which Oliver supposed were better than nothing.

For a moment, he found himself missing the cozy, two-person tent they’d shared last night, all on their own.

But then the heat of the fires prompted him to push back his hood, and he decided being warm was worth losses in other areas. He smelled wood smoke, and stew, and the dust kicked up on the floor as all the lords filed in and milled about, drawing lots for sleeping places.

“We’ll be back here,” Erik said, and led him down the long, heated line of the fire pit, past partitioned cells where the lords were setting down saddle bags and laying out bedrolls, two and three to each “room.” The last on the right had an additional curtain, a spotted cat hide that blocked the outside view. Erik held it aside and motioned Oliver in first: where a ten-by-ten square with a hard-packed dirt floor, a bearskin rug, a raised wooden platform for their bedrolls, and two wood walls awaited them. A plaque of carved wood hung on the back wall, a crude, but accurate depiction of the Aeretollean reindeer stag, with a crown poised above.

“It’s…cozy,” Oliver said, trying for an optimistic tone.

Erik let the hide flap fall with a snort, and stepped up beside him. “It’s a box.” He glanced toward the cowhide wall that separated them from the neighboring room; beneath its edge, the shadow of feet moved, and they could hear Leif asking Birger politely which side he’d prefer for his bedroll. “That people can hear through.”

“Not ideal for an assignation,” Oliver agreed. “But it beats the tent.”

Erik arched a single brow.

“In some ways,” Oliver granted. “Though it is – lacking a certain charm.” He let his gaze drop suggestively to Erik’s chest, and earned a quick, sharp grin in return.

The flap moved behind them with a rush of disturbed air. “Erik.” Birger’s voice.

They both turned and found the royal advisor wearing a look that wasn’tquiteconcerned, but close. He stepped into their crowded, un-soundproof box and let the flap fall behind him. In a low voice, he said, “Did you notice riding in – the Ákafamaðr?”

The last spark of humor left Erik’s face, and his expression turned grim. “I did, yes. Just a glimpse of them, through the trees.”

“There’s no mistaking that banner, though.”

“No.”

“The who now?” Oliver asked. He didn’t remember that mouthful of a name when Erik was pointing out clans to him.

“The Ákafamaðr,” Birger said. “Southern books call them the Aggressors.”