Page 139 of Edge of the Wild

The other one said, “We want you todance.”

“Well,” Náli said, “that doesn’t sound sinister at all.”

~*~

More men joined the first two, wielding spears with nasty, hooked barbs on the ends, and the cell was opened, Erik and Oliver driven back. Iron manacles were produced, and in the chaos of shoving, protesting, and eventually being bound, Oliver managed to drip three drops of ice rose tincture under his tongue and then stow the vial in his pocket again.

The relief was immediate. As he swallowed, a tingling, pleasant coolness spread down his parched throat; hit his stomach and shivered out through his limbs. It pressed the fever back, eased the pain in his muscles and joints – even as it painted his thoughts over with a numb blue veil. Now the cave looked as it had – or more like it, washed with a pale sapphire. All his worry and panic about the present situation faded to a dull hum in the back of his mind, his thoughts placid and accepting as his wrists were locked together and a spear butt shoved him between the shoulder blades. He staggered forward, swayed, and then followed the others out of the cell, and down a long, ice-and-stone tunnel.

They reached a fork, and took the left bend – toward the light, pale and blue-edged, growing brighter and brighter. The others hissed, but Oliver only blinked, as they stepped out of the cave and into the daylight.

They stood at the edge of a flat, cleared space, an expanse of churned-up snow surrounded by steep, rocky slopes. Slopes that went up and up…mountains. They were in the mountains somewhere. Hadn’t Birger said that? No matter. Oliver spotted a few shoddy tents, and a few pens filled with what looked like goats. And a large, fenced-off area that resembled an arena. That’s where they were headed, apparently; the two spear-wielding men at the front of the line prodded Erik forward, through a narrow gate and into the ring.

Once inside, their manacles were clipped to heavy lengths of chain bolted into the timber of the fence. Oliver found himself between Leif and Náli, blinking down at his bound hands, dismayed, panic only a faint fluttering in the periphery. Damn, he thought. Damn and bother.

Ice rose really was miraculous.

A soft sound to his left drew his attention.

“What are you laughing at?” Leif asked, because Náliwaslaughing, chuckling quietly to himself, smiling, casting a look across the clean, white landscape of the arena.

“This is where they test their champions,” Náli said. “This is where they force prisoners to fight to the death.”

“Yes, which is what we’re about to do,” Leif said, casting a furious look across to the far fence, where a gate was opening, and men armed with long, spiked clubs were entering, each baring a small, round wooden shield.

“No,” Náli said. “You don’t understand. We’re standing on top of hundreds ofdead men.”

“What–” Leif made a sound like he’d been punched. “Oh.”

“Yes. Oh.” Even with his hands bound, Náli managed to link his fingers and crack his knuckles. “My father was very good at this. I’m still new to it.”

“Try anyway.”

“Obviously.” He knelt down and pressed both bare palms to the snow.

“What’s he doing?” Oliver asked.

“Hopefully he’s doing it quick,” Leif muttered.

Náli stayed low on the ground, hands in the snow, unmoving. Nothing seemed to be happening.

He searched for Erik, glancing unsteadily down the row of grumbling, fractious, chained-up Northerners…

But Erik wasn’t there.

As if reading his thoughts, Leif said, “He’s there.” His voice was tight.

Oliver looked toward the center of the arena – and there was his lover, being marched between four men with spears.

Dance, one of men had said outside the cell, flashing his filed-down teeth.

Panic finally managed to pierce the veil of ice rose, and Oliver’s stomach rolled. “Oh no,” he murmured.

Dancemeantfight.

~*~

Once, when Erik was just a boy, his mother had told him that the Fangs weren’t real; that they were just a story his brother had made up to frighten Revna.

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