Page 91 of Edge of the Wild

Their sleigh fell back, and Oliver and Erik took the head of the column, Leif and Birger falling in behind them. The horses jigged and finally broke into a trot, snorting – scenting warmth, and hay, and respite. The torchlight grew brighter, more distinct, and revealed itself to be tremendous bonfires, in fact, caged by iron braziers. The shadow of the wall fortress reared up out of the white landscape, flat-faced, dark, and sinister. The firelight danced up thick walls of massive logs, the bark smooth and shiny from years spent heaped with snow.

A horn sounded. “Riders!” a voice called from out of the gloom.

“The king! The king!” another cry went up.

Between the braziers lay a wide drawbridge; they rode abreast across it. And the moat below, Oliver noted when he craned his neck to peer down into it, was filled not with iced-over water, but with sharpened stakes.

The iron portcullis went up with a rattle of chains, and they entered a wide, rectangular yard full of more braziers, lined on all four sides by three stories of wooden fortress.

Despite having been inside three Aeretollean castles by this point, Oliver was suitably impressed. Where the castles had been resplendent, even decadent in their display of wealth and comfort, the walls around him now, the outer edges lined with logs sharpened to wicked points, spoke to a singular purpose: violence. This was the border of Aeretoll, and here men fought to keep the Waste from intruding upon royal lands. All the windows, lighted from the inside, were arrow slits; the torches on the wall-walk above illuminated the polished helmets of soldiers on patrols. There would be no hall here; no lavish bedrooms with four-posters and washrooms.

He shivered inside his cloak.

“Welcome, Your Majesty!” A man dressed in white wool and white-bear fur approached; the torch he carried revealed a weathered, friendly face and a gray beard thickened with frost. “We’ve rooms all ready for you and yours; the fires are lit, and the soup’s on.”

Erik dismounted with the same grace with which he did everything, and clasped the man’s offered forearm. “Thank you, Snorri. Have things been quiet here?”

“Aye, they have. But I heard that wasn’t the case on the road.”

“No.” Erik shook his head, but didn’t elaborate. Then he looked up at Oliver, and managed to beckon – and infuriate – him with a single arched brow.

Oliver schooled his features, and swung down off his horse; grateful for the chance to hide his expression against its warm side when his feet hit the ground and erupted in pins and needles thanks to the cold. He gave himself a shake, and moved around the horse to stand at Erik’s side.

Erik’s hand landed at the small of his back, but Oliver didn’t lean into the gesture, didn’t draw any comfort from it, the way he had when they’d arrived at Silfr Hall.

“Snorri, this is Lord Oliver Meacham. Oliver, this is Snorri Sigmarrson, the captain of the guard here at Last Reach.”

Snorri gave a quick, deferential duck of his head. “How’d you do, Your Lordship.” To Erik, he said, “The snow’s picking up.”

“Yes,” Erik agreed, and it was. Fat flakes sifted down amongst them; Oliver felt them weighing at his eyelashes. “We should get inside.”

~*~

After the usual controlled chaos of a large party arriving – horses and men milling about, saddle bags coming down, grooms unharnessing and leading away the deer – Oliver, Erik’s hand still hovering in the dip of his spine, followed Snorri through a set of double doors into a long, narrow room with a wide, stone hearth, and a sequence of trestles arrayed before it. Candles dripped from simple, iron chandeliers overhead, and the fire roared. The air smelled of food, and there was not a single tapestry, rug, throne, or jeweled goblet in sight.

For the first time since arriving in Aeretoll, Oliver felt monstrously overdressed.

Girls in brown, wool dresses and white kerchiefs were laying out places at the tables: wooden bowls brimming with stew, and wooden cups, simple pewter spoons.

“Accommodations aren’t as fine as you’re used to, your lordship,” Snorri said, as he led them to seats at the head of one of the tables. With a shock, Oliver realized he was the one being addressed. But then, he was your lordship, now, after all, and Erik had been here before and knew what to expect. “But we make do with what we have.”

“Oh, well, I wouldn’t say I’m used to fine things.”

Erik snorted, but said nothing.

As was typical, their host – Snorri, in this instance – sat across from them. Bracketed by Erik on one side, and Leif on the other, Oliver found that the wine was watered, but the stew hearty, and, more importantly, hot. He was glad to eat and listen with half an ear while the usual talk of the country, and this county, washed around him.

At least, he was, up until Snorri said, “Is it true you were set upon by a cold-drake?”

Erik paused with his spoon halfway to his mouth, expression frozen. The nearest diners had turned to look at them. A hush spread, slow and rippling down the length of the room.

“I only heard it being talked about in the yard,” Snorri said, apologetically. “I thought maybe someone saw something else, and got it wrong.”

A drop of stew dripped off the edge of Erik’s spoon and landed with a too-loud plink amidst the awkward silence that had descended. “No,” he finally said. “No one got it wrong. There was a drake.”

“And Erik’s boy there is a real Drake,” Askr spoke up. “He touched the beast! All but had it eating out of his hand.”

The room erupted with sound, then, a dozen half-shouted, overlapping conversations and excited exclamations as all of Erik’s lords and their men relayed the story in bits and (embellished) pieces to the guardsmen of Long Reach.

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