Page 101 of Blood of Wolves

Erik snorted. “I left my younger nephew behind to face a siege, and got my elder turned into a wolf. I let Oliver fly off on a dragon, and gods knows what daylight will bring.” Each word tightened the knot in his belly, left him nearly sick.

Birger tutted like an old woman. “You’ve done the best you could, lad. Everything else is up to the gods.”

It was meant to comfort, and it did, at least a little. But it didn’t take the weight of guilt from across Erik’s shoulders.

Dawn saw them climbing the last distance, the road slanting upward to the ridge that overlooked the palace, the gap in the trees blooming gold and silver as the sun rose. As the light grew, so did Erik’s pulse, beating faster, and faster, and faster. His hands sweated inside his gloves, and when he could stand it no longer, he leaned forward in the saddle and heeled his horse into a canter.

He’d nearly reached the crest of the ridge, could already see the jagged, uneven, utterly wrong lines of the ramparts of the palace, heart leaping into his throat, when a high, whistling shriek sounded overhead. He looked up, and there was Percy, circling high above, turning in a smooth arc.

His horse arrived at the summit with a tired snort. Erik reined up, dimly conscious of the raucous sounds of his party following.

The palace was in shambles.

In the fields before it, ice stood in tall, jagged spires and shards, glinting like rainbows as the sun finally crested the horizon.

All was silent. All was still.

Save the lone figure walking up the slope toward him, wind tugging at tousled red curls, travel-worn cloak streaming out alongside him.

Erik’s breath caught. It was not Oliver Meachum, blushing, faltering, mule-tempered bastard climbing the hill toward him, now. No. This was Oliver Drake, dragon master, and though his face was lined and tired, wind-chapped, and dirt-smudged, his smile was brilliant when he turned it loose – when he turned it up to Erik.

He wasn’t aware of moving – of sliding down off his horse and charging down the hill – until Oliver was right in front of him, huffing a laugh that puffed steam in the air, and saying, “Welcome –oof.”

Erik scooped him off the ground and squeezed all the breath out of him. Arms looped readily around his neck, but then Oliver patted him, and wheezed, “Darling, I can’t breathe.”

Erik set him down on his feet, captured his face in both hands, and kissed his cold lips until he felt them heat and thaw; until he’d tasted the warm, wet inside of Oliver’s mouth, and felt his lithe body melt against his own. He rested their foreheads together, after, both of them panting, the blue of Oliver’s eyes all that he could see.

“Welcome home,” Oliver said. “There are a good many people here who want to see you.”

Which meant:They’re alive. They survived.

Erik couldn’t stop the low, wounded sound that built in his throat; couldn’t offer all the words he wanted to.

Oliver seemed to know. He kissed his cheek, and stroked his hair, and murmured, “All in good time, my love. When you’re ready.”

21

The palace of Erik’s father and grandfather, the only home he’d ever known, was a shattered wreck. Never before had its walls been breached. Never before had he stood in the great hall where his family’s banners hung, and known it as a warzone. Cold wind whistled in through the breaks; a wedge of cold-drake ice sealed the breach in the outer wall. There was damage upstairs, in the towers; the royal apartments, at least, Rune could vouch for, were all but destroyed. The secret gate had been found, the tunnels invaded, and it would doubtless take days to ascertain whether any Sels had squirrelled away in a storeroom, biding their time, a flashing gold threat in the dark.

None of that mattered, because he got to take the people he loved most in the world into his arms, and feel for himself that they were safe.

Bjorn clapped his back so hard, and hugged him so fiercely his vision went a little black at the edges.

Revna pressed her tears into his throat before she blinked, and gathered herself, and kicked him in the shin. “Don’t you ever scare us like that again, you oaf.” Smiling so wide her face had to hurt.

Rune breathed out a tear-choked, “Uncle,” when Erik embraced him, voice cracking under the relief.

And even little Tessa, battle-streaked and shockingly bold, threw her arms around his neck, though she blushed afterward – and stepped back, and took Rune’s hand.

Ah. So that was the way of it, then. Erik had expected as much. He spotted Leif watching them, and save for a wry twist of Leif’s lips, he didn’t look sad about the development. Erik supposed he had other things to worry about, now.

Speaking of which…

“He’s the reason the Sels are here,” Erik all but snarled, when Revna ensured that Ragnar was trussed up in their dungeon. “He had to have told them about the cove, and the way into the tunnels.”

“He what?” Revna asked, sharply, brows furrowed. “But…how? Why?”

“He wanted my throne.”

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