Page 5 of Blood of Wolves

The young drake shouldered up on Náli’s right, and thrust his head toward Mattias – who, remarkably, managed not to scream, though his eyes bulged wide.

Panic flared in Náli’s gut. “No!” He slapped the dragon’s neck. “No, don’t you dare!”

The drake paused, and glanced back at him. His ruff, extended in aggression, flattened back, so he looked properly chastened. With a huff, he sat down on his haunches, like a dog, and tried to lick at Náli’s face.

Náli shoved at his snout. “Ugh. Stop it, you idiot.” He wiped dragon slobber off his face – it was ice-cold in a way that slobber should definitely not have been, fucking cold-drakes – and sought his captain’s gaze.

He’d seen Mattias’s face look like this before, somewhere between stricken and awed, on more than one occasion. Each of those times, it had involved the milk-white waters of the catacombs, accompanied by the whispers and screams of the dead, when Náli was shaking and bordering on unconscious. He’d never understood that look – or, at least…he hadn’t wanted to. For his own sanity.

Mattia’s throat jerked as he swallowed, as his gaze pinged wildly between Náli and the dragon, the way he tried to wrest control of his reaction obvious, and comical – and sweet, too. “My lord?”

Beserkirs scattered with muffled curses and exclamations as Percy landed behind the prisoners, lightly, though the kiss of his feet on the snow sent faint vibrations up through Náli’s legs.

He sighed. “Yes. It appears we’ve been adopted by dragons.”

~*~

All of this would have been easier in a proper campaign tent, but this wasn’t a proper campaign, and the only tents were of the low, two-person Beserkir variety that, while cozy for sleeping, didn’t allow for a knot of grown men to discuss a political ambush. The wind whistled through the peaks and crags of the mountains, knifing right through Oliver’s cloak. He was too cold to be too proud about all but wedging himself into Erik’s side; Erik helpfully threw a fold of his own cloak around them both, and looked and sounded no less imperious for it as he faced Náli’s personal guard captain.

“How did you manage to make it all this way?” Erik asked, and though Oliver could hear that he was impressed, and surprised, he thought that his tone – to someone who didn’t know him as intimately – probably came across as brusque and full of doubt.

But Náli’s captain, Mattias, a tall, strong-built man near Oliver’s age, with a close-kept beard and a single, tight braid down the middle of his skull, stood unflinching at his master’s side and said, “The Úlfheðnar had already gone, your majesty. We encountered no resistance – save the mountain rabble.” He frowned in clear disgust. “A group of twenty tried to waylay us a mile back. We dealt with them.”

Oliver lifted his brows, impressed – though the cold had numbed his face so badly he couldn’t feel much of the movement.

“Just the five of you?” Erik asked.

“Yes, your majesty.”

Náli said, “The Dead Guard are the most elite fighters in Aeretoll.” His tone had gone lofty, and superior – but with a vibrating undercurrent of true, emotional pride. His smile was small, and smug, but his pale eyes glittered in the torchlight. True sentiment.

Erik dipped his head a fraction. “They’ve proven themselves capable tonight. Though,” he addressed Mattias, “you nearly got run through with a Beserkir spear.”

Náli bristled.

But Mattias said, “It was a risk we had to take, your majesty, to ensure that our lord was whole and healthy.” He glanced toward Náli, then, and his brows drew together, frown plucking at his mouth. “My lord, you look tired.”

Náli’s resultant blush was visible even in the flickering torchlight. “I’m fine.” But there was no hiding dark shadows beneath his eyes, nor the thinness of his cheeks.

Mattias opened his mouth – and then closed it, silent, though his jaw worked.

Interesting, Oliver thought.

“What of my lords?” Erik asked, drawing Mattias’s attention again. “Who survived?”

“Most, your majesty. I don’t believe Ragnar set out to murder the whole of the Phalanx – merely to cause enough chaos to escape with his men. Though.” Here his voice grew heavier. “Lord Ingvar was slain. And Lord Fastlaug, along with most of his men. Lord Askr was injured, he and his son, Haldin, both. Many lords lost portions of their troops. It was a bloody day.”

Oliver didn’t need to seek out Erik’s expression to know what it was doing. It had gone hard as granite, muscles flicking in his taut cheeks, jaw firm beneath the close grain of his dark beard.

His voice sent goosebumps shaking out over Oliver’s skin when he said, “We need to get to Dreki Hörgr.”

2

Aeres

Kingdom of Aeretoll

Revna peered over the edge of the battlements, wind tugging at her braids, and watched the tail end of the last civilian caravan crawl across the palace’s drawbridge, through the gate and into the yard. A boy of no more than ten held his little sister’s hand, both of them bundled against the cold, and he tugged at the rope lead of a shaggy, brown cow, plodding along disinterestedly behind them. A father carried twins wrapped in furs, one in each arm, while his wife and their dog drove their small flock of thick-coated sheep ahead of them. She spotted a farrier’s cart, pulled by steady draft horses; a wheelbarrow full of long-haired rabbits in wire cages. Families from the small, turf-roofed farmhouses in the fields of Aeres; children from the city proper, in the bustling markets down by the docks. They’d begun the evacuation immediately, pulling every person and every animal behind the palace’s thick walls. Tents were being set up for the overflow that couldn’t be housed in the rooms and great hall. The palace fairly hummed beneath her feet, full to bursting.

---