Page 14 of Blood of Wolves

Oliver walked at his side, as they started down the same twisting, rocky path they’d taken the night everything had gone sideways. It was daylight, now, and there were no strange, inhuman screams splitting the air – but Oliver’s heart pounded with dread, anyway.

He cast a look over his shoulder as they went, glancing back at Leif who walked just behind them, the lines of his face set at tense angles. Náli trailed a little behind, flanked by his five guardsmen – the Dead Guard, he’d called them – and duke and prince both looked very young, in that moment. Life was harsher and realer up North than in the South, but he didn’t think either noble had ever dealt with anything quite like the events of the last few days – of the last few months, even: assassination attempts, and drakes, and foreign enemies reigniting old wars. It was enough to rattle anyone.

Leif caught his gaze, and offered a smile that Oliver read to be reassuring. Young, and the kingdom he was to inherit in danger, andLeifwas seeking to reassureOliver.

Oliver felt a moment’s pang that was half-pride, half-worry. How noble, how very Erik of him to try and shoulder the burden of fear. And how sad that he should have to.

Life was funny and unfair that way.

They wended their way down the slope, view obscured by a thick screen of trees as they entered the forest at its base. They passed through the small clearing where the shamans had set upon them – where Ragnar had betrayed them – and Oliver felt Erik’s arm flex within his grip. No one spoke: the only sounds were the trill of birds, the echoes of human activity in the valley, and the crunch of snow beneath their boots. The occasional muttered curse as someone kicked a rock.

When the branches ahead rattled, Erik shook off Oliver’s hold and flung out his arm, barring his path with it. Oliver waited for the impulsive urge to duck behind him completely – but it didn’t come. He carried a dagger on one hip, a short Beserkir blade on the other; his head was clear, his lungs healthy, and Percy’s shadow fell over them as he passed overhead. For perhaps the first time in his life, he felt ready for whatever approached.

Snow-caked limbs parted to reveal – bearskin cowls. And wind-chapped, bearded faces. Beserkirs.

Erik let out another deep breath, and dropped his arm. “To think,” he murmured, low, just for Oliver, “that I should live to see the day that I was relieved to run into bear-shirts.”

One such bear-shirt stepped clear of the branches around him, cloak flecked with snow, and relaxed arms that had already nocked an arrow. “Your majesty,” he said, tone careful; the bear-shirts weren’t used to being relieved at the sight of the King of Aeretoll, either. The man’s gaze lifted, and he must have spotted Oddmarr, because a crooked grin broke across his face. “Chief! You’ve done it! Brought them back alive.”

Erik made a low, grumbling sound in his throat that left Oliver biting back a laugh.

“Aye,” Oddmarr called back to his man. “Though, we did have some help.”

As if on cue, Percy cried out above them, a high, bugling call that sounded like happiness, like a greeting, one that was echoed by his mate, and their offspring; a sound like trumpets ringing out through the valley. If the dragons hadn’t been spotted yet, they surely would be now.

The Beserkir and his two companions in front of them tipped their faces up to the sky, eyes springing wide and mouths falling open in identical expressions of shock.

“Holy gods,” one murmured. And then he looked straight at Oliver. “The lad reallyisa Drake.”

For the very first time, Oliver felt something like pride in his father’s bloodline.

~*~

Edda Ingvarson met them beside the burned-out shell of the King’s Hall. He stood stoop-shouldered, one arm held across his front by a sling. His hair had been tied back simply, so that his face looked thinner and grayer than it had; one eyebrow was split by a nasty slice that would doubtless leave a scar.

He looked like someone grieving the loss of his father, because that’s exactly what he was.

“Your majesty.” He bowed his head as they approached, as did the men-at-arms flanking him, one of whom wore bandages wound round his temples and brow. “We’re glad to see you alive. We didn’t–” He cut off with a small, shocked sound, because Erik had not paused to accept his greeting; had walked straight up to him, instead, and pulled him into a firm embrace.

Edda stood stiff a moment, expression shocked. But Erik murmured something too quiet to hear –I’m sorry about your father, lad, Oliver imagined – and then Edda tucked his face into the king’s solid, fur-covered shoulder, and allowed himself a moment to squeeze his eyes shut tight; to shiver and grip at Erik’s cloak with one desperate, gloved hand. Then he stepped back, jaw firming, throat working as he swallowed. Erik touched his face, briefly, and Edda nodded afterward; put his shoulders back and held himself proudly.

“I should take you to Lord Askr, before he drags himself out of bed and seeks you out for himself,” Edda said.

“How grave is his injury?” Erik asked.

“He–” The shadow on the ground heralded the passage of the three drakes. Edda’s gaze lifted, and flashed to panic. “Your–”

“It’s fine,” Erik said in a soothing voice. “They’ve bonded with Oliver. They aren’t going to harm anyone unless he wants them to.”

Edda’s lips trembled, faintly, on his next inhale, a fast, sucked-in breath that spoke of a dark night in a clearing, and a drake bearing down on them. The last time he’d seen Percy, there had been antlered shamans flickering in the shadows, and Úlfheðnar dressed as Beserkirs wielding spears and bows at them all.

Maybe keep some distance, for now, Oliver thought. A cool, blue note pulsed in the back of his mind, and the drakes wheeled away again.

“They’ll stay back,” Oliver said, drawing Edda’s startled gaze. “They’re quite safe to be around, though. I promise.”

Edda’s eyes said,How is that possible?But he wet his lips, and, voice only a little strained, said, “Right, then. Follow me, your majesty.” A beat. “Your lordship.”

He led them down the hill to a smaller, less grand longhouse, this one whole, and with smoke curling from the vent in the roof. One of Edda’s men lifted a hide flap and motioned them into a close, dim space much like the King’s Hall in style, minus the separate “rooms.” A pebble-floored pit down the center held cookfires and kettles, and raised platforms along both walls offered dry places for furs and bedrolls. It smelled like old, oily fur, unwashed men, smoke, and simmering stew. They didn’t have to search for Askr among the tired, beaten-up men scattered across the platforms, because he spotted them straight off, and roared like a beast.

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