Page 20 of Blood of Wolves

Birger gazed at him kindly. “I think that’s the best we can do for now. It’s a solid plan.”

Oliver blinked again – his vision blurred from studying, from the low light, from exhaustion, from all three – and glanced back down at the pins he’d placed in the map. “Is it?” His throat was sore from talking so much, and he reached for his cold tea, grimacing when it didn’t help.

Birger’s gray brows drew together, a moment, and Oliver thought he almost looked…concerned. “Aye. The only way to make it better would be to have the truth straight out of Ragnar’s mouth. The most important thing, now, is to get moving.”

Oliver nodded. “Right.” He resisted the urge to massage his temples, but just barely. A thought occurred. “Wait. We can’t ask Ragnar, but. Did his side take any causalities in the skirmish?”

They both turned to Askr – who had nodded off, and jerked awake with a snort. “Wha…oh? His side.” He cracked a tired grin full of only half his usual muster. He really did look terrible, and Oliver and Birger had traded glad looks earlier, when he’d first fallen asleep. “Aye. There were casualties. We killed all of those that we could.”

“Hm,” Oliver said. “We could have interrogated them.” Thenanotherthought occurred. He turned slowly back to Birger. “Or…maybe we still could?”

A short walk across trampled snow found Náli seated in front of a domed gray tent, swaddled in furs before a fire and drinking from a steaming mug. The young drake lay curled asleep at his feet, head resting on his thigh. His Dead Guard moved briskly around the makeshift camp, packing crates and loading a sleigh where reindeer were already harnessed, entertained by a few handfuls of chopped hay. All the Guards save one – the captain, Mattias, who sat on a stump a few feet from Náli, his expression concerned and earnest.

“…lie down for a while,” he was saying, as they approached. “It will be some time, still, before we depart, and–”

“No,” Náli said, and shrugged back deeper into his hood. “I will not.”

“My lord,” Mattias began, and then noticed them.

The change that overcame him was striking, to say the least. His face transformed in a split-second, a practiced move, Oliver could tell; expression flat, and hard, eyes glinting and ready for anything, he stood and placed himself in front of his master in an efficient, fluid movement that left no doubt as to his willingness to kill for the young lord seated behind him.

Náli huffed an annoyed sound and smacked the back of his knee. “Calm down. It’s only them.”

As quickly as the aggression had come over him, it bled away; he ducked his head and took one step sideways: still ready to shield his master, but at least offering a view of him. “Your lordship,” he said, neutrally. It was a tone that saidI will respect you, but, also,harm him and find out how far my respect goes.

Pink dusted Náli’s cheeks, and Oliver didn’t think it was from the cold.

“Feeling better?” Oliver asked.

Mattias took a breath, head lifting.

Náli said, “I’m fine,” and absolutely wasn’t.

Oliver frowned. “Er…maybe this was a bad idea.”

Náli sat up straighter, and pushed his hood back with one too-pale hand. “What was? What did you want?”

He looked half-sick, but Oliver wasn’t going to be the one to wound his pride. Besides: it wasn’t as if he didn’t recognize that defiance in the face of physical illness. How often had he insisted on being fine? And he was…right up until he passed out.

“There were some Úlfheðnar killed in the skirmish,” he said.

Birger added, “And Askr’s people didn’t do them the honor of burning the bodies.”

Náli blinked, and then understanding dawned. “Ah.” He took a sip out of his mug, and then set it down. The drake woke with a low, rumbling sound, and nuzzled at Náli’s stomach. Náli pushed him away absently, and stood, only wavering a little. “Lead the way, then.” He reached beneath his cloak, and Oliver envisioned the diamond on its chain, the silver bowl, the knife.

But Mattias grabbed his master’s arm, and the look on his face nearly made Oliver step back.

It made Náli snap his head around with a sneer already forming on his lips. “Let go,” he said, low and threatening.

Mattia didn’t release him. Voice firm, he said, “My lord, you’ve overextended yourself. You need to return to the Fault Lands as it is. If you extend any more of your magic–”

Náli wrenched out of his grip, and glared up at him. “Of the two of us, who has a better understanding of my magic? The one who wields it – who inherited it – or the dumb muscle who follows him around?” The words fell hard and rough as stones; as shards of slate broken off in an avalanche. After they’d landed, silence rang across the field, and Náli’s face twisted horribly. Eyes big, horrified, lip caught between his teeth. Oliver thought he might burst into tears.

For his part, Mattias looked like he’d been struck.

Had things been less dire, Oliver would have found this exchange – their whole dynamic – fascinating. But as it was, he cleared his throat politely.

“You don’t have to,” he said, as matching startled glances swiveled toward him. “I only thought it might give us a better idea as to Ragnar’s plans. But if you’re too weak–”

---