Page 55 of Blood of Wolves

“Yes, my lady.”

“Have oil sent up to the murder holes,” Bjorn’s voice intoned from behind her, and just the sound of him eased some of her internal shaking.

“Yes, captain!” Heavy boots thumped over stone, and shouts issued from several mouths.

Down below, torches flared to life in the yard. The two acres between the outer wall and the palace façade filled with hurrying guardsmen. The catapults were roped, and armed, and drawn, ready for the slice of the axe. Archers with bristling quivers mounted the stairs to the parapet of the outer wall, where bowls of pitch awaited them.

Bjorn’s hands landed on her shoulders from behind. “We’re ready,” he said, far surer than she felt.

“Is ready enough?” she whispered. “Enough againstthem?” The bright pinpricks of lit torches gathered along the docks, no more than fairy glow from this distance.

He squeezed her shoulders, but didn’t answer.

“Mum!” Footsteps clattered across the stones behind her. When she turned, Bjorn turned with her, and didn’t let go. She couldn’t bring herself to care if Rune – and Tessa, torchlight catching on streaming red hair at Rune’s side – read anything incriminating in the touch. Now was not the time to worry about explaining her love life to the children.

“Mum,” he repeated, drawing to a panting halt in front of her. Tessa gripped his sleeve. “Are they landing?”

It was easier to be brave in front of the children, somehow. They were looking to her, with matching big-eyed, frightened stares. Rune tried to look eager, but his arm stole around Tessa’s waist, and she knew he was afraid, because they wereallafraid.

“Yes,” she said. “They’re coming.”

11

Long Reach

Oliver sipped his tea, blinked the last crust of sleep from his eyes, and focused on what Snorri was telling him.

“…now, I won’t go telling you how to steer, because I’m not a Drake and that’s between you and him, but we did our best to recreate the bridle old Percival used to use.”

At sound of his name, Percy’s great blue eye rolled toward them, and he let out a huff of quiet breath.

To Snorri’s credit, his chuckle was amused, rather than nervous. Percy had been nothing but a gentleman with regards to the team of smiths and tanners who’d cobbled together his rig. The female – Kat – as well, though she tended to be more aloof in general. Like a mare, Oliver supposed.

“Now, your lordship, here are the reins – they tie in like so, and this chain here beneath his chin gives him room to get his jaws fully open, even while bridled.” Considering the rush, it was a well-stitched, handsome piece. Much like a horse’s bridle, it fit down his long face, secured by straps across his brow and behind his spiraled horns. The bit wasn’t a bit in the true since of the word: rather than a noseband, two curved, flexible metal bars were secured beneath Percy’s chin by a section of thin chain, and rings allowed the reins to slid forward and offer more slack. The reins themselves were secured all down the long length of his neck by leather straps and more rings, so they didn’t flap free.

Snorri walked along Percy’s side, pointing. “And here’s the saddle.”

They’d reused the old one, oiling it until it shone, until it was supple and soft. A shallow seat with a high cantle, and a metal ring on its pommel. It was secured by a wide, sturdy-looking girth and breastplate.

Snorri reached up on his tiptoes to grip one of the stirrups fixed to the side of the girth. “It’s not pretty enough for a lord such as yourself, I’d wager, but it’ll hold. My boys do good work.”

“They do,” Oliver agreed, some of his nerves allayed by the heavy stitching and solid, gleaming quality of the leather. “That there on the pommel, that’s for–?”

“Oh, yes. That’s where you’ll secure your harness.”

A jangle of buckles announced an apprentice’s arrival, and with bowed head, and cheeks just visibly pink in the torchlight, he offered a tangle of leather straps to Oliver.

“This is it?” He’d seen the one in the painting of Percival, but that was an artistic rendering, and hardly a practical diagram.

“Yeah, we modeled it after the rigs the old ice harvesters used to wear!”

Oliver didn’t ask what those were, but instead stepped through the leg straps, pulled another set up over his shoulders, and secured it all around his waist with a belt. They were all adjustable, which proved valuable, given he was wearing a stiff leather jerkin and pauldrons over his thickest wool tunic and trousers.

“How foolish do I look?” he asked when the whole thing was secured. “Because it feels like the answer is ‘very.’”

“That’s only because you’re missing something,” Erik’s voice called from beyond the puddle of torchlight. He strode into view, and even fresh from bed, his braids unraveling, a cloak pulled hastily around his shoulders, there was no mistaking him for anything besides a king. The light carved harsh planes across his face, leaped and flickered in the strong hollow of his throat, and Oliver’s insides throbbed with want.

Percy lifted his head, buckles on his new bridle jangling as he swung around to look at Erik – to greet him, Oliver realized, as the drake leaned in close and huffed through his nose, breath stirring Erik’s hair. Erik lifted his free hand – because he carried something tucked under his arm with the other, Oliver saw – and placed his palm gently on the end of Percy’s nose.

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