Page 112 of Blood of Wolves

“I don’t.” Ragnar leaned forward, expression serious, his scent true. “The world is changing, Leif. The Sels are changing it, and there’s nothing we can do to stop it.” Fear flared to life in his eyes, silver against blue. “We can join them or die, and I chose to join.”

Leif leaned back against the door. “Because you’re a coward. A real wolf-shirt, a real king,” he pressed a hand to his own chest, “would die fighting tooth and claw to preserve his land. His people.”

Ragnar regarded him a long, critical moment, then sagged back. “Well. I suppose that’s the difference between you and me.”

Leif pushed a growl through his teeth, if only for the pleasure of watching Ragnar shrink into himself, a submissive gesture that looked out of place on such a big, strong frame.

“I won’t kill you,” he said, the growl still threaded through his voice, half-wolf, half-man. “I have too many questions, still. You’re going to stay alive. You belong to me, now.”

A quick nod.

This was the part where he might falter. Leif deepened his growl to cover any hints of uncertainty in his voice. “You’re going to explain it to me. This thing that I am. You’re going to make it make sense.”

A darted, furtive glance, and another nod. “What do you want to know, alpha?”

Leif’s breath hitched on the word. He pulled his growl back; tried not to bask in the awful satisfaction of being addressed as such. He said, “Everything.”

24

The day they dragged the Sel general up from the dungeon dawned leaden and sharply-cold. Much headway had been made on repairs to the outer wall of the palace, but the cold whipped and whistled through the places still in need of patching. Fires roared in the hearths, flickering and bending with each gust. The candles had all gone out, and the only light came from the lanterns set at intervals along the floor, their light beaming up from the ground, inverting shadows and turning faces to skulls.

Revna, and Rune, and Tessa stood in attendance; Tessa’s friend, the Lady Estrid right beside her, her eyepatch sewn from the same cloth as her brown velvet gown.

The lords were there, too. Askr leaned heavily on a carved cane, Haldin steadying his other elbow. Náli was flanked by his Dead Guard, all of them in gray and brown, Náli’s white-blond hair clean and gleaming on his shoulders, his countenance wraithlike in the gloom.

Erik sat on his throne, Bjorn and Birger standing on one side, Oliver on the other, in black leather and velvet, with lover’s and warrior’s beads braided into his hair, a long knife sheathed on his hip.

The jangle of chains reached them long before the prisoner and his jailers stepped into view. Liveried, armored guards marched with spears on their shoulders, the general corralled between them. But walking behind, carrying the ends of the chains that bound the man’s throat, wrists, and ankles, was Leif, expression taut and dark. The whole retinue walked up to the foot of the dais, and then Leif gripped the general’s shoulder and pushed him roughly down to kneel on the flagstones.

Leif, Oliver thought, with something like mourning, was no longer the kind-eyed boy he’d met months before.

But he supposed none of them were the people they’d been on that day.

For his part, the general managed to look regal and defiant, even in chains, even kneeling, even thin and doubtless cold, stripped to shirt and breeches, his pale face streaked with dirt, bits of straw caught in his tangled, white hair.

Leif stood behind him, chains wrapped around his fist, ready.

Silence reigned a long moment, before Erik took a breath, and spoke in his most overbearing, kingly voice. It sent involuntary shiver rippling beneath Oliver’s clothes. “Your troops are dead, General. Every last one. Your ships and your tents all raided, your riches confiscated. Your ally, Ragnar, Chief of the Úlfheðnar, resides in our dungeon alongside you, stripped of title and power. You have beendefeated.” The word rang through the hall, echoing strangely as it caught on the whorls and eddies slipping around their legs. “The conditions of your ransom back to your people are largely dependent on your cooperation now.”

The man stared at him, unblinking, with those awful, near-colorless eyes.

“Do you understand?”

He blinked – but that was all.

Erik’s fingers drummed on the arm of the throne, all the facets of his rings catching the lantern light. Oliver wanted to cover his hand with his own, to comfort and still him. “Do you speak our language?”

The Sel’s lips pressed together. His accent was heavy with his own, lilting language, but the words were clear when he said, “Yes. I know your barbarian tongue.”

With a flick of his wrist, Leif snatched the chain he held, and the general’s head yanked back. His eyes bugged, and he choked, before he leaned forward and cleared his throat, composed himself again. “Yes,” he said, more respectfully. “I understand.”

Erik nodded, magnanimous. “Your king has invaded the South. The kingdom of Aquitania.”

“Myemperor,” the general corrected.

Erik gave a dismissive wave. “Yes. I don’t care about his title. He has invaded the South. Why send you here now to tackle us when the South has yet to fall?”

The general’s nostrils flared, just slightly, in irritation. “Do you think our army is so small and weak that we cannot fight on two fronts?”

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