Page 2 of Blood of Wolves

Náli fussed a bit more, then sighed, and finally rested a gloved hand along the spines of his neck. The drake purred in his sleep.

“I think you should name him, Náli,” Oliver said, and the laughter died away.

“I’d certainly do a better job than you,” Náli said, sneering…but then, meeting Oliver’s gaze, his expression smoothed. To one of surprise. “You’re serious.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Oliver asked, easily, and felt the faint pressure of Erik leaning more firmly against him. It felt like support; like approval, even.

“Because…” The color had bled out of Náli’s face; he was a pale wraith, touched with yellow fire flickers, his eyes wide and gleaming – disbelieving. “They’re yours. You’re the – the dragon master, or whatever. You can talk to them.”

“So can you – maybe not the same way,” he added, before Náli could protest. ‘But it’s like communicating with any animal. Tone of voice, and touch, and mutual respect. They aren’tmydragons. They’re just dragons. I have a bond with Percy. And I think that one wants a bond with you.”

Maybe it was a trick of the firelight, but Oliver thought Náli was starting to look a bit desperate. “But I’m not a Drake!”

Oliver shrugged. “He’s not draped all over me.”

“No, because our great hulking king is.” He gestured rudely toward Erik – while his other hand remained resting on the dragon’s neck.

Oliver realized that Erik’s hand had migrated from the small of his back to his far shoulder, and that he was in fact more or less draped over him. It was a highly pleasant sensation.

“How respectful,” Erik drawled.

“I’ll find some respect when we’re–” The rest of his sentence was cut off by a snowball. A small one, but one thrown accurately. It splatted against the side of his head, and Náli dissolved into outraged hissing.

“Don’t wake the dragon, now,” Leif cautioned, biting back a laugh. He’d been the snowball-thrower. “Besides.” His tone became more serious. “There’s no sense saying something you’ll regret later.”

Náli drew a deep breath to hurl a retort – and thought better of it. He sighed, and when his face relaxed, finally, the light danced over smooth, poreless skin, and, eye bags or no, it was obvious, then, how painfully young he still was.

He glanced down at the sleeping drake, smoothing his palm carefully along the spines down his neck; they flattened beneath his touch, and sprang back up again. The faintest smile touched Náli’s lips. “I’ll think about it,” he said, just a whisper, and, much to Oliver’s relief, no one mentioned it further.

Oddmarr joined them, settling down with a loud popping of knees and a groan of relief. “The patrols are set. Nothing’s going to slip past our lines, and, if they do, I take it the beasties will handle it.” He sent the dragon lying in Náli’s lap a cautious look.

“They can hear and see better than us,” Oliver said, “not to mention smell. If something’s out there, they’ll let us know.”

Magnus and Lars reentered the circle, toting the dressed deer carcass between them; they’d bound it to a long, trimmed pole of damp wood, a spit the Beserkirs carried with them, for just such an occasion, when the mountains failed to offer up enough timber.

“All right,” Magnus said, cheerfully, as they set it over the fire. “Who’s hungry?”

~*~

I think you should name him, Náli. The words kept playing over and over again in his head, accompanied by the mental image of Oliver’s stupid, pretty, smiling,friendlyface, his red hair burnished in the firelight. They were stuck on the side of a mountain, chased by cannibals on one side, and probably traitorous Úlfheðnar on the other, with spotted cats and wolves out there…and dragons. Fucking dragons. He guessed that was why Oliver was so happy – what else could it be? The Drake had finally found his drakes, and he was one with the world, or whatever. There he’d sat, smiling, laughing, leaning into the arm that Erik had thrown over his shoulders while Erik gazed on him, dopey and sappy in love. Idiots. Ragnar was marching on Aeres, the Sels were coming; everyone back at the palace could be dead already, and they weresmilingat each other.

In a logical sense, Náli knew that he wasn’t angry with his king or his consort, nor even with the young dragon who wouldn’t stay away from him; who even now slept curled around the tiny, two-person tent he was sharing with Leif, blocking the worst of the wind at ground level, his growling snores a strange comfort. But for an heir of the Fault Lands, saddled with the knowledge he would lose his father, become lord, and begin his own march toward early death before he hit puberty, fear and worry only served as hindrances. Náli had been swallowing those emotions since birth; had learned to mask them, to stow them, to find outlets for them. It was why he’d thrown himself so wholeheartedly into sword work. Cockiness and nastiness and superiority had become armored plates that he wore constantly.

He could feel the cracks in them, now.

Some fell, Chief Oddmarr had said of the lords and soldiers left behind at Dreki Hörgr. Aeretollean blood had been spilled in the snows of the Dragon Hold – how much, they couldn’t know.

His own men might be dead.

And Oliver wanted him to name a dragon. Was beingkindto him, when he needed his armor more than ever.

Beside him, Leif shifted again. Grunted. Fiddled with his pack, which was serving as a makeshift pillow.

“I thought you were tired,” Náli snapped. “Stop moving around.”

“There’s – ugh – there’s too many rocks. I can’t get comfortable.” Leif rolled over so that he was facing Náli, close enough that his breath stirred the edge of Náli’s fur wrap. All their blankets and furs had been borrowed from the Beserkirs, and smelled like it, unfortunately. “If you’re so tired, thenyougo to sleep.”

“I’m trying,” Náli said through his teeth. “Butsomeonekeeps making all thisgods bedamnednoise.”

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