Page 79 of Blood of Wolves

“What? I don’t know what–”

“Don’t lie to me, Leif,” Erik said, stern and scowling. “You’re too good of a horseman to be holding yourself in the saddle like someone’s grandmother.”

Leif sighed, and allowed himself to slump. It helped. A little. Didn’t pull quite so strongly at the damaged muscles. “Do you want me to put it on a scale of one to ten?”

“I want you to dismount and ride in one of the sleighs, if you need to.”

“No, I–” Leif jerked upright in protest, and cut off with a hiss when his sidegrabbed.

Erik’s gaze honed in on his midsection.Shit. “It’s not your arm, is it?”

It took Leif longer than he would have liked to get his breathing regular. “It’s fine,” he finally managed, through grit teeth.

Erik’s scowl became a glare. “I thought it wasn’t deep.”

“It isn’t.”

“Bollocks. Halt and dismount. I want to see it.”

“Uncle, we’re in the middle of–”

“I don’t care. If you bleed to death in the saddle, you’ll–”

“I won’t.”

Leif’s horse halted and tossed its head up.

Erik reined up beside him, glare replaced by a rare look of wide-eyed shock.

Leif’s words, nearly shouted, rang off the tree trunks that bordered the field, echoes that rippled off into the distance.

Ahead, Magnus twisted around in his saddle to look back at them. “Everything all right?”

Leif’s stomach turned. He’d never taken that tone with anyone, least of all his uncle.

Erik gaped at him a moment, then called, “Yes,” to Magnus. He held Leif’s gaze a moment longer, before spurring his horse on. “If the pain gets worse, I want you off the horse.” A command, one to which Leif could only nod.

But something hung rancid and uncertain in the air between them, now. Leif had no idea what had happened, let alone how to go about mending it.

~*~

So far, Oliver had learned several truths about flying:

One: ascent and descent were the most thrilling aspects. When your stomach dropped, and the world tilted, and the dragon’s strength became most apparent.

Two: once up at a good flying height, where the drakes could glide along without working too hard, flapping only occasionally and maintaining a steady elevation, the thrill of peeking down through the clouds lost some of its shine. Oliver didn’t want to say it got boring, but, well…it was rather quiet. With just the rush of the wind in his ears, and the monotonous slap of cold air against his face.

Speaking of which…

Three: flying up in the high, cold air for long periods chapped his lips and his cheeks, and left his eyes dry and stinging.

“Gods, I can’t do this anymore.”

Four: when he wasn’t besting anyone in a duel, or playing the imperious Corpse Lord, Náli was an absolutebrat.

Oliver sighed as he finished cinching Percy’s girth, patted his cool, smooth side, and turned to his flying partner.He’s young, he reminded himself.You weren’t a peach at that age, either.

Still wasn’t, as far as most people were concerned, but that was neither here nor there.

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