Page 80 of Blood of Wolves

“Now, Náli,” he said, watching as Náli went through an elaborate sequence of stretches: arms overhead, touching his toes, wide reaches and lunges to both sides, twisting at the waist, back and forth. With his helmet on, and his cloak swirling around him, it was more than a little difficult to keep from laughing at the picture he made. “You can’t mean to imply that you – venerable Corpse Lord of the Fault Lands – are somehow less equipped for a long riding journey than I am.”

Náli snapped back around, scowling. “You think you’re so clever, don’t you? You think I’ll fall for that?”

“No, but I think you’re whining an awful lot, and it’s getting on my nerves,” Oliver said, flatly.

Thatearned a snort, and a ghost of a grin.

Oliver grinned, too, and the movement pulled at a face gone tight and tired from the constant buffeting of the wind. A grin he couldn’t hold for long. “I know this isn’t fun.”

Náli rolled his eyes. “If you’re about to thank me for coming, or offer assurances that I’m doing the right thing, save your breath, because that sort of attitude really doesn’t suit you.”

Oliver’s laugh scraped at his dry throat. “You can sass me all you want, and you’re not going to get a rise out of me. I invented this game,” he said, motioning between them.

Náli wrinkled his nose and huffed. Then his expression melted into something truer: that of an exhausted young man. It was easy, when he was making faces, to overlook the gray pallor of his skin, and the deep shadows beneath his eyes. He’d been weak and overtaxed before this journey, and flying for an entire day surely hadn’t helped.

But Oliver was of the opinion that flying was easier on him than a grueling overland journey would have been – one that led to a clash with Ragnar and the Úlfheðnar, no less. No matter how taxing the flight was, Náli was in no shape to swing a sword.

Oliver cast a glance around them, as the sky brightened. He saw distant mountain peaks, and pine stands, and snow. Everywhere there was snow. “How much farther, do you think?”

“If we don’t stop, we should be there before nightfall.”

Oliver nodded. He’d left the direction to the drakes, after communicating with Percy that they needed to get to Aeres. Percy had offered a mental image of the palace seen from high above, through shredded layers of cloud, and Oliver didn’t doubt they were headed the right way. Though, if left to his own devices, he couldn’t have estimated the distance left to travel.

“Good,” he said. “When we arrive, I want to come in high, and survey the scene from above, where we won’t be noticed. We’ll decide on a plan of attack from there.”

Náli smirked. “Your king would choke if he knew you were even discussing aplan of attack.”

Oliver shrugged to cover the prickling of unease that flared between his shoulder blades. “He isn’t here, so he doesn’t get a say.”

Náli’s smirk widened. “You may have started a civil war in the North, but if nothing else you’ve given us all the chance to see what a clucking old hen our sovereign is.”

“Unlike Mattias, right?” Oliver shot back, and the smirk fell away as if slapped from the boy’s face.

Then the first part of what he’d said registered. Oliver’s stomach rolled. “Wait.” His heart lurched before reason could catch up to him. “You brat: this war’sbeenbrewing. I didn’t start anything.”

Náli arched a brow. “How sure of that are you?”

Oliver gritted his teeth and took a steadying breath. Náli was a baiting sort of person – baiting, exhausted, frightened, and, ultimately, unhappy. Oliver reminded himself of this routinely, and had grown immune to all of Náli’s little barbs and stings.

This, though, went beyond whiny brattiness. This was a dig designed to leave him doubting not only himself, but his role in Aeretoll, and his place beside Erik. A low blow, and a vicious one at that.

Honestly, Oliver hadn’t expected that sort of calculated cruelty from him.

He gathered breath to respond – and then hesitated.

The North was far blunter and more direct than the South. Men challenged one another for dominance, yes, but with fists, and swords, and bold words rather than psychological warfare. Why leave someone doubting himself when you could fight him in a duel instead?

But Náli, Corpse Lord, a boy born with magic in a very practical world, wasn’t like the rest of them, was he? He would war verbally the same way he did physically: sinuous as smoke, tricksy as a cat. In a world of bears and wolves, he was a panther: alone, clever, slinking in the shadows.

And, despite their previous interactions, and their accord, and what Oliver had come to think of as a workable, if not friendly relationship, this was the first time they’d been off on their own like this. Man-to-man.

All of Aeretoll had wanted to challenge him with brawn.

But Náli was going to do it with his mind.

Sword-fighting wasn’t his forte, butthiswas a dance to which Oliver already knew all the steps.

He smiled in the way he always had with the young lords back home, when they wanted to remind him of their superiority and tried to pretend he hadn’t sucked them off in a coat closet at the last party. It had Náli’s smug look melting away. “I forget sometimes just howyoungyou are. Still. I expected a stronger attempt.”

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