From Fortunes of War
“Say what you like, but I don’t believe that being king is your great dream. That you were willing to kill us for that.”
He held still another moment, then his head turned a fraction, so Leif could see the suggestion of his profile; the edge of cheekbone and jaw, the bristle of his short beard, a rich golden brown in the candlelight. “I didn’t kill you, though, obviously.”
“You weren’t successful at it, no. But you were ready to allow us to be killed. By others.” A twitch at the side of his face. “Ormr handling Rune was your idea, wasn’t it?”
“Ormr was a fool I could stand to lose.”
“He wasn’t a wolf?”
“No.”
“And Rune was drunk and being an idiot,” Leif guessed.
“Erik would think it was an accident. And if he thought Ormr did it intentionally–”
“Which he did.”
“Then I could say he was a bastard and let him face the chopping block.”
“A fine line of thinking, for a responsible clan chief,” Leif said, dryly, and Ragnar flinched.
“You try it some time,” Ragnar spat. “You try leading that rabble across the Wastes and holding onto a single shred of control.” He turned far enough for Leif to see one flashing, furious blue eye.
He held up a hand, asking for peace. “All right. Ormr failed with Rune. So you rode with us to the Festival.”
Ragnar heaved another deep exhale, and turned his head, so Leif could see nothing save the tangled spill of his hair over his shoulders. “The bloody drake was supposed to finish you off, plus a few lords for good measure.”
Every time he looked at Percy, or Alpha, or any of them, he was transported back to that night outside Redcliff, across a plain of moon-silvered snow, fighting Úlfheðnar dressed as Beserkirs, men screaming and dying…and then the roar, the shriek, the hurricane of wind snapping off white leather wings, as Percy touched down in their midst.
And Oliver came riding out from the fortress, yelling for them all to wait. The night Oliver had thrown himself between a wild, fantastical beast and Erik, and broken the shamans’ hold over Percy, and spared them all a violent, gory demise.
“But that didn’t work,” Leif said. “Thanks to Oliver.”
“God. That bugger,” Ragnar scoffed. “Who’d have dreamed he could communicate with the beast? That he couldride the bloody thing?”
“He’s a Drake.”
“But that’s just legend!”
“So are skinwalkers, but here we both are.”
Ragnar subsided…but didn’t speak further.
Leif prompted him. “When we made it to Dreki Hörgr in one piece, you decided to get us up into the mountains.”
Ragnar gave a long-suffering sigh. “Little Lord Death was with you, and I thought, ‘Why not take the chance to get rid of him as well?’ More the fool me. If not for him, the Fangs would have surely finished you off.”
“Percy helped.”
Ragnar turned, a whole twist of his upper body, this time, frowning.
“Oliver’s drake,” Leif explained.
The frown deepened, accompanied by a curl of his upper lip. “He named it Percy?”
“We’ve all judged him harshly for it, rest assured.”
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