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And Leif.
“I remember,” Leif said, hackles tingling.
Ragnar scratched at his neck, eyes very blue in the gloaming. “When the Ákafamaðr arrived in my territory, they came trailing a treating party of Sels, and a whole cadre of shamans. Northern shamans, mind you: painted, and bare-armed, and wearing furs and bones. It was the Aggressors who did all the talking, so I assumed the shamans belonged to them.”
“That was what you told us, before. You said they’d revived the old magics.”
“I lied, then,” Ragnar said, easily. Which meant he wasn’t now. He couldn’t, or Leif would have smelled it. “One of those purple bastards stepped up, and explained they were his. Theirs.” His gaze grew distant with remembrance, and his expression flattened; his scent soured with old distress, to Leif’s surprise. “He said, ‘All the magic in this land came from us. Your first shamans were of our people. We brought you drakes and walkers, and all the wonders your people have forgotten.’”
An unwelcome chill skittered down Leif’s back, mind filling with a vision of a defeated, but still-snarling Sel general on his knees. The assuredness of him, the promise that Erik would burn. He could still hear the whistle of Erik’s sword through the air, and smell the blood and voided bowels of the general.
“What?” Ragnar asked, perking up.
Ragnar hadn’t been in the throne room that day. He hadn’t heard the general’s promises and threats. There was no way he could be playing off of what Leif had heard, then.
He gestured with one hand. “Keep going. I know you didn’t buy a passel of empty words.”
A grin tugged at Ragnar’s mouth, fangs sharp and glittering. “No. No, you’re right.” He sobered again, and his scent boiled into the air between them, the smell of a kicked dog. “They called the drakes. Little Lord Oliver’s drakes – the big one killed and ate one of my men in front of us all.”
“Gods,” Leif breathed, before he could catch himself.
“Aye. If there were any gods there that day, they didn’t belong to us.”
Us. He still considered them on the same side. Leif supposed that wasn’t exactly untrue, much to his chagrin.
“Then,” Ragnar continued, voice touched with strain, “they brought out this – this bowl.”
Leif lifted his brows.
Ragnar showed his teeth, a quick, unhappy flash that was defensive, rather than aggressive. “It was this massive golden bowl full of black liquid. They made me look into it, and I – I saw things, Leif.” It was the first time he’d said his name in weeks, rather than alpha. “It felt like – like I went somewhere, like I wasn’t inside my body anymore. There was this golden city – it was like nothing I’d ever seen. It made this palace look like a hut, it was so…” He shrank down into himself. “There were drakes. Flying in the air. More than I could count. There were – there were other things. Animals. Maybe? I don’t…”
He shook his head, hard. “When I was standing on my own two feet again, that bastard said, ‘That is the heart of our empire. That is what’s coming for you.’” He deflated. “No one can stand against that. Not even your bloody-minded uncle.” He sighed and wiped both hands down his face, exhausted simply from remembering.
Leif wasn’t sure what to think. Ragnar had always been a silver-tongued liar, hiding ill intent with a handsome smile – but there was no way for a wolf to lie to his alpha without being caught-out, and Leif could detect no trace of dishonesty in him now. But the idea of a bit of magic, of a vision in a bowl of black liquid…he wasn’t sure that would have convinced him of the nation’s imminent demise.
“I’ll grant you the drakes,” he said, finally. “They gave all of us a fright at first. But do you actually believe they showed you their empire? That it’s as grand as all that? Or did they slip you ice rose and murmur in your ear about it?”
Ragnar gapped his fingers and glared between them. He let out a low growl, just a rumbling in his throat. “Fuck you,” he spat. “You weren’t there.”
Leif didn’t growl back – not yet. His wolf was inquisitive, it wanted to get to the truth…nevermind the side of him concerned about a packmate’s distress. He wouldn’t think about that just yet. “No,” he agreed. “But we’re talking about magic here, Ragnar. How can you be sure it wasn’t just an elaborate illusion meant to frighten you into compliance?”
The growl deepened, and the chains clanked as Ragnar dropped his hands to his lap and gripped his calves, tight enough that the scent of blood bloomed into the cell. “Do you think I frighten easy?” he snarled, voice no longer entirely human.
Leif growled, then, a quick pulse that had Ragnar subsiding. “It’s fair of me to question you about our enemy.”
A long moment passed, and then Ragnar turned his face away – while showing his throat. You win. Yes, alpha.
“For what it’s worth, I believe you.”
Ragnar didn’t face him, yet, but his brows drew together, muscle in his temple twitching.
“We captured the general – Oliver did, with his drake. We had him down here with you.”
“I know. I could smell him.”
Shit. Had Ragnar conversed with the man down here? Had they concocted this whole story together…?
But again, Leif fell back on his wolf, on the instinctual assurance that nothing he’d heard today had been false. Even if the Sels had tricked Ragnar, he fully believed what he’d seen.
