The Coming of the Dragon (11 page)

Rune nudged Hairy-Hoof forward, and suddenly the sight before him resolved itself in his tired eyes and brain. The settlement wasn’t on fire after all—those were campfires he was seeing. Of course. The king’s hall had been burned, so people must be gathering outside.

He felt relief wash over him and was glad he hadn’t said more to Gar.

The closer he got, the more foolish he felt. As he dismounted and led Hairy-Hoof to the stables, men who stood talking in groups beside the campfires glanced at him, firelight making weird shadows on their faces. Somewhere meat was sizzling, and it made his mouth water. He hadn’t eaten since early morning.

Outside the stables, he heard the unmistakable sound of a blacksmith hammering. At this time of night?

Once he’d settled Hairy-Hoof and found her some oats, he stood in the lane, listening, watching. He heard a man saying something in a low voice, and then a woman answering, saying, “No, he’s not back yet.”

It was Thora, Finn’s wife. She didn’t know.

Rune dug in his pouch for Finn’s amulet. He stood looking at it, feeling its weight in his palm, remembering Finn’s blackened body on the mountainside. Then he started forward.

Thora stood in her doorway, looking at something in the distance, the light from a nearby campfire shining off her eyes. She turned, startled, as Rune approached.

“Finn,” he said.

“He’s not here.”

“I know,” Rune said, his head down. He took a ragged breath, then raised his eyes to hers.

Her eyes widened, and he saw her nostrils flare before
she shot out her hand to grip his forearm. “He’s dead. Isn’t he?”

He swallowed, then lowered his face in a half-nod. It made it easier to turn away from her terrible gaze. He couldn’t make himself look up again.

“Tell me,” she said, her nails digging into his skin.

As he looked up, he realized that Wyn had glided forward out of the shadows to stand behind her mother. “He died fighting the dragon. I—I wasn’t there. I found him. Here.” He reached out his hand, and Thora took the hammer-shaped amulet from him, staring at it as if she didn’t recognize it.

Then she looked back at him, rage written across her face. “You took this from him? You took my husband’s goods from him?”

“Mother.”

Over Thora’s shoulder, Rune saw Wyn, her eyes huge in a face drained of color.

“You—you carrion crow! He needed this!” Thora shouted, shaking her fist at him, the amulet locked within her grasp.

“I thought you would—” Rune started at the same time Wyn spoke.

“Mother, stop.” She met Rune’s eyes. “Leave us.” She turned and led her mother into the dwelling, shutting the door behind her.

As he stood in the darkness, his skin prickling with
horror, Rune heard Thora crying out,
“Finn!”
in a long, trailing wail.

A hand clapped his shoulder and he whirled.

The king.

He started to kneel, but the king stopped him, staring at him in the dark, asking him a question as distant firelight reflected on the whites of the old man’s eyes.

Rune’s eyes filled with tears and he nodded once.

The king let out his breath in a long shudder, closed his eyes briefly, then stepped past Rune and disappeared into Finn’s house.

NINE

HUNGER WOKE HIM, AND THE SMELL OF ROASTING MEAT.
Rune opened his eyes to the gray mist of early morning. His campfire had gone out. Shivering, he pulled his knees to his chest. The movement awoke the sharp pain of his tailbone and the duller aches of his other bruises. He suppressed a moan.

Around him, he could hear other people stirring, somebody walking between sleepers, a horse whinnying, and somewhere nearby, the crackle of a fire. He sniffed the cold air, his mouth watering at the aroma of mutton cooking. As he sat up, a cloak fell off his shoulders. His own was still at the farm, so someone must have thrown this one over him. Who?

He looked around and saw Ketil sitting on his heels before a cheerful fire on the other side of the campsite.
When he saw Rune, he held up a stick, and Rune could see a piece of meat on the end of it.

Carefully, mindful of every bruise, he rose. His mail shirt lay on the ground beside him. He glanced back at Ketil and caught a glimpse of the mail under his cloak. Rune pulled on his own, cinched it, then picked his way around sleeping men and cold fires to join Ketil, who grunted and handed him a second stick, a piece of meat skewered on its end.

Rune grunted back and hunkered down, letting the fire warm his aching limbs. As he watched the mutton sizzling in the flames, his stomach rumbled. Finally, unable to wait any longer, he ate it half-raw, burning his fingers and his tongue.

Ketil laughed and tossed him half a loaf of black bread, then walked away. Rune had just taken a huge bite when Ketil returned and laid something on the ground between them before settling back onto his haunches.

Rune’s mouth fell open. “My sword,” he said, and then, “My sword!” He gazed at Ketil, who gave him a lopsided grin, his face misshapen by his thrice-broken nose.

“Wolves’ll get your bread.”

Rune snapped his mouth shut, then opened it again. “Where did you find it?”

Ketil’s grin disappeared. “Where do you think?”

On the mountain, near where Finn had died. Near where Rune had acted the fool, where he had failed to avenge Amma. His shoulders slumped.

He reached for the sword, examining the hilt, the blade. It seemed unharmed. He stood to sheathe it. As he did, he saw Ketil watching him.
He thinks I don’t deserve such a blade
, Rune thought.
He’s right
.

All his pleasure at the sword’s return vanished. He gave Ketil a quick thanks, then headed for the stables, where he could find Hairy-Hoof—and solitude.

He was currying the horse, having a quiet talk with her, when a horn sounded and a man’s voice called from afar, urging people to attend the king.

Giving Hairy-Hoof a final slap, he hurried out of the stable and followed behind a man who was heading down the narrow lane between buildings. The path led to the campsite where Rune had slept—the king’s hall, now that the dragon had destroyed his golden one.

Many others had already arrived. Rune took a place outside the ring of people, some standing, some sitting on logs or stools, a group of bond servants crouching on the ground. He recognized some of them: Elli, Gar’s wife, held their baby to her breast, and near her, two little boys played a game in the dirt—Ottar’s sons, their older cousin Gerd watching them. She was a plump, bossy girl whose braid could never tame her blond curls.

At the head of the circle, guarding the seat that had been made for the king, stood battle-scarred Dayraven, his armbands gleaming in the light.

Rune’s fingers touched his sword hilt, and as they did,
shame flooded through him. Had Dayraven heard that he’d lost his sword? That he’d failed against the dragon, not once but twice? Ketil was one of the king’s guard now—would he have told the others?

He didn’t know why it mattered or why he should care so much what Dayraven thought, especially since the warrior had no love for him—or for Amma. She hadn’t liked Dayraven any more than he had her.
Do you think he really believes I turn people’s butter sour or make their love go awry?
he remembered her saying, her voice filled with scorn. She refused to understand what a good warrior Dayraven was. Early on, Rune had given up trying to explain it to her. Those were the kind of conversations he saved to have with Ketil. They weren’t the only boys who hoped for a nod of recognition from Dayraven. Even now, Rune couldn’t help but wish for the warrior’s approval, despite the uncomfortable sensation it gave him of disloyalty to Amma.

He moved back a step to take Dayraven’s shining armbands out of his line of sight. As he did, he realized someone was speaking to him: Fulla, Hemming’s wife, who had lost all three of her sons to the Shylfings and now had only her husband left. Rune remembered when they’d brought her youngest son back. Rune had been in the hall with the other boys when the sound of thundering hooves brought them all running to the door, eager to see the returning troop. None of them had expected to see Hemming ride in with a young warrior before him on his horse, Gunnar’s
lifeless body slumped against his father’s. People said Hemming and Fulla had both aged ten years on the day Gunnar died.

Now Fulla reached for Rune’s arm, patting it as she looked at him. The creases etched into the skin around her eyes seemed to grow deeper as she whispered, “You saved her, you know, when your boat came to our shores.”

The words caught Rune off guard.

“If it hadn’t been for you, she would have …” She shook her head a little, then reached to trace her fingers around a bruise on his jaw that Rune hadn’t realized he had. Her old-woman’s touch, light as a cobweb, made tears spring to his eyes. It felt just like Amma’s touch.

She caught his eyes again, and he could see how cloudy one of hers had grown. “You gave her a reason to live,” she whispered.

As she turned back to her husband, Rune stared after her, blinking furiously. Fulla and Amma had been friends. He remembered the time Fulla had ridden all the way out to the farm to have Amma interpret a dream she’d had, a dream about Gunnar. Amma had chased Rune out of the hut so she and Fulla could talk.

He felt at his bruise, trying to recapture the sensation of Fulla’s fingers on his skin, of Amma’s, but his rough nails only scraped the skin.

“The king!” somebody called.

People turned, and Rune turned along with them to see
what was happening. Those who were sitting rose, and Rune could see Od, a thin boy a little younger than he was, running to join in, shouting, “Hurry!” to someone behind him.

Just as Od got there, the king stepped into the circle, stopping to acknowledge the crowd as they bowed. Gar escorted him, standing tall, holding his linden spear erect, almost as if to accentuate the slump in the old king’s shoulders, the weary plodding of his gait. Behind them came Thora, stiff and proud, her coiled braids gleaming on her head like a crown.

Rune watched the white-haired leader turn to face them, slowly sweeping the crowd with his eyes, stopping to rest on certain faces. As the king’s gaze neared him, Rune lowered his head in shame. Twice now he had encountered the dragon, and twice he had been overcome by terror.

When he looked up, the king was staring directly at him, and he stiffened, feeling caught. Then the eyes moved on, and he took a shaky breath.

Finally, the king spoke, his voice cutting through the crowd’s murmurs. “Finn is dead.”

Rune heard gasps and wondered dully how anyone could not have known. It seemed an age since he had found Finn’s body on the mountainside, half an age since Thora had cursed him.

“Now is not the time for mourning,” the king said, and the voices quieted. “Now is the time for vengeance!” At the
final word, someone—Ketil, Rune thought—clashed a sword on metal, and then a cheer rose through the crowd, followed by more clashing of weapons.

“We will find the dragon and we will kill it!” the king cried.

Beside him, Hemming began the cheering this time. Rune wanted to join in, but his throat constricted and no sound came out.

The bard came forward, holding his rectangular harp. He held up a hand and the noise died. People quieted their movements, a few sitting or crouching on the ground, all of them watching him. For the space of a breath, he glared at the crowd with his single eye, compelling them into a deeper silence. Then, with a quick movement, he pulled the harp into the crook of his arm and struck the strings as he began to chant:

Rune rearranged his own blade, trying to keep it from poking him, and watched as the poet’s fingers attacked his harp strings, accentuating his words. He closed his eyes and listened to the lay, imagining Sigmund creeping into the dragon’s barrow, plunging his sword through the iron-hard
scales, driving the fire-belching beast against the cave wall. He hardly heard as the bard sang of Sigmund’s glory, of the praise heaped on him by men, and of the shipful of treasure he took from the dragon’s hoard. Instead, he kept thinking of the way Sigmund had stabbed through those scales, getting within a sword length of the dragon without cowering or running away. How had he done it?

“Courage and honor and praise followed Sigmund,” the bard sang, and Rune winced, reminded of his own tumble down the mountainside.

As the song died away, he opened his eyes to the cheers. King Beowulf held up his hands to quiet the crowd. “Sigmund slew the dragon, but his sword was the work of Welund, smith of the gods. What sword do we have that could pierce dragon scales?”

Rune looked down at the hilt of his own sword and shook his head. Even if the sword had been Welund’s work, it would take a warrior with strength and daring to wield it if it were to kill a dragon. Hemming agreed; Rune could hear him telling Fulla that they stood no chance of fighting the dragon that way.