The Coming of the Dragon (12 page)

Hemming’s voice dropped as the bard spoke again. “Sigmund isn’t the only warrior who slew a dragon, my lord.”

King Beowulf gestured for him to continue, and the bard plucked a single harp string. “Remember Frotho the Dane, whose arrows bounced off the dragon’s back.”

The king nodded thoughtfully. “He stuck his steel
into the worm’s belly, if I remember the story rightly, and killed it.”

The king knew it perfectly, Rune thought as a recollection of Amma chanting the “Lay of Frotho” came to him, one of the countless stories she had taught him. He tried to recall how the warrior had gotten so close to the dragon in the first place, but the memory of the story mingled with the memory of its telling, of Amma sitting on her three-legged stool before her loom, firelight flickering on her lined face.

“What about Sigurd?” Gar called out. “That was a belly shot, too, wasn’t it?”

The bard nodded and strummed the harp again, then sang lines from a tale Rune didn’t know.

    
In the pit he’d delved the hero hid himself
,

That brave battle-leader, before the dragon’s barrow
.

The worm came crawling from its treasure hoard
,

Venom spouting from the creature’s monstrous maw;

The poison reached Sigurd, scalding the chief of princes
.

Wounded he still wielded his well-made sword
,

Thrusting it upward into the dragon’s heart
 …

    The bard made a discordant sound on his harp and turned to the king. “They say Thorir struck his dragon under the arm. Whatever you do, Ring-Giver, you must come at the dragon from underneath.”

Rune couldn’t believe it. He’d
been
underneath the
dragon. It had flown right over his head, a mere sword length away. He could have killed it easily. If he’d just thrown away his shield, the way Finn had, he would have had time to pierce the dragon’s heart or hit it under its arm. He shook his head in disgust.

Hemming cleared his rheumy throat—age had unloosed his lips. “You have to think of that venom, too. How do you defend against that?”

Dayraven turned toward Hemming, and Rune shifted to avoid being seen. “I’ve heard ox-hide armor can help.”

Someone else, Rune couldn’t see who, called out, “If the venom and the poison teeth don’t kill you, the fire will.”

The king held up his hands for silence. “Fire I am ready for.” He looked off to the side, and Hrolf the blacksmith limped forward, carrying a shield in both hands. When he got to the king, he lowered himself on his good knee.

“Rise, Hrolf,” the king said, taking the shield from him and examining its boss and its finger guard, running a hand over its surface before he held it up to the crowd. “The dragon may be able to burn wood, but let him test his breath against a metal shield!”

Rune’s eyes widened, and he remembered the sound of the blacksmith hammering far into the night. A shield of iron. He gazed at it, astonished. If he’d had it the day before, could he have withstood the dragon’s fire?

Rune wasn’t the only one who was amazed, to judge from the voices around him.

“They’ll tell about this in the stories,” Hemming called
out, Fulla holding on to his arm and shushing him. But other people sounded their agreement, and Rune saw Hrolf, his face blackened by soot, edge his mouth into a grim smile.

As the cheering died down, the king spoke again. “Well enough to have a means to fight the dragon.” He looked around at the crowd. “But first, we must find it.”

At the sound of harp strings, Rune looked back at the bard. “Three hundred winters and more the worm lay hidden on his hoard.” It wasn’t a poem, but the bard’s words came forth in a singsong chant. “From the time of Geat, our people have lived in these lands, with no word of a dragon.” He plucked a single string, making a sour sound. “Until now.”

“Gar. Ketil.” As the king spoke their names, the two hearth companions sprang forward. “Bring forth the cause of our woe.”

Rune watched, peering over Fulla’s head in an attempt to see. He could hear her asking her husband what was going on, but Hemming looked as confused as Rune felt. The dragon was the enemy. What could the king mean?

Fulla moved again, blocking Rune’s view. He stepped forward so he could see around her and found himself looking directly into the face of the stranger he had seen by the mountain.

The man stopped when he saw Rune and grinned, showing his pointed yellow teeth.

Rune sucked in his breath.

Then Gar pulled on the man’s arm, forcing him to turn. As he did, something—a thread? A bit of cloth?—dropped from his bedraggled gray cloak and wafted gently downward. Rune stared at the ground where the object settled. It looked like a feather. Before he could see for sure, Gar’s foot trod over it. He pulled the man’s arm again, leading him to the king. Rune glanced at King Beowulf just in time to see him reach back to where Thora stood in silence, then turn again to face the crowd. Something in his hand gleamed, catching the morning light.

As the stranger approached the king, Gar kneed him from behind to make him kneel. At the same moment, the king raised his arm, revealing a golden goblet.

Rune stared at it, a memory flashing through his mind, an image of the stranger beside the crag shoving something behind his back. Something golden. The goblet?

Suddenly, he understood. The stranger—the slave—was the cause of the kingdom’s woe. He must have stolen the goblet from a hoard that had been hidden for over three hundred winters.

The slave had awoken the dragon.

TEN

“YOU WANTED TO BUY A PLACE IN MY KINGDOM,” THE KING
was saying. Rune watched the scene before him, but his heart was thumping as he tried to recall exactly where he had first seen the slave: at the foot of the path that led up to the crag. He remembered the stranger looking at his pendant. Rune reached for it and fingered the marks engraved in it, the runes the slave had scratched into the dirt. If he had seen the slave at the foot of the crag, the dragon’s cave couldn’t have been far away.

He looked back at the king. “With gold you tried to buy a place”—the king shook the goblet at the kneeling slave, who stared back at him brazenly—“but you wrought only destruction. No gold will save you here.”

Would the king have the slave killed? At a loud cry,
Rune jerked his head, but it was only Elli’s baby. The crowd stood silent, awaiting the king’s judgment.

“There is only one way for you to regain your honor.”

The slave pulled his lips into a sneer. “I have no honor to regain.”

“Silence before the king,” Gar hissed, his spear’s point pressing into the man’s neck.

King Beowulf made a slight motion with his hand, and Gar backed away but kept his spear aimed at the slave. Rune saw Ketil’s hand tighten on his sword hilt.

“Every man is born with honor. Whether he dies with it”—the king looked from the slave to the crowd—“that depends on the man.”

“Well said.” The voice was Hemming’s, followed by the sound of Fulla hushing him.

“The king is speaking,” she whispered ferociously, so loudly that everyone could hear.

King Beowulf smiled. “The king
is
speaking, Fulla, but praise from a proven warrior is always welcome.”

Rune saw Fulla’s cheeks flush as Hemming straightened his spine and held his head high. Several people in the crowd laughed, and Rune tried to imagine what it would be like to have the king call you a proven warrior. People still told stories about the surprise attack Hemming had led against the Wulfing raiders long before Rune had been born.

The king turned back to the slave. “Gold will not avail
you,” he repeated. “You may earn a place here one way only.” He paused and the crowd waited.

“You must lead us to the dragon.”

The slave said nothing, and the king looked at the crowd again. “This evening, we feast. Tomorrow, at first light, I leave with a handpicked troop, men I will choose tonight. We will find the dragon—and kill it.”

Cheers erupted, and the sounds of metal clashing against metal. Hemming yelled, “The king! The king!” and a few feet away from him, Buri and Surt, farmers from a day’s journey to the south, took up the cry, sending it around the circle as men rattled their spears and hit sword against shield. On the other side of the circle, Rune could see Ottar’s two little boys dancing in excitement, their cousin Gerd frowning at them. Suddenly, he realized that beside him, Hemming was struggling to unsheathe his sword. Rune ducked out of the way just in time as the old warrior swung it uncertainly.

With so many of his hearth companions away, patrolling the borders against a Shylfing attack, the king didn’t have many men to choose from. Surely, Rune thought, for all his kind words, King Beowulf wouldn’t take Hemming now that age had stolen his strength. Dayraven, of course, who would probably be chosen as the king’s successor now that Finn was dead. The people would accept him because of his prowess in battle. Gar and Ketil would go, and Ottar and Brokk. But with Finn gone, and five of the king’s best warriors killed during the dragon’s attack on
the hall, who else was there? Buri? Surt? They knew more of farming and ax-work than sword or spear. Thialfi, with his damaged sword arm? Od, who was even younger than Rune? His mother would never let him go. Rune glanced around the circle of cheering people and saw a pair of furtive green eyes—Ottar’s—doing the same. Rune wasn’t the only one wondering whom the king would choose—and whether there were enough warriors to mount an attack against the dragon.

Finally, the king raised his hands to quiet the crowd. As the noise died down, the high-pitched wail of Elli’s baby rose up and lingered in the new silence.

The king waited. When the infant calmed, he turned back to the slave. “Tell us about the dragon.”

The slave grinned mirthlessly and said, “What do you want to know?” Rune could hardly believe the man’s insolent tone. He, who had caused so many deaths, so much destruction, had just been offered his life, and at what price? Information. He should be happy to give the king what he wanted.

“Everything you can remember.” King Beowulf’s words sounded mild, but Rune hoped the slave wouldn’t test him further.

The bard stepped forward, one hand resting lightly on his harp strings. “Describe the worm—how big? What color? Were his scales ragged? Did you see any wounds?”

The slave cocked his head to the side and squinted at the bard. “Didn’t see it, not that you’ll believe me. Saw its
hoard. Gold, jewels, old swords and drinking horns.” He scrolled his fingers through the air, as if to list all the other things he’d seen.

“I believe you,” the king said. “It takes more courage than you might possess to remain calm at the sight of a dragon. Battle-hardened warriors have been known to run in terror when such a monster appears.”

“You didn’t see it, then,” the bard said. “But you must have seen something.”

“Aye, I saw something.” The slave’s tone was no less surly when he spoke to the bard. “In the dragon’s barrow, I saw piles of treasure—and piles of bones.”

The king and the bard exchanged a glance. The poet spoke again. “What kind of bones?”

The slave looked from one man to the other, then sneered. “Human bones.” He dragged out the words, shifting his eyes around the crowd as he spoke.

Rune felt a prickling at the back of his neck. Near him, he could hear people murmuring to each other and Fulla hissing something to her husband as she caught him by the arm.

“If you saw the hoard, why couldn’t you see the dragon?” the bard asked.

The slave gave another shifty grin. “I reckon it was on the other side of all that gold. Where the smoke was coming from.” He gestured at his nose as if to show smoke rising from it.

The king gave his head an impatient shake, making Rune think of a warhorse. “This man might not have seen the dragon, but it’s been seen nonetheless.” Suddenly, he turned to Rune. “Come forward, son,” he said.

Rune’s stomach dropped to his knees. He stood rooted to the ground, staring at the king.

“Step forward, he said,” a woman whispered fiercely.

“Go on, lad,” Hemming said, giving him a push.

The king spoke to the crowd. “Rune was on the crag when the dragon flew over. The fear the monster inspires is so great that he wasn’t able to see much.”

Someone snorted derisively. Dayraven.

The king ignored it, turning back to Rune. “Ketil tells me you’ve seen the dragon again.”

So Ketil
had
believed him after all. Rune’s throat grew dry. He closed his eyes, willing the crowd to disappear, but he could hear them murmuring.

“Tell me what happened,” the king said, his voice gentle. Rune opened his eyes and looked into the king’s bright blue ones. As he did, it seemed as if the rest of the world had disappeared, taking all the sound and scorn and mockery with it, leaving just Rune and the king.

He gulped in air. “I was on the mountain,” he said, “on the trail that leads up from the crag.”

The king nodded, encouraging him.

“A mist came up—I couldn’t see.”

“Ahh, the giant’s breath,” he heard the bard say, but
Rune didn’t take his eyes from the king’s. “The giants may be in league with the dragon.”