The Coming of the Dragon (16 page)

They rose as the king passed, and a new smell—chickens roasting on a spit—filled Rune’s nostrils, tormenting him further. He wove his way toward the fire, where he could see the sizzling meat. But it was too late. The ceremony had begun. He’d have to wait for the feast before he could quell the grumbling of his belly.

In front of the bonfire, King Beowulf sat high on Silver top’s back, his golden torque catching the firelight as the bard chanted words Rune couldn’t hear. The bard held a spear stretched out like an offering in both hands. The king took it from him.

Rune heard the intake of the crowd’s breath as the old king pulled his arm back. Then, as he let the spear fly, a strong, sure shot over the wind-whipped flames and into the black night beyond, people cheered.

Dayraven yelled, “For Odin!” and several voices answered, “Odin!”

“Well, I suppose they have to appease him,” an old woman near Rune said.

“Hush! We may be Thor’s people, but you don’t want to anger the raven god,” a man replied.

Rune edged closer to the bonfire, stepping past couples, dodging children who scampered between grown-up legs, excited to be out in the night. Now he could see the goat’s head, skewered on its long pole, dancing a ring around the bonfire. Too many bodies pressed in front of him for Rune to see who carried it.

A sound like thunder started low from near the oak tree. As it built, growing louder and louder, rolling and booming like a storm, the crowd hushed.

Suddenly, it stopped. In the silence, the king called out, “Thor, our beloved friend, hear us! May the Hammer-Wielder receive our sacrifice.”

The goat’s head dove into the fire, and as sparks flew into the night sky, the crowd erupted in cheers, men raising their fists and slapping each other on the back, a woman swinging her child around in her arms, friends laughing and calling, “The Thunderer!” and “The Hammerer!” and “Thor!”

Rune ducked past Hemming, who had his arm around Fulla, and sidestepped a group of chattering girls. Everyone had someone, everyone except him. Even if Skyn and Skoll had tormented him, even if Hwala never allowed him a moment’s rest, he and Amma had still been a part of their farm.

Firelight glinted off teeth in grinning faces and
gleamed in eyes as people smiled at each other. In the dark, Rune pushed past them, moving toward the fire, hungry and sore from his fall down the mountain. His tailbone ached. So did his shoulder and the bruise on his hip that his swordbelt kept rubbing against.

As he found a place where he could see better, the king held up both hands for silence. Ottar raised a finger to warn his boys, and Elli patted her baby on the back to calm him. Now people moved forward, forming a half-circle around King Beowulf. When all was quiet except for a crying toddler, he dismounted and handed his reins to Gerd, who proudly led the white stallion away.

Rune glanced back at the bonfire and caught a glimpse of Wyn, firelight shining off her face as she looked up at Ketil. He leaned down as if he was whispering to her. Rune felt a sudden pang. Ketil? And Wyn? How long had that been going on? A long time, he realized, thinking of the times he’d seen them together, of their easy familiarity with each other. How had he never noticed before?

The bard stepped forward to stand beside the king, who gave him a nod. The king faced the crowd again, the glow of the bonfire catching his circlet, turning it into a fiery crown above his dark face. He looked around the gathering, meeting people’s eyes. Finally, he spoke. “Many are those the dragon has taken. We honor them tonight.”

“Finn,” the bard called out in a commanding voice.

“Finn,” the crowd answered, and Rune shut his eyes to the image of the warrior dead on the mountainside.

“Brand,” the bard said. Again the people answered, calling back the name of the king’s hearth companion, committing him to the care of the gods.

Modi, Thorgrim, Beorc the Red. On and on rolled the litany of the people killed by the dragon. Rune stared into the fire, repeating each name along with the crowd. When the bard came to Amma, Rune formed the word with his lips, but no sound came out. Nor could he say the names that came after: Hwala, Skyn, Skoll, Ula.

Not until the bard had moved on to Wald and Thorgunna and their children did the constriction in his throat loosen, unlocking his voice.

The bard finally fell silent, and Thora stepped forward, a flagon in her hands. She stopped in front of the bonfire, and Rune could see her lips moving, saying some ritual words he didn’t know. Then she poured a stream of golden mead into the fire.

“May the gods receive them all!” the king called out, and the crowd repeated his words, adding their own. Names floated into the black sky as voices called them out. A woman wailed, “Thorgunna!” Her mother, Rune thought, or maybe her sister.

He bowed his head. “Hwala,” he said in a low voice. “Skyn. Skoll. Ula.” He swallowed and took a shaky breath. “Amma.” He looked up, staring into the flames. They blurred and he blinked, then spoke again. This time his voice was clear and strong. “Amma.”

After a few moments, the king held up his hands again,
asking for attention. “The dragon killed them. For that crime, with Thor’s help, we will kill the dragon!”

Thundering erupted from behind the oak tree, and Rune looked toward it. He could just make out the shapes of men and boys drumming on hollow logs.

Now a path began to open in the crowd as people stepped backward. He watched, trying to understand what was happening. Then he saw Buri and Surt stepping into the light, each with a straw dragon arm on his shoulder—the effigy he had helped them build. People’s tears turned to laughter as the dragon wove through the crowd, diving at a group of women and children, who screamed and ducked. As it came closer, Rune could see Brokk and Thialfi balancing the back legs on their shoulders and, behind them, Od holding up the tail.

Buri glanced his way and called out over the noise, “Rune, come help!” but Rune didn’t move.

They veered away from him, the crowd parting before the dragon, Oski and Omi leaping up to touch its tail while Gerd ran after her cousins, trying to catch them and smiling at the laughing crowd as the little boys kept just out of her reach.

When the dragon neared the fire, the drumming intensified. The men carrying it held the effigy high in the air, twisting it like a dragon in flight. Then the drumming stopped and so did the dragon. The king raised his sword. Into the silence, he shouted, “You who battled the Midgard
Serpent, help us slay the serpent who torments us. As it has burned our kingdom, so let it become ashes. The dragon will die!”

His sword flashed down, and as it did, the men threw the straw creature into the fire. Flames consumed it, sending sparks flying, and the drumming began again, the sound competing with the cheering of the crowd.

Rune’s face felt too stiff to cheer. On the other side of the bonfire, he could see Wyn, standing by herself now, tears still glinting on her cheeks as she smiled and clapped. As he studied her, a memory came to him, a winter memory from the hall, where her father had been teaching spear-work. He remembered setting down his heavy linden spear and looking into a corner to see Amma, firelight illuminating her hands as she wove them through the air, the way she did when she told stories. He could almost hear her bracelets clinking as they danced up and down her wrists. Sitting before her, a group of girls and women nodded their heads appreciatively as she spoke. Nearby, leaning against a beam, Wyn stood transfixed, her eyes on Amma’s face.

It wasn’t the only time he’d seen them together, he realized now. Memories flickered through his mind like light through oak branches on a summer day: Amma and Wyn walking together, arms linked, talking; the two of them bending over a bowl, Amma explaining something about cooking or healing—Rune wasn’t sure what.

Wyn turned in his direction, and he looked away, ashamed of the rudeness he’d shown her, embarrassed to have thought she might have favored him.

The noise began to lessen, and he looked up to see the king holding his arm out to Thora. She advanced toward him slowly, the great, curved drinking horn in both hands. Its polished silver fittings gleamed, and Rune could see the honey-colored mead spilling over and running down the horn’s sides.

The king spoke. “Tomorrow, the dragon dies. I will take with me ten warriors, the best of those here tonight. Thora!”

Thora held out the horn to the king. He took it from her, drank, and handed it back as people murmured their approval.

Then she walked toward Dayraven. As cold as the night air was, the warrior wore no cloak and his arm muscles bulged from his sleeveless tunic, exposing his gold armbands—all the rings he’d earned from the king for his prowess in battle. He accepted the horn and held it high. Rune could hear the sounds of approval from the crowd. Dayraven might have lost three fingers on his shield hand, but it hadn’t lessened the power of his sword arm. He was a proven warrior, the one people were saying the king would choose as his successor now that Finn was gone. Dayraven turned to the crowd. “The wild ox who gave us this horn tried his best to kill me.” He brandished the horn like a weapon, and mead sloshed from its mouth. “But just
as I slew the great aurochs, so will I kill the dragon!” He took a long quaff, then handed the horn back to Thora.

“Dayraven!” someone yelled, and people clapped and whistled as the warrior stepped forward to stand beside the king.

Silence fell again as Thora walked around the circle. She stopped in front of Gar and stretched up to give him the horn; he had to lean down to take it. After drinking, he glanced around the crowd and gave a sudden grim smile. “The Wendel tribesmen are missing a warrior because of my sword.” He unsheathed it with a ringing sound and held it in the air, where it caught the light from the bonfire. “And because of my sword, the dragon will be missing his life.” He sheathed it again. As he strode up to join the king, people in the crowd slapped his back and called his name.

Ketil was next. Rune watched his friend accept the horn. Ketil had always been good with spear and sword. His father had been a warrior; he’d grown up in the stronghold. Nobody had been surprised when he’d been made one of the king’s hearth companions. Rune could hear people murmuring words of favor as Ketil drank. He gave the horn back to Thora, his gray eyes wide in his solemn face. A movement made Rune turn just as Ketil began to speak his oath. It was Wyn, clasping her hands to her breast. He gazed at her shining eyes, the look of eagerness on her face. When he turned back, Ketil was already standing beside the king, and Thora was moving toward the next man.

Ottar took the cup and drank. Rune squinted at him—the
blond warrior’s beard looked as if it were dripping with blood. He must have just dyed it in honor of Thor, Rune realized, and looked around to see if anyone else had done the same, but it was hard to tell in the wavering firelight. Ottar asked the god to stand with him in the fight, then shook his spear before he took his place. As he did, he wobbled and came so close to tripping that Ketil had to reach out to steady him; clearly, this wasn’t the first mead Ottar had swallowed tonight. As he regained his balance and shook his spear again, the crowd cheered.

Brokk stepped forward next, firelight gleaming off his bald pate. He swung his cloak back to expose his armbands, but he didn’t need to. Everyone knew Brokk was an obvious choice to fight beside the king. “You know what Thor did to the frost giants?” he called out.

“Hit ’em with his hammer!” somebody yelled.

“That’s right—he cracked their skulls, just like I’ll do with the dragon!” Brokk said, and people clapped and cried out, “Brokk!”

The cheers died down after Brokk joined the group of chosen warriors, and a muttering went through the crowd. Rune looked to see Thora heading toward Thialfi. “But his arm!” a woman near Rune whispered, and another hushed her, saying, “It’s his warcraft the king wants.” Scattered encouragement followed Thialfi as he joined the king, his sword arm hanging useless. Rune knew he wasn’t the only one thinking about Finn and the five dead members of the king’s hearth companions, or wondering when the border
patrols would return home. Still, he could barely believe it when Thora approached Hemming. Age had robbed him of his strength—could his experience make up for it?

Hemming handed the horn back to Thora and cleared his throat. “The Wulfings,” he started before he had to cough and clear his throat again. “The Wulfing raiders, they had us outnumbered,” he said, and Rune heard someone near him groan lightly. Was Hemming going to tell the whole story, the way he did every chance he got?

Fulla laid her hand on her husband’s arm and said something so quietly that only he could hear.

Hemming jerked his arm free and then looked back at Fulla. “My wife thinks I’ll just talk the dragon to death,” he said, and then glared at the crowd. “Maybe I will.”

Dayraven roared with laughter, breaking the tension, and others joined in. Rune looked to see the king smiling at Hemming, who was now smiling himself.

“I’ll tell it how we surprised the Wulfing raiders, how we came around from behind—”

Fulla gave him a push forward, and he turned back to her. “Old woman, you listen to how I’ll kill that dragon.”

She smiled. “Save your breath for the monster. Go join the king.”

Hemming looked around at the crowd, gave a little shrug, and walked forward.

“Hemming!” someone yelled, and the crowd erupted into cheers.

When the noise finally settled, Thora offered the
horn to Buri. He took a step back, his sunburned face reddening further, glanced at Surt, and then accepted it. Rune could see his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. “For Wald and Thorgunna,” he said, and then quickly joined the king. Ketil reached out and clapped Buri on the arm as he got near, and Rune saw Buri ducking his head in embarrassment.

Surt was even more abashed than Buri. Whatever vow he made was lost—he mumbled it so low that no one could hear, and he kept his head down as he went to stand beside Buri.

Warriors were scarce if Buri and Surt were needed to make up the ten. The two men did know the southern approach to the mountain, Rune thought, and they could wield an ax. They’d trained with spear and ax like everybody else, even if neither of them owned a sword. But they were farmers who just wanted to get back to their fields. He shook his head.