The Coming of the Dragon (21 page)

The king reached for his arm, stopping him. “Rune,” he said, and as Rune looked at him, he saw that the whites of the king’s eyes were yellow and bloodshot. His brows and hair seemed whiter, brighter, next to his sweaty, soot-blackened face.

“Go, look at the dragon’s treasure; bring it to me.”

Rune shook his head. “I can’t leave you.”

“I’m commanding you to. Hurry.”

Rune rose, his face a mask of concern, and walked fearfully toward the barrow’s mouth. When he reached it, he looked back at his lord.

A hint of a smile came to the king’s face and he nodded. “Go.”

Rune turned and ran down the dark passageway into the barrow, the clinking of his chain mail echoing off the rock walls. The place reeked of dragon, of smoke and venomous breath and rotting meat.

The passageway opened suddenly into a wide room.
A stream of light filtered through the dust from an opening in the roof, and Rune stopped to stare. What he took at first for a pile of pebbles transformed into jewels as he gazed at it. A golden goblet lay at his feet, some story of the gods inscribed into its side. Piles of treasure lay scattered across the dirt floor—gold coins, rusted armor, rings and necklaces and armbands decorated with interlacing patterns. He tried to take it all in, the glittering tapestry hanging from the wall, the helmets, their leather sides eaten away by time, leaving only their crests and brow guards and nasals like the faces of long-forgotten warriors, but there was too much to comprehend. When he stepped forward, his foot crunched on something. A human skull. He took a shaky breath and looked up at a golden banner, a battle standard woven of shining threads that caught the light and illuminated a green gemstone below it.

For a long moment he stared. Then, in a sudden panic, he remembered the king, alone and wounded. He grabbed a gold cup and a gleaming bowl, stuffing them full of gemstones and jewelry, trying not to cry out as they touched his throbbing hand. He took a sword and a helmet and slipped three armbands over his wrist before he reached for the golden standard and fled, tripping over the treasures, down the dark passageway and into the light.

The king lay slumped against the stone wall, his eyes closed.

“My lord!” Rune cried, running to him, dropping the
treasure with a clatter. “King Beowulf!” He leaned over the king, shaking his arm.

The king opened his eyes. They looked dim, rheumy. Dark blood flowed freely from his neck wound now, staining the tunic below his mail shirt.

“Here, my lord, here’s treasure, see?” He held a cup up desperately, and the king looked at it vaguely. “And here, armbands.” Rune slipped them off his wrist and piled them in the king’s lap.

“Rune,” the king said, his voice weary. “Sit here.” His hand fell to the rock beside him.

Rune sat, trying not to stare at the yellow liquid bubbling at the edges of the wound, willing the king to be strong. “My lord, you’ll be all right. I know you will.”

The king shook his head and gazed up at Rune from beneath his white brows. “I have no son to pass on my armor to, my helmet, my kingdom.” He raised his hands to the back of his neck, struggling with something. Then he lifted the golden torque from his neck. “Put this on,” he said.

“My lord, no,” Rune said, tears welling in his eyes.

“You are a Wayamunding, Rune, the same as I am, the same as my father was. My father killed a man, you know, just as yours did. Hrothgar paid the wergild, putting me in his debt.” A grim smile lit his face. “I paid that debt off—I killed Grendel and his mother.”

“You did, my lord, and you survived. Just like you will now.”

“No, Rune.” He leaned his head back against the wall, closing his eyes, working hard for every breath.

Suddenly, Rune’s head pounded and nausea took hold. He clutched at his temple, cupping his hand over his eye.
Not now
, he told himself,
not now
. But over the vision he had no control. He hung his head over his knees, trying to keep from passing out as the world went dark.

Amma whispered in a voice so gentle he thought at first it couldn’t be hers. “Survivor of war.” Rune caught his breath as a sudden unbearable sadness twisted his heart. Then she was gone.

When he sat up again, breathing shakily, the king was watching him. “What did she say?”

Rune shook his head, swallowing. “It doesn’t make any sense.” He blinked, accustoming his eyes to the light again. “She’s said it before. It was the last thing she said before she died.”

The king leaned forward, his eyes on Rune’s. “Tell me.”

“She said, ‘Survivor of war.’ ”

King Beowulf gave a hint of a smile. “Don’t you know? It’s your name. It’s what’s written in the runes on the pendant around your neck. Wiglaf. That’s what it means. What remains after battle, what survives a war.”

He sat up a little straighter, and as he did, fresh blood welled from his neck.

“Here, my lord,” Rune said, dipping the cloth into the water in the king’s helmet and pressing it against the wound. “Let me clean it.”

The king put his hand on Rune’s arm. “Stop. Listen to me. Your father was Weohstan, a Wayamunding. He was my kinsman.” He looked into Rune’s eyes, holding them with his own. “Rune.” His eyes fluttered and then opened again. “You are the last of my kin.”

Rune stared at him, not comprehending.

“Wiglaf, son of Weohstan,” the king repeated, “I name you my heir.”

He closed his eyes, and slowly, as if he were falling asleep, the king’s head fell forward.

TWENTY-ONE

“MY LORD!” RUNE CRIED. “KING BEOWULF!” HE SHOOK THE
king’s shoulder, but the old warrior slumped farther forward.

Rune hauled him upright, leaning the king’s head against the rocks. “Here, drink, my lord,” he said, dipping water from the helmet into a golden cup from the barrow. He held it to the king’s lips, and they parted, his lower jaw falling open. The water dribbled down his chin.

Rune dropped the cup and dipped the cloth into the helmet again. “You’ll be all right; you’ll be fine,” he said, his words thick with tears. They coursed down his cheeks, mingling with his sweat, running into his nose and mouth and dripping onto his neck. Gently, he swabbed the king’s face, wiping away soot and battle grime. “My lord?”

Rune laid his ear to the king’s heart, but his own breathing kept him from hearing the sound he was listening for.

The king didn’t move.

“God of thunder, help him,” he said. “Please help him.” Scooping water into his burned hand, he held it to the king’s lips. “Here’s water, my lord. Drink.” Again, the liquid ran down his chin.

“No, my lord!” Rune cried, his voice a ragged sob. A second time he shook the king’s shoulders. A second time it did no good. He lowered his head against his lord’s chest, overcome by grief and exhaustion, and wept.

A light hand touched Rune’s shoulder.

He raised his face to the king’s, but the eyes were still closed, the mouth still hanging open. He lowered his head again, his cheek pressed against the hard iron rings of the king’s chain mail.

“Rune?” someone said, and again he felt the hand.

Eyes swollen with tears, his own hand still resting on the king’s shoulder, he slowly twisted his head.

“I was standing just over there. I heard what he said.” Ketil spoke softly, as if to keep from disturbing the king, who was beyond disturbance now.

Rune looked at him, unable to speak, then lowered his face back to his lord’s chest.

He heard movement behind him, the tread of feet, but he didn’t look up. Someone knelt on the rocks on the other side of the king’s body. Rune opened his eyes to Ketil’s face.

“Come,” Ketil said gently, reaching his hand out to help Rune to his feet.

Rune stared at him for a long moment, then extended his hand. When Ketil took it, Rune pulled it back, hissing in pain.

“Sorry,” Ketil whispered, his eyes widening when he saw the blackened flesh. He put his hands under Rune’s armpits and pulled him to his feet.

As Rune turned, he saw men standing in a circle around the king. Around him. Shame shadowed their faces. Gar’s head was bowed. So were Thialfi’s and Ottar’s. Surt scuffed the ground with his boot, and Buri stared at the king, tears wetting his cheeks. Od stood a little behind Buri, sobbing.

Brokk met Rune’s eyes and gave him a soldier’s nod.

“Where’s Dayraven?” Rune asked, his voice a croak. “Is he all right?” He didn’t remember seeing the warrior after they had crossed the stream together.

No one spoke.

Beside him, Ketil made a movement and Rune turned. “He … he ran,” Ketil said in a choked voice.

Rune’s eyes fell on the dragon’s carcass stretched across the rocks, its fire extinguished, its red eyes closed. “The king said there’s something about a dragon, some magic maybe, that freezes even a hardened warrior’s blood. He said there’s no shame in it.”

Still, nobody else said anything. Ottar shuffled his feet. What were they waiting for? Rune felt frustration rising in
him, competing with his grief. Why didn’t somebody
do
something?

Finally, unable to stand it any longer, he spoke. “Our ring-giver is dead. We need to take him down the mountain. We’ll build his pyre in the Feasting Field by Thor’s Oak.”

Gar raised his head. Thialfi looked at Rune expectantly.

“We need spears and a cloak.” He saw Od, his face wet with tears, standing a little to the side. “Od, see if you can find the king’s cloak. We’ll make a litter to carry him.”

Od nodded without looking up and ran to the boulders. The rest of the men watched Rune, but still no one moved. “The dragon—we should push it over the cliff into the sea.” When no one spoke, Rune went on. “Can we? Buri? Surt? Brokk? Do we have the strength, if we do it together?”

Buri looked at Surt and the two of them moved cautiously toward the dragon.

“Be careful of the venom—don’t touch it,” Rune called as Brokk and Ottar joined them, pushing at the creature, testing its weight.

Rune turned to Gar. “There’s treasure in there.” He pointed at the barrow. “A treasure hoard beyond belief. We should carry as much of it with us as we can for the king’s pyre. See if there’s something we can put it in, will you?” Gar nodded and went into the barrow.

Rune turned. The king still sat propped against the rock wall, his eyes closed, his mouth open.

Rune felt his whole body crumple, and he staggered, falling to his knees, dropping his face into his hands as a sob overtook him.

“Here,” Ketil said. “Drink this.” He held his helmet forward. It was filled with water.

Rune took a shaky breath, then another, before he looked at his friend.

Ketil gave him the helmet, and Rune drank long and deep. When he finished, he handed it back.

Ketil met his eyes. “That was well done,” he said. “The king would have been proud. My lord.” There was no hint of a smile on his face as he added the last words.

Rune shook his head. “No, Ketil.”

“It’s not your choice.” Ketil watched him for a long moment until Rune finally dropped his eyes. “How’s your hand?”

Rune held it out, palm up.

Ketil examined it, carefully keeping his fingers from the burned part. Then, using his dagger, he cut a long strip from his cloak and gently wrapped it around Rune’s hand. “There,” he said. “Maybe that will help.”

At a sound behind them, they both turned to see Brokk, Buri, and Surt leaning into the dragon’s side, their muscles straining.

Rune and Ketil rose to join them, but as Rune stepped toward the dragon, Od stopped him. Keeping his face down, he held the king’s cloak up to Rune as if it were an
offering. “Thanks, Od,” Rune said. “Put it by the king and let’s help with the dragon.”

Od nodded, still looking down.

“Od,” Rune said, putting his good hand on the younger boy’s shoulder. “The first time I saw it, I lay there sniveling in the dirt. I thought I was dead. The second time wasn’t much better.”

Od raised his face just enough to meet Rune’s eye before stepping toward the king’s body.

It took their combined strength to move the dragon.

“It’s a good fifty footmarks long,” Surt said. He’d walked from head to tail, measuring.

In the end, they had to roll it to the cliff edge. “Let the tide take it, and good riddance,” Brokk said as the carcass fell, thundering over the mountainside to the sea far below.

They rested for a moment and then returned to the king, whose body they had laid on his cloak, the hilt of his broken sword on his chest. The cloak they tied to two strong linden spears, making a litter. Beside the king lay treasure from the barrow, filling a bag Gar had made from his own cloak.

The men stood in a huddled group near the king. Rune looked at them, wondering what they were waiting for.

“My lord?” Ketil asked him.

Rune glared at him, but the other men raised their faces, listening for his response. He sighed and gave in.
“Brokk, Ottar, Buri, Surt,” he said, pointing to a different corner of the litter as he said each name. They moved to their places. “Gar? The treasure.”

Gar picked up the bulky sack, and a helmet slid out.

“Od, help him, will you?” Rune said. “And, Thialfi, will you bear the king’s shield?”