The Coming of the Dragon (22 page)

Thialfi bowed his head in acquiescence.

Then, taking one last look around the ground where he and the king had killed the dragon, Rune said, “Let’s go.”

The king’s litter carriers went first, handing the body to each other through the passage in the boulders. Rune followed them, Ketil just behind him, and finally Thialfi with the shield and Gar and Od managing the treasure. As he stepped through the boulders, Rune saw his cloak lying where he’d left it when he’d run toward the king. He reached out his sword hand, then pulled it back, wincing.

“Let me,” Ketil said.

Rune was too tired to protest. He wasn’t sure he had enough strength to make it down the mountain, let alone all the way back to the stronghold. As they crossed the flat space before the trail narrowed, a loud bleating came from nearby and a large white goat trotted into view.

“We should sacrifice it to the Hammerer,” Thialfi said. “For the king.” He laid down the iron shield and pulled out his dagger.

“No!” Rune said, anger rising in him. “Leave it alone!”

Thialfi exchanged a glance with Gar.

The goat sprang onto a rock and gazed directly at Rune
with its strange eyes, one yellow, the other blue. He gave the goat a half-bow. It bleated again, hit the rock with its hoof, sprang high into the air, and vanished.

“Did you see that?” Gar said. “It just disappeared!”

“It went behind the rocks,” Thialfi said.

“No, it didn’t; Gar’s right,” Brokk said. “That goat disappeared. The Hammerer!” He clutched at his Thor’s hammer amulet.

So did Ketil, and Rune heard several men muttering quick prayers to Thor.

The procession started up again. Rune’s head throbbed and his hand was on fire. Exhaustion spread over him like a blanket, and he stumbled on a rock.

Ketil was beside him instantly, catching his arm.

“I’m all right,” Rune said.

Trying not to think about what he had just seen, one more unreal thing in a day full of unreality, he followed the king’s body down the mountain.

TWENTY-TWO

LIGHT SLID UNDER HIS LASHES AS RUNE OPENED HIS EYES
a fraction. He didn’t know where he was. He lay still, listening. Somewhere nearby, a man and a woman were speaking quietly, and he could smell porridge cooking. His stomach grumbled, and he looked down to see a fine woolen blanket covering him. He raised his head a little and blinked at the wooden horse heads at the foot of the bed.

He’d never slept in a bed before in his life, not that he could remember, anyway. Where was he? His head ached, and he laid it back on the pillow. He’d never had a pillow before, either. It was astonishingly soft and smelled of herbs.

His sword hand throbbed, but bearably. When he lifted it, he saw that it had been neatly bandaged. Suddenly, memory and grief came crashing down on him.

The king was dead.

When he could catch his breath again, he opened his eyes and gazed at the tidy thatch of the roof, the wooden walls, the light seeping through the cracks. On one wall there was an altar to Odin, two ravens etched into metal. A cup sat below them—mead for the god, he supposed. He looked to the other wall and saw a second altar, this one to Thor, with a carved figure of the god riding in his goat-drawn cart.

The goat—had Thor sent it? Had it really vanished?

He shut his eyes, remembering the goat and the way Hemming had met them halfway down the mountain, his sword held hilt-up, his head bowed in King Beowulf’s honor. He had seen them coming, bearing the king’s body, and as they drew close to him, he fell into step beside them without speaking.

When they finally reached the bottom, Rune told Surt and Buri to go home to their farms. “Your wife needs you,” he remembered saying to Buri, adding, “and the kingdom needs your grain.” Or at least he thought he remembered. Maybe he had dreamed it.

The ride back had passed in a haze of sorrow and pain. He had wanted to leave the others and go to the hut on Hwala’s farm.

Ketil had stopped him. “Not yet,” he’d said. “First we have to take the king home.”

They had tied his body to Silvertop, his white stallion, who had pranced and neighed nervously before settling
into a stately pace. Four warriors, spears raised, had taken their places as the king’s honor guard. Rune hadn’t been one of them—it had taken everything he had to keep from falling off Hairy-Hoof as they rode through the evening and into the night.

After that, his memory failed.

A breeze wafted the scent of porridge past his nose, and his stomach growled violently. He pushed the covers away and sat up. Immediately, he regretted it. He had to lean his head to his knees to stave off the pain and dizziness that threatened to overtake him.

When he looked up again, Thora stood in the doorway, a bowl in her hands. “Get back under the covers,” she said.

Obediently, he did. She reached to plump a pillow behind his back, helping him to sit up, and handed him the bowl.

He thanked her and plunged the spoon into the porridge. It was thick with butter and honey and so smooth that not a single piece of grit crunched between his teeth. He didn’t think he’d ever tasted anything so good.

Thora stood watching him, her arms folded across her chest. When he finished, she took the bowl from him. “No more just yet,” she said. “Let’s make sure this stays down.” Then she slipped out of the house.

Rune leaned back on the headboard. He must have fallen asleep again, because when he opened his eyes, Thora was back, a cup in her hands, and the bard was
standing beside her, holding a leather bag. Both of them were watching him.

“Here,” Thora said, stepping forward with the cup.

He took it and drank, welcoming the cool feel of the ale on his throat.

The bard pulled up a stool and sat beside the bed. He cocked his head at an angle and narrowed his single eye as if he were judging Rune and finding him wanting. Finally, he spoke, his voice sharp. “Wiglaf, son of Weohstan.”

Rune flinched and looked away. The last thing he wanted was to be reminded of what the king had said.

“A sword-age awaits us if the Shylfings attack, a wolf-age. And attack they will if we lack a strong leader. We may not survive.”

“What about Dayraven?” Rune asked.

The bard shook his head. “He hasn’t been seen since …” His voice trailed off.

Dayraven was still gone? Rune remembered running to the king’s aid, Dayraven just behind him—and after that, the terrible fight with the dragon. At the time, he hadn’t spared a thought for the warrior. Other men had run from the creature, but they’d returned.
He’ll come back
, Rune thought,
and so will the men out guarding the kingdom against the Shylfings
. Surely one of them would make a good leader—Wyn’s brother Wulf, perhaps. He looked back at the bard.

The single eye pierced his, holding him in its gaze. “The men will follow you.”

“No,” Rune said.

From beside the bed, Thora spoke. “They already have.”

Rune looked at her, his eyes pleading. She hadn’t been there; she didn’t know what had happened. The others hadn’t followed him. Once the king had fallen, every man had worked together to bring their leader down the mountain.

Another thought occurred to him. “What about the men out on patrol? They would never accept me,” he said.

“Who are any of us to refuse our king’s final command?” the bard said, his voice harsh. He pulled the king’s golden torque from the bag, the neck ring King Beowulf had given to Rune before he died. “This is yours.”

Tears filled Rune’s eyes, and he blinked furiously, rejecting them. “I don’t want it,” he whispered.

“It’s not your choice,” Thora said.

“Rune,” the bard said, and this time his voice was gentle. He laid his hand on Rune’s arm. “I will help you. So will Thora.” He glanced over his shoulder and she nodded.

“I think Amma knew your fate,” the bard added. “Everything she taught you, every decision she made—it was all for this.”

Rune stared at him dully.

“She was a far-minded woman, one who saw beyond herself. The things she did in life didn’t always make sense to me, but now they do. Finn was the king’s heir”—he bowed his head briefly toward Thora, who gave him a
sharp nod in return—“yet somehow she knew you would be needed.”

“She could see the war clouds on the horizon, the Shylfings waiting for our king to die before they attacked, just like the rest of us could,” Thora said.

“She saw that, yes. But also much more. More than any of us could have seen.” The bard turned back to Rune. “She raised you to be king.”

The room fell silent, the only sounds the scritch of the bard stroking his close-cropped beard and a twig snapping on the fire.

Then he stood. “The funeral pyre is being prepared at the Feasting Field for tonight.” He walked to a chest, opened it, and pulled something out. His harp. Rune realized he must be in the bard’s house. Of course. Who else sacrificed both to Odin, who had drunk the mead of poetry, and to Thor? “You should sleep now,” the bard said. “We’ll wake you in time.” He gave Rune a last look, then walked through the door.

Thora watched him for a moment before coming to sit on the bed. She reached out to smooth the hair from his forehead, making a sharp noise with her tongue as she peered at the bruise under his eye. “How do you feel?” she asked.

“I’m all right,” he said. He wished she would leave.

“More porridge?”

He shook his head.

“Try to sleep.” She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek, then got up and left the room.

Rune lay back down, knowing he would never be able to sleep now, no matter how much his body hurt, no matter how tired he still felt. The idea that Amma had taught him anything about kingship was laughable. She hadn’t even wanted him to learn how to use a sword. He knew nothing about how to be a king. He didn’t
want
to be a king.

Bitter tears slid down his cheeks, wetting the pillow.

The sound of the door creaking woke him. His eyes were crusted from sleep and dried tears. He reached up to rub them until he could see.

Ketil stood in the dim light. Someone moved behind him.

Wyn stepped forward, a bowl in her hands. “Are you hungry?” she asked.

Rune blinked, befuddled from the nightmare images that still ghosted through his mind. He sat up and took the bowl from her. It was some kind of meat stew. He took a bite.

“It’s good,” he said, taking another and then another, trying unsuccessfully to slow down. His stomach still felt empty.

She smiled at him. Hadn’t she been angry at him? He dimly recalled that she had, but he was too tired to remember why. Whatever the reason, she seemed to have forgiven him.

When he finished, she took the bowl from him and backed up to stand beside Ketil. She gazed up at him, and he leaned down to kiss the top of her head.

Another thing Rune had forgotten—Wyn and Ketil. Framed in the low doorway, they looked as if the gods had made them for each other. He should have known about the two of them long ago. He thought he should be happy for them, but at the moment, he couldn’t feel anything at all. Eating had wearied him again. He laid his head back on the pillow and shut his eyes. As he did, he heard someone leave the room.

After a moment, Ketil spoke, waking him again. “My mother sent clothes for you.”

Clothes to wear to the king’s funeral pyre. Nothing had changed. The king was still dead.

“How’s your hand?” Ketil asked.

Rune held it up for his friend to see.

“You didn’t like
my
bandage, then?” Ketil said in mock distress.

Rune made a noise through his nose that might have sounded like a laugh. Then, gathering his strength, he swung his legs out of the bed, groaning at the stiffness in his muscles. When he looked down, he was surprised to see how clean he was. Somebody must have wiped away the blood and dirt before they put him in the bard’s bed. The bard had probably insisted on it.

Ketil handed him a tunic and a pair of breeches—not Rune’s, but they fit well enough. He concentrated on
putting them on, then sat on the mattress to pull on his shoes. With an effort, he looked up and said, “I could get used to sleeping in a bed like this.”

Ketil smiled. “You probably will.”

It took Rune a moment to understand.

“Here,” Ketil said, reaching behind him for Rune’s mail shirt. It, too, had been cleaned. Next, he passed him his swordbelt. Rune buckled it on and looked up to see Ketil holding his sword out. As Rune took it, Ketil gave him a slight bow.

He knew Ketil wasn’t trying to irritate him, but he was annoyed all the same. Using his shield hand, he slammed the sword into its hilt.

Ketil didn’t seem to notice. “You’re not going to like this, but the bard says you have to wear it.” He pulled the golden torque from its leather bag.

Rune stared at it and scowled. Ketil was right—he didn’t like it. The torque belonged to the king, not to him. He had no right to wear such a thing.

“The bard will have my head if you don’t put it on,” Ketil said. “So will Thora.” He raised an eyebrow, and Rune realized what he meant: Thora, his future mother-in-law.