The Coming of the Dragon (24 page)

Rune listened in wonder. How could the bard know all this?

A movement beside him made him turn, and suddenly he understood. Ketil was back, crouching beside him—his shoulder companion.

Rune caught his eye and Ketil grinned, just like the old days, back when they were boys in the hall.

TWENTY-FOUR

HE WAS LOST IN A DREAM OF FIRE AND DARKNESS WHEN
the drumming of hoofbeats startled him awake. He lay taut, listening. Horses neighed. Men shouted. Shylfings? An attack? He flung off the blanket and, grabbing his sword, opened the door a finger’s breadth to peer out.

It wasn’t Shylfings—a border patrol had returned.

By the time Rune had dressed and rushed outside, the eight members of the patrol knew all the news from Gar, who had been on guard. They stood clustered together, their clothes stained by days in the saddle, their horses behind them, stamping impatiently. As he neared them, Rune could feel the men eyeing him, taking his measure. They had returned expecting to speak to King Beowulf in his golden hall. Instead, they found blackened timbers, a
smoking funeral pyre—and an untried youth masquerading as king.

“My lord.” Gar stepped forward so that all the members of the patrol could see him bowing, and Rune appreciated his support. “My lord,” he said again, “Horsa and his men have just returned from the northern borders.”

There was probably some formulaic way to respond, Rune thought, but it wasn’t something he’d ever learned.

“Horsa, what have you seen?” the bard asked, hurrying toward them.

Everyone turned to the poet, and Rune was relieved of the need to speak for the moment.

“Horse trails through the forest—trails we didn’t make,” a solid man in a mud-spattered cloak said. He handed his reins to one of his companions and held up an arrow shaft, its tip broken off. “Shylfings. See the feathers?”

The bard took the arrow from him. He looked at it closely and nodded before handing it to Rune. Rune stared at the feathers, wondering what Horsa saw in them that identified them as Shylfing work. He was sure the warriors gathered behind Horsa could sense his ignorance.

Before he could speak, a man in the back of the group called out.

“Mother!” He and another man detached themselves from the other warriors and moved toward Thora, who hurried from her house with a shawl hastily thrown over her shoulders, still knotting her braids behind her head.

Wyn’s brothers. Gar must have already told them about their father. Thora reached out, silent, and placed her palm first against one son’s cheek and then against the other’s. As she did, each man closed his eyes and tightened his jaw, as if he was drawing strength from her. Then all three walked to Thora’s house and disappeared inside.

Rune watched them go, feeling in his heart the bleakness that would overtake them. He jumped as Ketil whispered in his ear, “Welcome them home and thank them for their service.” When had he gotten there?

Then, as if the exchange had never taken place, Ketil moved to stand beside the bard and bowed to Rune.

Rune turned back to the remaining members of Horsa’s troop. “You are welcome home.” The words sounded false, as if he were playacting with his foster brothers the way they had when they were children. “Many thanks for your service to the kingdom.”

The men regarded him, unmoving.

“The hall may have been burned, but there is meat and ale for hungry warriors,” he added. He gestured at a bond servant who hovered close by. The man scurried off to bring food. “Rest now, and eat.”

Nothing happened for a moment, and Rune stood rigid, waiting. Then Horsa inclined his head. As he did, the others bowed briefly before they dispersed, the jingling of their horses’ bridles and the clopping of hooves filling the dreadful silence.

Rune watched them go. The king might have named
him his heir, but the words meant nothing if the warriors didn’t accept him as their leader.

One of the men looked back over his shoulder, staring a challenge at Rune. He straightened his spine and met the man’s eyes. The warrior turned away again, following his companions.

“We’ll need to rebuild the hall, first thing,” the bard said, rubbing his hands against the morning chill. “We can’t have meetings out here like this.”

Rune nodded. The hall did need to be rebuilt. Winter was coming and people would need a place to gather.

He gazed around him. Morning mist hovered near the ground. Autumn mist. He looked toward a line of birches at the edge of the stronghold. Their leaves had almost all turned. A sense of urgency filled him. If people were to survive the winter, the harvest had to be brought in. It was too late for many fields—the dragon had seen to that—but not all of them. Yet, with so many farms burned, every bit of grain they saved would count.

He looked back at the bard. “The hall will have to wait.”

The bard fixed his single eye on Rune. The dark, empty socket seemed to stare at him, as if it could see right through him.

He struggled not to shudder. “The fields have to be harvested.”

Ketil stepped closer, his hand on his sword hilt. “We’ve never been more vulnerable to attack. You heard what
Horsa said. If everyone’s out in the fields, we’ll be in even more danger.”

“The hall has to come first,” the bard said. “It’s a symbol of the kingdom’s strength. We’ll need it for your coronation, too.”

Rune felt his shoulders sag. His stomach growled. Didn’t these two have any idea where the kingdom’s grain came from, or the hay for the horses?

At that moment, the bond servant he had sent to get food for the patrol returned, a huge tray in his arms. He looked around, expecting to find Horsa and his men.

“We’ll take that,” the bard said. He grabbed a drumstick off the tray and bit into it.

Rune shook his head in exasperation. For the bard, he thought wryly, food probably always came from trays, served up to him hot, anytime he wanted it.

By the time the sun had burned off the mist, Rune ached to be home, harvesting Hwala’s single unscathed field. A small group had gathered to plan their next move, but to Rune, all the talk seemed pointless. He’d already explained himself, and more than once, but the discussion went round and round.

Horsa still wore his travel-stained cloak. “The signs we saw weren’t fresh, but they were definitely Shylfing,” he said. “Three patrols are still on the borders; we don’t know what they’ve seen.” He took a bite of the bread he was holding and spoke through a full mouth. “It’s not just the
Shylfings we should fear, either. Other tribes will hear about King Beowulf’s death, too, and know we’re weak.”

At the word
weak
, Rune felt Horsa’s eyes on him, but he didn’t respond.

“If they see the golden roof on our hall, they won’t think us weak,” the bard said. “It gives the people the symbol of hope they need in these times.”

How had King Beowulf stood it? If the bard said one more word about the hall, Rune thought he would scream. He could almost feel his sinews moving in time to the scythe, cutting the grain that would help feed the kingdom. What would it take to make the others understand that hunger was just as deadly an enemy as Shylfings?

Unexpectedly, Thora came to his aid. She had left her sons sleeping, Wyn attending them. Her eyes still bore a haunted look from their bitter homecoming. Now, she looked at the bard and spoke dryly. “Hope is easier to come by on a full stomach.” She turned toward Horsa. “If the people starve to death over the winter, they’ll hardly need your sword.”

At her words, Rune felt a flush of warmth. Emboldened, he stepped forward, a new idea forming in his mind as he spoke. “Long ago, there was a feud between our people and the Danes.” He thought about something Amma had taught him, a part of the “Lay of Beowulf” the bard never sang. “That feud came to an end when King Beowulf offered his strength to the Danish king—when he killed the monster Grendel,” he said, and looked around. Horsa
was scowling, but at least he was listening. The bard was examining his fingernails, not looking at Rune, but he was sure he had the man’s attention.

“Go on,” Ketil said.

“King Beowulf’s feud with the Shylfings—it’s not my feud. It wasn’t his feud, either. Do any of you even know how it started, what we’re avenging? Anyone besides the bard, I mean,” he added quickly.

Thora looked at him sharply.

He stiffened at her expression, then plunged ahead. “Why should we wait for them to attack us? If they were our allies, the way the Danes are now, think how strong we would be.”

Nobody spoke. Rune kept his head up, but he trained his gaze on the blank space between Horsa and the bard, unwilling to meet anyone’s eyes.

Thora cleared her throat.

Before she had a chance to argue with him, he went on. “We could end the feud. We could send envoys to the Shylfing court.”

“Envoys to the Shylfings? You mean dead men,” Horsa said. “They’d be killed before they delivered their message. If we send anyone to the Shylfings, it should be an army to finish them off.”

“We barely have enough men to make an army,” Ketil said, sweeping his arm toward the burned timbers of King Beowulf’s hall, as if to remind Horsa of all the warriors who used to gather there and how many of them had been
killed. “Even if we did attack the Shylfings, we’d be leaving the kingdom vulnerable to Wulfing raiders, not to mention half a dozen other tribes.”

“Send my sons,” Thora said.

Everyone looked at her.

“My lord, you’re right,” she said to Rune. “The time for this feud is long past.” As she stepped forward, Horsa backed up, making room for her in the circle. “Thialfi’s mother was a Shylfing,” she said. “He’s skilled with words. He could speak for us. My sons will go with him as guards.”

Rune realized his jaw was hanging open. He clamped it shut. Thora’s husband was dead, yet she was willing to send her sons into such danger? It didn’t matter, Rune realized. They were in just as much danger if they didn’t send an envoy. Without peace, every day was another chance for death from a Shylfing spear.

“I’ll find Thialfi,” Ketil said.

Rune watched him go, mindful of how lucky he was to have Ketil’s support.

“We’ll still need border patrols,” Horsa said.

“Yes, of course we will,” Rune said. “You and Gar will be in charge of them. And we’ll need a seasoned warrior at each harvest site, and a fresh horse for a messenger, in case there’s an attack. Do we have enough men?”

Horsa thought for a moment. “Not yet, but we will as soon as another patrol returns.” Then he looked at Rune, inclined his head, and added, “My lord.”

.  .  .

Rune planned to ride to Hwala’s farm that day, but he hadn’t anticipated how long all the preparations, all the talk, would take. There was so much to be decided: which warriors would stay on patrol; which would guard the stronghold and which the harvesters; what they should do in case of attack; and, most important, the instructions for the envoys and the gifts they would take with them. Thialfi had been easy to convince, and Wyn’s brothers readily agreed with their mother. Rune met with them privately; Wyn had asked him if he would. They listened gravely, courteously, as he described finding Finn on the mountainside, and then asked him questions about the dragon and about their father. When Rune suggested putting a memorial runestone at the place where Finn had died, the brothers agreed, thanking him. They seemed eager to go with Thialfi, and Rune thought he understood their desire to embark on a dangerous task, to leave the stronghold and the mourning behind them.

The bard spent most of the day scowling, angry that the hall and the coronation would have to wait. “He’ll come around,” Wyn whispered to Rune. “He just wants his seat of honor in the hall again, where he’s the center of attention.”

It was evening before all the plans were settled. Rune and Ketil sat by themselves, cross-legged in front of a campfire, eating. “Did you know about Finn’s argument with King Beowulf?” Ketil asked.

Rune shook his head.

“Having you say we should send envoys to the Shylfings—it was like having Finn there again. He always said the feud should be forgotten. But the king …” Ketil looked over at him. “You’ve made allies out of Thora and her sons, that’s for sure.”

Allies? Rune gazed across the campsite that now served as a gathering place. He could see Gar and Ottar talking to two of the men who had returned with Horsa’s patrol. Gar, Ottar, and the other men who had been at the dragon fight he could count on, he thought. And now, Thora’s sons and perhaps Horsa. But the rest of the warriors, the ones who would be returning from patrolling the borders, he knew all too well what they would think of a mere boy succeeding the king, a boy who wanted to give up the feud with the Shylfings.

He stared into the blue flames that danced at the bottom of the fire. Even if the Shylfings agreed to a truce, what right did he have to end a generations-long feud? Feuds had to be avenged; that was the way of things. Not a single living Geat was old enough to remember a time before this fight. Who was he to try to stop it?

TWENTY-FIVE