The Coming Of The Dragon Part 7

He started to kneel, but the king stopped him, staring at him in the dark, asking him a question as distant firelight reflected on the whites of the old man's eyes.

Rune's eyes filled with tears and he nodded once.

The king let out his breath in a long shudder, closed his eyes briefly, then stepped past Rune and disappeared into Finn's house.

NINE.

HUNGER WOKE HIM, AND THE SMELL OF ROASTING MEAT. Rune opened his eyes to the gray mist of early morning. His campfire had gone out. s.h.i.+vering, he pulled his knees to his chest. The movement awoke the sharp pain of his tailbone and the duller aches of his other bruises. He suppressed a moan. Rune opened his eyes to the gray mist of early morning. His campfire had gone out. s.h.i.+vering, he pulled his knees to his chest. The movement awoke the sharp pain of his tailbone and the duller aches of his other bruises. He suppressed a moan.

Around him, he could hear other people stirring, somebody walking between sleepers, a horse whinnying, and somewhere nearby, the crackle of a fire. He sniffed the cold air, his mouth watering at the aroma of mutton cooking. As he sat up, a cloak fell off his shoulders. His own was still at the farm, so someone must have thrown this one over him. Who?

He looked around and saw Ketil sitting on his heels before a cheerful fire on the other side of the campsite. When he saw Rune, he held up a stick, and Rune could see a piece of meat on the end of it.

Carefully, mindful of every bruise, he rose. His mail s.h.i.+rt lay on the ground beside him. He glanced back at Ketil and caught a glimpse of the mail under his cloak. Rune pulled on his own, cinched it, then picked his way around sleeping men and cold fires to join Ketil, who grunted and handed him a second stick, a piece of meat skewered on its end.

Rune grunted back and hunkered down, letting the fire warm his aching limbs. As he watched the mutton sizzling in the flames, his stomach rumbled. Finally, unable to wait any longer, he ate it half-raw, burning his fingers and his tongue.

Ketil laughed and tossed him half a loaf of black bread, then walked away. Rune had just taken a huge bite when Ketil returned and laid something on the ground between them before settling back onto his haunches.

Rune's mouth fell open. "My sword," he said, and then, "My sword!" He gazed at Ketil, who gave him a lopsided grin, his face misshapen by his thrice-broken nose.

"Wolves'll get your bread."

Rune snapped his mouth shut, then opened it again. "Where did you find it?"

Ketil's grin disappeared. "Where do you think?"

On the mountain, near where Finn had died. Near where Rune had acted the fool, where he had failed to avenge Amma. His shoulders slumped.

He reached for the sword, examining the hilt, the blade. It seemed unharmed. He stood to sheathe it. As he did, he saw Ketil watching him. He thinks I don't deserve such a blade He thinks I don't deserve such a blade, Rune thought. He's right He's right.

All his pleasure at the sword's return vanished. He gave Ketil a quick thanks, then headed for the stables, where he could find Hairy-Hoof-and solitude.

He was currying the horse, having a quiet talk with her, when a horn sounded and a man's voice called from afar, urging people to attend the king.

Giving Hairy-Hoof a final slap, he hurried out of the stable and followed behind a man who was heading down the narrow lane between buildings. The path led to the campsite where Rune had slept-the king's hall, now that the dragon had destroyed his golden one.

Many others had already arrived. Rune took a place outside the ring of people, some standing, some sitting on logs or stools, a group of bond servants crouching on the ground. He recognized some of them: Elli, Gar's wife, held their baby to her breast, and near her, two little boys played a game in the dirt-Ottar's sons, their older cousin Gerd watching them. She was a plump, bossy girl whose braid could never tame her blond curls.

At the head of the circle, guarding the seat that had been made for the king, stood battle-scarred Dayraven, his armbands gleaming in the light.

Rune's fingers touched his sword hilt, and as they did, shame flooded through him. Had Dayraven heard that he'd lost his sword? That he'd failed against the dragon, not once but twice? Ketil was one of the king's guard now-would he have told the others?

He didn't know why it mattered or why he should care so much what Dayraven thought, especially since the warrior had no love for him-or for Amma. She hadn't liked Dayraven any more than he had her. Do you think he really believes I turn people's b.u.t.ter sour or make their love go awry? Do you think he really believes I turn people's b.u.t.ter sour or make their love go awry? he remembered her saying, her voice filled with scorn. She refused to understand what a good warrior Dayraven was. Early on, Rune had given up trying to explain it to her. Those were the kind of conversations he saved to have with Ketil. They weren't the only boys who hoped for a nod of recognition from Dayraven. Even now, Rune couldn't help but wish for the warrior's approval, despite the uncomfortable sensation it gave him of disloyalty to Amma. he remembered her saying, her voice filled with scorn. She refused to understand what a good warrior Dayraven was. Early on, Rune had given up trying to explain it to her. Those were the kind of conversations he saved to have with Ketil. They weren't the only boys who hoped for a nod of recognition from Dayraven. Even now, Rune couldn't help but wish for the warrior's approval, despite the uncomfortable sensation it gave him of disloyalty to Amma.

He moved back a step to take Dayraven's s.h.i.+ning armbands out of his line of sight. As he did, he realized someone was speaking to him: Fulla, Hemming's wife, who had lost all three of her sons to the Shylfings and now had only her husband left. Rune remembered when they'd brought her youngest son back. Rune had been in the hall with the other boys when the sound of thundering hooves brought them all running to the door, eager to see the returning troop. None of them had expected to see Hemming ride in with a young warrior before him on his horse, Gunnar's lifeless body slumped against his father's. People said Hemming and Fulla had both aged ten years on the day Gunnar died.

Now Fulla reached for Rune's arm, patting it as she looked at him. The creases etched into the skin around her eyes seemed to grow deeper as she whispered, "You saved her, you know, when your boat came to our sh.o.r.es."

The words caught Rune off guard.

"If it hadn't been for you, she would have..." She shook her head a little, then reached to trace her fingers around a bruise on his jaw that Rune hadn't realized he had. Her old-woman's touch, light as a cobweb, made tears spring to his eyes. It felt just like Amma's touch.

She caught his eyes again, and he could see how cloudy one of hers had grown. "You gave her a reason to live," she whispered.

As she turned back to her husband, Rune stared after her, blinking furiously. Fulla and Amma had been friends. He remembered the time Fulla had ridden all the way out to the farm to have Amma interpret a dream she'd had, a dream about Gunnar. Amma had chased Rune out of the hut so she and Fulla could talk.

He felt at his bruise, trying to recapture the sensation of Fulla's fingers on his skin, of Amma's, but his rough nails only sc.r.a.ped the skin.

"The king!" somebody called.

People turned, and Rune turned along with them to see what was happening. Those who were sitting rose, and Rune could see Od, a thin boy a little younger than he was, running to join in, shouting, "Hurry!" to someone behind him.

Just as Od got there, the king stepped into the circle, stopping to acknowledge the crowd as they bowed. Gar escorted him, standing tall, holding his linden spear erect, almost as if to accentuate the slump in the old king's shoulders, the weary plodding of his gait. Behind them came Thora, stiff and proud, her coiled braids gleaming on her head like a crown.

Rune watched the white-haired leader turn to face them, slowly sweeping the crowd with his eyes, stopping to rest on certain faces. As the king's gaze neared him, Rune lowered his head in shame. Twice now he had encountered the dragon, and twice he had been overcome by terror.

When he looked up, the king was staring directly at him, and he stiffened, feeling caught. Then the eyes moved on, and he took a shaky breath.

Finally, the king spoke, his voice cutting through the crowd's murmurs. "Finn is dead."

Rune heard gasps and wondered dully how anyone could not have known. It seemed an age since he had found Finn's body on the mountainside, half an age since Thora had cursed him.

"Now is not the time for mourning," the king said, and the voices quieted. "Now is the time for vengeance!" At the final word, someone-Ketil, Rune thought-clashed a sword on metal, and then a cheer rose through the crowd, followed by more clas.h.i.+ng of weapons.

"We will find the dragon and we will kill it!" the king cried.

Beside him, Hemming began the cheering this time. Rune wanted to join in, but his throat constricted and no sound came out.

The bard came forward, holding his rectangular harp. He held up a hand and the noise died. People quieted their movements, a few sitting or crouching on the ground, all of them watching him. For the s.p.a.ce of a breath, he glared at the crowd with his single eye, compelling them into a deeper silence. Then, with a quick movement, he pulled the harp into the crook of his arm and struck the strings as he began to chant: Sigmund by himself sought the h.o.a.rd guardian;Under stone he crept, that brave scion of princes,With Odin's blade grasped tight, the gleaming light of battle.The creature in its cave heard its doom draw near.

Rune rearranged his own blade, trying to keep it from poking him, and watched as the poet's fingers attacked his harp strings, accentuating his words. He closed his eyes and listened to the lay, imagining Sigmund creeping into the dragon's barrow, plunging his sword through the iron-hard scales, driving the fire-belching beast against the cave wall. He hardly heard as the bard sang of Sigmund's glory, of the praise heaped on him by men, and of the s.h.i.+pful of treasure he took from the dragon's h.o.a.rd. Instead, he kept thinking of the way Sigmund had stabbed through those scales, getting within a sword length of the dragon without cowering or running away. How had he done it?

"Courage and honor and praise followed Sigmund," the bard sang, and Rune winced, reminded of his own tumble down the mountainside.

As the song died away, he opened his eyes to the cheers. King Beowulf held up his hands to quiet the crowd. "Sigmund slew the dragon, but his sword was the work of Welund, smith of the G.o.ds. What sword do we have that could pierce dragon scales?"

Rune looked down at the hilt of his own sword and shook his head. Even if the sword had been Welund's work, it would take a warrior with strength and daring to wield it if it were to kill a dragon. Hemming agreed; Rune could hear him telling Fulla that they stood no chance of fighting the dragon that way.

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 h.o.a.rd, 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 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 s.h.i.+eld, 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. 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 s.h.i.+eld, 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 s.h.i.+fted 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 s.h.i.+eld in both hands. When he got to the king, he lowered himself on his good knee.

"Rise, Hrolf," the king said, taking the s.h.i.+eld 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 s.h.i.+eld!"

Rune's eyes widened, and he remembered the sound of the blacksmith hammering far into the night. A s.h.i.+eld 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 shus.h.i.+ng 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 h.o.a.rd." 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 flas.h.i.+ng 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 h.o.a.rd 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. 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 hus.h.i.+ng him.

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

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