The Coming of the Dragon (10 page)

Shakily, Rune started again, crawling this time, heading away from the cliff edge. The farther right he went, the better he felt. For some reason he couldn’t name, it seemed like the way to the dragon.

He smiled grimly. “Thought you’d send me over the cliff, did you? Not this time.” The mist swallowed his words, turning them pale and making them sound less hearty than he’d intended.

He rose to his feet, gripped his sword hilt, and stared upward. Was the fog beginning to thin up ahead? He blinked and stared again. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he could see the shapes of three monstrous boulders. Eagerly, he started toward them, and as he did, he found himself walking directly out of the mist, as if he were stepping out of the sea. When he looked down, his legs were still covered in the thick white air, but above his waist, it thinned into nothing.

He stepped forward, watching the fog dissipate around him, leaving him on an island above an ocean of cloud.

He squared his shoulders and increased his pace. As he did, thunder rumbled below him. He stopped to listen. The ground trembled, the rumbling resonating in the soles of his feet, in his legs, in his chest.

He knew that sound—he’d heard it before.

Drawing his sword from its sheath and heaving his shield into position, he dropped into a fighting stance and tried to steady his breath. This time, he would be ready.

Now came the smell, the acrid odor that dried his tongue and made his eyes water, his nose run. A hot wind roused the mist into swirling eddies.

Heart in his throat, sword in his hand, Rune scanned the gray air. Where was the dragon?

“Come on, show yourself!” he shouted, but his voice sounded as thin and shrill as a child’s.

The rumbling grew louder, the smell stronger. He wiped his eyes and squinted, searching for a sign.

Without warning, the dragon shot out of the mist below him, its monstrous bulk churning toward him as he turned, shield raised to protect his body, sword poised to strike.

As the dragon neared, Rune could see how low it was, maybe low enough to stab with his sword. His breath came in shallow gasps, and now he felt horror overtaking him.
“No!”
he cried out. “Vengeance!”

The word died in his throat as he staggered backward, but his anger buoyed him, keeping him from falling.

Then the dragon’s red eye flicked toward him. The creature reared up. As it did, Rune caught a glimpse of a white spot on its chest, a circle of darker, bronze scales surrounding it. In the split second it took him to raise his shield, a stream of fire spit forth from the monster’s jaws.

The wooden shield burst into flames. Rune dropped it and fell to his knees, his hands over his head, a silent cry of terror in his throat as the dragon screamed over him, its body as big as a longship, the heat from its scales scorching him, the wind whipping rocks and grit into his mouth, his nose, his ears, even his tightly shut eyes. He scrabbled over
the ground like a rat, half crawling, trying to flee the dragon’s flames, its hurricane roar. Suddenly, he found himself toppling over a rock, then rolling over and over, unable to check his fall, stones bruising his shoulders, his thighs, his head; trees and bushes scratching his limbs; his world a whirl of white-gray mist and pain.

EIGHT

THE SOUND OF BLEATING WOKE HIM. SLOWLY, HE OPENED
one eye. Light seemed to pierce his brainpan. He shut his eyes tight.

After a little while or a long time, he wasn’t sure which, he heard another
baa
.

Carefully, he opened his eyes again, squinting against the brightness. He was lying on his back. Far above him, the sky shone white-blue, a single feather of cloud floating across his view. When he turned his head to the right, a pair of eyes startled him. A large white goat balanced on a boulder, flicking its ears and watching him. He blinked—one of its eyes looked yellow, the other one blue. That couldn’t be right. He looked away.

He sat up slowly, every muscle a mass of pain, every bone a bruise, and tried to think. He was still on the
mountain, but how far he’d fallen, he didn’t know. The mist had lifted. The dragon—where was the dragon?

Surveying the ground for scorch marks revealed nothing; nor could he hear the telltale rumble of a dragon in flight.

Gingerly he stood, the rings of his mail coat clinking as they settled into place. His sheath was still strapped to his belt, but his sword was gone.

Rune gave a low cry and lowered his head to his hand. His shield burned, his sword gone, the dragon nowhere to be seen, and for the second time, he’d been no more than a coward. Worst of all, he hadn’t avenged Amma.

He searched the ground around him for the sword, then followed his trail of broken trees and disturbed bracken upward, looking for it, but the path petered out and the sword remained hidden. So did any sign of the dragon.

Below him, the goat sprang off its boulder and bounded down a path only it could see.

Aching and miserable, Rune followed it down the mountain.

He had almost made it to the bottom when he found the body. The smell of burned flesh made him gag. He forced away the memories of the bodies he had buried and then, cringing at what he feared to discover, edged toward the charred remains, more work of the dragon.

The corpse was too badly burned for him to recognize.
All he could tell was that it had been a man, a warrior wearing mail and a helmet, and that he had died faceup, his mouth open as if he had been screaming in defiance, his sword in his hand.

Rune dropped to his knees and looked at the sword hilt, its interlacing patterns surrounding a fire-red garnet. Finn’s sword.

“No!”
he cried, and pounded his fist into the earth.

Finn, the king’s shoulder companion, his dearest friend, his heir; Finn, who had taught Rune to wield a sword, who had patiently guided his hand on the hilt, who had always treated him fairly and sometimes even with kindness.

He thought of Wyn finding out her beloved father was dead. He thought of the king, whose eyes had filled with tears when his golden hall burned. Now his best warrior was gone, and the dragon was still alive.

They would be glad that Finn had died fighting. Already the warrior maidens would be winging their way here to escort him to an exalted seat in Valhalla. He would need his sword there.

Even if Rune had had the strength, he had no tools to dig a grave. Instead, he looked skyward and said the ritual words that would send Finn on his way. Later, perhaps the king would place a runestone here to mark Finn’s fight.

A few paces away, he saw a huge linden shield, its leather handgrips faceup, as if Finn had flung it away. He must have realized what Rune himself had been too stupid to see—fire burns wood, even wooden shields. He shook
his head. He had been so close to the creature. If only he had raised his sword instead of his shield, the dragon might be dead by now.

He laid the shield by Finn’s side.

As he did, something near the warrior’s head caught his attention, a piece of fire-blackened metal. The Thor’s hammer amulet Finn had worn around his neck, its leather thong burned to ashes. Rune reached for it and pulled his hand back in surprise—it was still warm.

He looked at it, thinking of Finn, then dropped it into the pouch he wore on his swordbelt. Wyn would want it.

The moment his feet finally hit flat ground, he heard the jingling of a bridle and the clopping of hooves. A rider was coming around the mountainside, whistling a complicated melody as he rode.

Rune relaxed his shoulders in relief—he’d know that sound anywhere. Ketil Flat-Nose.

As the young man rode into view, he pulled his horse to a halt, looked at Rune, and turned his tune into a long, low whistle. “By the hammer, what happened to you?”

Rune glanced at his bruised and bloody arms. He wondered if he looked as bad as he felt. “I—I fell,” he said.

“From the top of the mountain?” Ketil’s eyes widened with disbelief.

“Just about,” Rune said. He cringed inwardly. Since Ketil had been made one of the king’s hearth companions
last winter, the two years between them had seemed like much more, as if Ketil had become a man while Rune was still a boy. A boy who couldn’t even handle his own sword. “What are
you
doing here?”

“Dragon-hunting,” Ketil said, grinning and slapping his sword. Then his face turned somber. “Well, scouting, really. I was just at your farm. Did anyone—?”

Rune shook his head and looked at the ground.

“It’s a bad business,” Ketil said. “Yours wasn’t the only burned farm I found.”

“I know.” It was far worse than Ketil realized, but suddenly Rune found it hard to find words for what he needed to say.

“The king sent out scouts; we’re supposed to see who survived and to tell able-bodied men to join him. I saw Sigurd; he’s on his way to the king right now.”

Rune looked down, gathering his breath. “Ketil,” he said, more loudly than he meant to. He looked steadily up at his friend, who stared back at him in surprise. “Ketil,” he said again, his voice dropping low. “I found Finn.”

“Found?” Ketil gave him a puzzled look. “Oh.” He let out his breath as the realization hit him. “Oh, not Finn.” He closed his eyes briefly. “Where?”

Rune gestured behind him. “Up the mountain. Four or five furlongs. He died well.”

“The dragon?”

Rune nodded.

Ketil stared up the mountain. “He was the best of us. Next to the king, he was the very best.”

They stood for a moment in silence before Rune said, “I saw the dragon.”

“I heard—the other morning when you came running into the stronghold.”

“No, I mean today.”

Ketil’s eyes widened again, and again Rune got the impression the older youth didn’t believe him.

“Up on the mountain. That’s why I fell,” he added. He hung his head. “I lost my shield—and my sword.”

Ketil kept staring at him. Finally, he spoke. “If you saw the dragon, why aren’t you burned?”

“I
am
, I mean, my shield is. I don’t think it was trying to kill me.” He hung his head as shame filled him. “I don’t think it saw me as a threat.”

“What were you doing up there?”

“Trying to kill it.” Rune caught Ketil’s eye again. “To avenge Amma.”

Ketil looked him up and down, as if he were a seasoned warrior judging an errant boy, the way Finn had looked the time he took away Rune’s sword.

“I’ll see to Finn,” Ketil said in a different voice, a dismissive one. “There was a horse grazing around the bend. Yours?”

Rune nodded.

Ketil watched him for a moment longer, as if deciding something. “You need to go to the king, you know. He
wants all able-bodied men.” Then he kicked his horse’s sides and urged it up the mountain.

Able-bodied? Men?
Rune snorted in disgust.

Hairy-Hoof’s neck felt warm as Rune leaned his head into it. She nickered at him, reaching around to nuzzle for a treat, but he had nothing to give her. “Sorry, girl,” he said, and then pulled himself onto her back.
“Ow.”
His tailbone was as bruised as the rest of him. If it hurt this much to sit, how would he ever ride?

By lying flat on his stomach, it turned out. It was the only way he could stay on. He tried various other positions first, but none of them worked, and he thought he would have to make his way on foot to the king’s hall again. Then, in defeat, he collapsed forward, hugging the horse’s neck, and found that the pain wasn’t as bad that way. When he urged Hairy-Hoof forward, she tossed her head as if to ask him why he was being a fool, but finally she began to trot.

As Rune flopped up and down on the horse’s back, his mail jingling, he cringed at the thought of somebody seeing him this way, especially Ketil or one of the other warriors. Or worse, Wyn. She might not say anything, but she could convey deadly scorn with the simplest glance. But now … he remembered the Thor’s hammer amulet and the reason he was carrying it. Wyn would have other things to think about than him.

The ride seemed endless, and several times Rune sat up, enduring the pain so he could get a better sense of
direction. It was fully dark by the time he came to the path that led to the stronghold. As he came out of the trees, he gasped.

Fires, everywhere. Where was the king? Heart in his throat, Rune urged Hairy-Hoof into a gallop, ignoring his aching tailbone.

The closer he got, the more flames he saw, as if the dragon had scorched the entire settlement—houses, stables,
everything
. Now, closer by, he saw light—a torch?

“Halt!” A man’s voice came hurtling out of the darkness.

Rune reined Hairy-Hoof in, breathing hard and blinking as a man as tall and thin as a spear stepped forward, holding a torch high, his sword unsheathed.

“Show yourself!” the man commanded.

“Gar?”

“Who’s there?” It was definitely Gar’s voice.

“It’s me, Rune. Ketil said we were supposed to—”

“All right, all right, go on.”

“But, Gar, what’s happening? Did the dragon—”

Again Gar cut him off. “I’m a guard, not a messenger.” He motioned impatiently with his torch. “Hurry up.”