The Coming of the Dragon (23 page)

He gave in, giving Ketil a wry smile. “Can’t have her angry with you, I suppose.”

“Not yet, anyway.” Ketil moved behind him to fasten the torque around Rune’s neck.

The metal was cold against his skin, and the catch pulled at his hair. Awkwardly, his bandaged hand slowing
him, Rune retied the thong that held it back. Twist his neck as he would, he couldn’t make the torque feel more comfortable.

“It’s time,” Ketil said. He walked to the door and held it open, looking back at Rune.

Rune stared through the open doorway. How could he possibly walk through it? It seemed to him that before the pyre was lit, Beowulf was still king. But once his body was gone, turned to ashes …

With his left hand, he took hold of the pendant hanging below the torque, running his fingers over the runic inscription:
Wiglaf
, it read. “Amma,” he pleaded silently. He didn’t know what he was asking for—except for nothing to be the way it was now, for the dragon never to have woken.

A sudden flash of warmth flooded his gut, and he shut his eyes to see an image of Amma looking into his face. “Amma,” he whispered again, this time in thanks, not supplication.

He took a deep breath and straightened his spine. Then, throwing his cloak over his shoulders, he crossed the threshold.

TWENTY-THREE

THE PYRE HAD ALREADY BEEN BUILT BY THE TIME RUNE
and Ketil rode up to the Feasting Field. Hung with shields and helmets, drinking cups and bowls that Gar had collected from the dragon’s hoard, the wooden bier stood just far enough from Thor’s Oak that the flames wouldn’t ignite the tree branches or threaten the Thor effigy with its red-painted beard. Oil-soaked logs wound round with holly crisscrossed the bottom. On top lay the king’s body, richly dressed, his hands on the hilt of his broken sword, his wooden shield at his feet.

People milled around the pyre. Some wept openly, some stared despairingly at the king’s body. Somewhere a woman wailed, her cry resounding in the twilight. A baby joined her wailing, and then another baby began to scream, as if giving voice to the Geatish nation.

Rune and Ketil dismounted and handed their reins to Ottar’s son Oski, who bowed to them both, his eyes wide with admiration. When Rune thanked him, the boy blushed, unable to speak.

The bard raised a hand from the far side of the crowd, signaling Rune to the pyre.

Rune glanced at Ketil. The older youth gave Rune the smallest of nods, then moved to stay by his shoulder as they wove through the crowd.

A woman touched Rune’s arm. “Dragon-slayer,” she said, and dropped into a curtsy.

Rune winced and kept walking. Hrolf, the blacksmith, saw him and turned to bow.

Rune looked at Ketil, his eyes bleak.

“You can do this,” Ketil said, his voice low enough that only Rune could hear.

The bard beckoned as they approached, hurrying Rune along. “You’ll need to call everyone together before you light the pyre,” he said. “They need to hear their lord’s voice.”

Rune resisted the urge to tell the bard he wasn’t anybody’s lord. “What am I supposed to say?”

“You’ll know.” The bard glanced around the crowd, then at Thora, who stood beside the pyre in a cloak of fine wool, her hair bound up in dark bands. She lowered her head to signal that she was ready. At each corner of the pyre, a warrior stood, spear in hand: Thialfi, Brokk, Ottar, Gar. As the bard looked at them, they stood at attention, squaring their shoulders.

“Now,” the bard said.

Ketil shot Rune a look of encouragement.

Rune drew in his breath. “People of the Geats,” he said.

Fulla, standing nearby, turned, and so did Gerd. They shushed those beside them, but the rest of the crowd kept up their weeping and their quiet talk.

“Louder,” the bard said.

“People of the Geats!” Rune called out. This time the crowd’s noise dropped, and they turned to him.

“Our ring-giver is dead, slain by the dragon,” Rune said, his voice growing stronger as he spoke. “We ask the Thunderer to guard his spirit.”

Voices murmured in agreement.

“Go on,” the bard whispered, nudging Rune.

“The dragon will harry us no more—it died at the hands of our lord.” He looked up at the king. “We light this pyre to send Beowulf, son of Ecgtheow, to feast with his fathers.”

He knew he should say something else, but the bard was wrong—he didn’t know what. Fumbling for words, thinking of the way the king had always treated him, he added, “Of the kings of this world, he was the mildest of men, the most gentle, the kindest to his people, and …” He paused, remembering the king standing outside the dragon’s barrow, telling his warriors the fight was his alone. He thought of the way the king had seemed to grow in stature, how he had flung off the cloak of old age and taken on the mantle of a hero. He recalled the king’s words to the circle of
warriors.
For glory and for my kingdom
, he had said. Finally, a phrase came to him: “And the most eager for fame.”

The bard grimaced, shaking his head. “That will have to do,” he said as a boy handed him a flaming torch. “Here.” He gave it to Rune, who held it high.

Then, in the half-light before the fall of dark, he lowered the torch to the oil-soaked logs. For a moment, nothing happened. Then the first log caught, and rivulets of fire raced the length of it, igniting the wood above it.

Smoke rose, swirling skyward. Flames lapped at the logs, then climbed the pyre, embracing the dark holly leaves woven into them, making the berries sizzle and pop. The pyre blazed up, committing the king to the flames.

Thora stepped forward, her proud head held high. Eyes unseeing, she began the song of mourning, her voice a keening wail.

As her song beseeched the gods, Rune stared into the red-gold flames, seeing in them an image of Finn and the king standing shoulder to shoulder, their swords drawn. He saw Amma’s face and Hwala’s. The words of Thora’s lament washed over him, and now other voices joined hers, crying out in grief. In their wordless sorrow, Rune caught echoes of the trouble to come, and in the flames he saw the torches of Shylfing raiders as they swept onto Geatish shores to plunder the land and enslave the people, seeking vengeance for wrongs long past, finding a nation weakened by the loss of its king.

Thora’s voice rose higher than the others, carrying with
it the anguish of a woman who has lost not only her king, but her husband as well. Rune glanced at Elli, her baby drooling on her shoulder, warm in his wool cap, unmindful of the future, while his mother’s face contorted with grief. Beyond Elli, Fulla stood with Hemming. The old warrior’s body convulsed as he sobbed, and Fulla reached out to encircle him with her arms. It wasn’t just the king they mourned tonight, Rune thought, but their sons as well, all three of them sacrificed to Shylfing spears. Never while they lived would their sorrow cease.

He scanned the crowd, firelight playing on faces bright with tears: Gerd, her blond curls illuminated by the flames, leaning back against her mother; Hrolf standing with his wife, bouncing his daughter in his arms to comfort her. Their little boy stood between them, gazing up at the tears making flesh-colored tracks on his father’s soot-blackened face.

No
, Rune told himself.
We can’t let the Shylfings attack
. These people didn’t deserve to be enslaved, to die. He didn’t think he could bear the anguish of another widow, the loneliness of another orphan.
Why should we Geats cower in fear, waiting for the enemy to appear on the horizon?

The fire snapped and a shower of sparks lit the night sky. As they wafted earthward, Rune stood taller. He wouldn’t let the Shylfings overtake them. How, he didn’t know. His bandaged hand strayed to his sword hilt, but he snatched his fingers away—the lightest touch brought searing pain.

The feud with the Shylfings—Amma had taught him the poem about its beginnings, all those long years ago in the days of King Hygelac. Hygelac’s son had carried on the fight after him and had been killed because of it. Three generations after the feud started, King Beowulf still nursed the desire for vengeance in his heart, Amma had said. But who now, besides the bard, even remembered the feud’s origins?
We have no argument with the Shylfings
, Rune thought.

He looked back at the pyre as the flames climbed higher. They licked at the king’s body and then enveloped it, swallowing it like a greedy spirit, melting the flesh and sending greasy black smoke spiraling upward into the night. The wind sent a shower of ashes over the crowd, and Rune felt them settling in his hair, on his shoulders, his cheeks—the last earthly remnants of the king.

The tears he’d thought were spent coursed down his face. The king was truly gone.

When the pyre burned to embers, harp strings sounded in the night. The bard stepped forward, his face reddened by the glowing coals. “Listen!” he called out, and the crowd shuffled toward him, raising their heads.

“We have heard of the deeds of our king in days gone by, the exploits of our mighty leader,” the bard chanted, keeping the beat with his harp strings.

People gathered round, and on the other side of Thor’s Oak from the pyre, someone kindled a bonfire, its flames
friendly and comforting after the ravenous blaze that had consumed the king.

A hand on his shoulder made Rune look up to see the blacksmith gesturing toward the ground with his head—he’d hefted a log to serve as a stool. Rune sank gratefully onto it and turned his attention back to the bard’s words.

A rustle of skirts made Rune turn to see Wyn crouching beside him, holding a goblet. He was relieved to see that it wasn’t the ceremonial drinking horn but an ordinary cup.

“I thought you might be thirsty,” she said.

He took it, thanking her, and drank the rich mead. “I was thinking of your father,” he whispered as he handed the cup back. “Next to the king, he was the best of men.”

She lowered her head. Rune could barely hear her words. “Someone will have to tell my brothers when they come home.” She took a shuddering breath, then looked back up, her eyes fierce with the tears she held at bay.

He touched her hand with his good one. “I was the one who found him. I’ll tell them, if you want me to.”

She hesitated, then nodded and slipped back into the
crowd. As she did, he wondered if the task should fall to Ketil, not him. Ketil would be a part of their family now. He’d been standing beside Rune earlier. Where had he gone?

The bard struck the wooden side of his harp and made a guttural sound. Rune turned his attention back to the story just as the monster Grendel, eyes aflame, grabbed one of Beowulf’s warriors who lay asleep in the mead hall and gorged on the body, eating it all, even the hands and feet.

Everyone knew the tale, but the telling of it still elicited gasps. Skyn and Skoll had loved this part of the story, Rune remembered. As boys, they had played it often enough, fighting over who got to be King Beowulf and tear Grendel’s arm off. They always made Rune be Hondshio, the warrior Grendel ate. The game had been far from gentle, especially for Hondshio. He smiled wryly, shaking his head at the memory.

The bard skipped over the feasting scenes, the celebration in Hrothgar’s mead hall, and went directly to Beowulf’s battle with Grendel’s mother, his daylong plunge to the depths of her mountain lake, the failure of his sword.

Rune thought of the Nailer, snapped in two when the king had swung it double-handed onto the dragon’s skull. Swords had been of little use to King Beowulf in his battles, Rune realized; his hand had always been too strong, no matter how hard the blade.

On and on the chanting went, each of the king’s
exploits turned to song. Rune’s burned hand began to throb, and he held it protectively to his chest. Now that his part in the ceremony was finished, weariness crept over him, making his limbs and eyelids heavy. He blinked, then blinked again, finally allowing his eyes to close, his head to droop. Memories swam like dreams as images of his lord’s final acts played through his mind: how he had stood fearless and alone before the hoard guardian, warding off the dragon’s fiery blasts with his iron shield. The events shaped themselves into words, as if the king’s final battle were already a song:
The fierce fire-dragon seized him by the neck—blood gushed forth. Then I have heard, in the king’s hour of need, the spirit rose up in the heart of his kinsman Wiglaf, son of Weohstan
.

Rune blinked awake, confused. The events
were
a song; the bard was singing them. As Rune looked up, firelight caught the gleaming harp strings, and the bard looked directly at him.