The Coming of the Dragon (28 page)

The bard had explained the ceremony, which was simple enough. Or would be if his mind would work, if he didn’t keep blanking in terror.

He’d sacrificed a goat to Thor at dawn. Hadn’t he? Yes, he knew he had. He remembered riding Hairy-Hoof to the Feasting Field. The bard had been there.

Then he’d come back, washed the blood off, and eaten something—bread, yes, and some kind of meat, but he couldn’t remember what.

Ketil had come looking for him and hurried him to Thora’s house, where Wyn and Gerd were still working on his clothes.

Ketil flopped down on the three-legged stool in the corner, folded his arms behind his head, stretched out his legs, and watched.

Rune reached up to scratch at an itch.

“Don’t move!” Gerd said, but it was too late—his shirt made a tearing sound as a seam ripped open. “Now look what you’ve done.”

Ketil laughed.

“Sorry,” Rune mumbled. He didn’t see why the clothes were so important; it was the crown that mattered. The crown and the not insignificant fact that the warriors trusted him. But the bard disagreed. So did Thora. On the matter of clothes, Rune had been overruled.

Gerd was growing frantic. “Look at what he did!” she wailed, and Wyn crossed behind Rune to examine something that he strained over his shoulder to see. “Turn back around,” Gerd snapped, and when he did, Ketil grinned at him.

“You could just sew him into them for the day,” Ketil said.

“Sew him into his clothes?” Gerd was aghast.

“You’re not helping, Ketil,” Wyn said.

“No, I’m serious,” Ketil said, sitting up. Rune watched his expression change as his joke transformed into a suggestion.

“Sew him into his coronation clothes?” Gerd said again, but this time she giggled.

“He
will
be wearing a cloak—a long one,” Wyn said, considering. “No mail, but his swordbelt would help hold the tunic together.”

“It might look funny,” Gerd said.

“No, Gerd,” Ketil said, leaning back again. “It
won’t
look funny; it will look fine and we’ll be the only ones who know.”

“All right,” Wyn said. “Let’s try it. Hold this for me, Gerd.”

“Watch out for that bit there,” Ketil said.

“It’s a sleeve, Ketil, not ‘that bit,’ ” Gerd said.

Rune looked up. “Where’s Hild?”

“With my mother in the guest quarters,” Wyn told him.

“What about the Shylfings? Who’s escorting them?”

Ketil’s eyes widened. Without a word, he grabbed his cloak and rushed from the room.

They watched him go, Wyn shaking her head in amusement. Then she stepped back to look at Rune appraisingly. When she pointed at a seam, Gerd took her needle to it.

“That’s too tight,” Rune said.

“Don’t worry, it’s just for today,” Gerd told him. She finished the seam and attacked something else he couldn’t see. “Stop wiggling.”

Rune sighed. They were going to sew him in so tightly he would barely be able to breathe.

Finally, Wyn said, “Finished.”

“Are you sure?” Gerd asked.

“Look at him,” Wyn said. The two of them walked all the way around him, narrowing their eyes as they evaluated the tunic.

“I’m sure,” Wyn said. She put down her needle and thread, then stepped up to Rune, tucked her hand into his elbow, and led him out the door.

“This really is too tight,” Rune said as they made their way down the narrow lane. It was hard to move his torso, and he had to keep his breathing shallow, which made his lungs yearn for a deep breath of air. When he finally took one, he could hear little ripping sounds in the seams.

Wyn rolled her eyes. “You’ll survive.”

As they approached the king’s house, Rune heard a sound—cawing?—and thought he saw something dark flitting through the air. He turned to look, but Wyn pulled him forward. “I know Ketil’s supposed to arm you,” she said, “but just this once, I’ll do it.”

As they crossed the threshold, he said, “You and Ketil—”

She smiled at him. Her face looked so bright that he wondered how he could ever have not known where her heart lay.

Then she grew serious. “Did you know that his mother and my parents made the agreement the night the dragon attacked?”

He shook his head.

“We never had a chance to get King Beowulf’s
permission.” She looked away for a moment, and Rune knew she must be thinking of her father.

“Oh, Rune, you’ll be such a good king,” she said.

It was his turn to look away, but she threw her arms around his neck. “You already are,” she whispered into his ear.

He started to hug her back, but she said, “Don’t you dare! You’ll ruin your clothes!” and stepped across the room to the bed.

Rune followed her with his eyes and saw the magnificent cloak of finely wrought wool.

Wyn held it up. It was longer than an ordinary cloak, a ceremonial mantle fit for royalty. “Fulla has been working on it ever since King Beowulf’s funeral. Look.” She showed him the border with its exquisite interlacing pattern embroidered in gold thread.

He peered at it more closely. “Are those hammers? For Thor?”

She nodded. “And look.” She pointed at a sinuous dragon woven into the pattern. “You are the dragon-slayer, after all,” she said. “Put your sword on.”

He reached for the weapon. He’d worn it, but he hadn’t used it since the dragon fight, and it came as a surprise that the hilt fit his hand much more easily than it had before. It must be the glove, he thought.

He buckled on the belt and adjusted the sheath. He felt Wyn’s eyes on him, and he looked at her. Did she know the sword’s history?

He took a deep breath, cringing at the sound of ripping seams, and slid the blade into the sheath.

Without speaking, she moved behind him to fasten King Beowulf’s torque around his neck. Then she gathered up his hair and tied it neatly back, her fingers touching his skin. There was a time, he realized, when her touch would have sent a shiver tingling through him. Today, it felt warm, the touch of a friend he could always count on.

Satisfied with the torque and his hair, Wyn settled the cloak over his shoulders, standing on tiptoe to reach, and arranged it around him. It fell all the way to his feet.

“Now,” she said, “I know you already have a clasp for your cloak, but I thought you might like this one.” She reached into the folds of her gown and held out her hand. On her palm lay a gold brooch. Inside it, worked in blue cloisonné, was a falcon, wings spread.

Rune glanced at the tapestry Amma had woven, with its image of Freyja’s falcon-skin cloak; when he’d brought it from the farm, he’d hung it on the wall opposite the bed. He looked back at the brooch. It was the same falcon pattern.

“Amma gave it to me years ago,” Wyn said.

“I can’t take it—it’s yours.”

“Borrow it, then. You need something of hers with you for the coronation.” She reached up and pinned it to his shoulder to hold the cloak together. Then she stepped back to look him over. “Turn,” she said, and he did, the cloak swirling around his legs.

“You’ll do,” she said, smiling. “Now, stay here and I’ll go find out if it’s time.”

As she slipped out the door, Rune wanted to sit down—he couldn’t remember the last time he had done so—but was afraid he might ruin something. Instead, he reached up to touch the brooch. As his fingers met the patterned gold, a memory came to him, one he didn’t know he had, a remembrance of a time long ago, when he must have been very young. He’d sat on Amma’s lap, running his fingers over this very brooch, while she crooned a song to him. It wouldn’t have been a lullaby; that wasn’t her way. Instead, it would have been a lay of heroes and giants and gods, of kings of old and feuds between tribes. He closed his eyes, remembering the feel of her chest rumbling as he leaned into it, the warmth of her body, the comforting scent of smoke and sweat and herbs. He remembered the way she stirred a pot with one hand, encircling him with her other arm. When had she stopped wearing the brooch? He didn’t know. What he did know was that always she had been there for him. And that always she had been preparing him to be king. He’d just never realized it before.

Slowly, his nervousness calmed.

Now, as he stood before the dais, his trepidation returned. His tongue was so dry that he’d never be able to say the words the bard had taught him, and he felt sick to his stomach. He reached up to tug at the torque around his neck, trying to settle it more comfortably against his skin,
and watched the blur of brown cloaks as people filed into the hall. Not just those who lived in the stronghold, but people from all over the kingdom had made the journey to see their new king crowned—and to join the feasting that would follow.

The fresh scent of new lumber had given way to the odor of wet fur and unwashed bodies as more people crowded inside. Babies cried and children shrieked as they chased each other around the mead benches.

He closed his eyes, trying to remember the words he was supposed to say, but they were gone. He’d have to ask the bard again. Where was he?

Rune saw him to his right, just coming in the side door.

Then the drumming started. It was too late. The ceremony had begun. Rune felt people falling into place, Thora stepping to his left side, Ketil to his right, Gar and Hemming at either end of the dais, Brokk standing at attention by the fire, holding shield and spear, Horsa just behind him.

The thundering of the drums grew louder, calling to the Hammer-Wielder, and the crowd stilled, turning to face front.

Desperate, Rune fought to find the words. What was he going to do? Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Shylfings, Hild standing amid the warriors. Her black hair rippled like water down her back, and she wore a deep red gown of some rich-looking material. Gerd had said she wasn’t pretty, Rune remembered. She’d been right—Hild
wasn’t pretty. She was beautiful, like a queen from the legends. He stared at her face, letting his eyes linger on her dark brows, her straight nose, her slightly parted lips. Then she moved her head, and Rune realized she was looking directly at him. He dropped his eyes, wincing at the thought of forgetting the words while she was watching.

He willed himself to relax, silently calling on Amma, but it didn’t help. The bard was coming toward him, the golden circlet in his hands. Closer he came, and closer still. A wave of dizziness hit him and Rune swayed.

The bard stopped directly in front of him, and suddenly the drumming ceased. In the silence, the bard’s words were clear and loud.

And as Rune heard them, his response came flooding back. Weak-kneed with relief, he spoke the required phrases, his voice ringing through the hall.

The bard lifted the circlet, and Rune began to lower his head.

“Stop!” A commanding voice spoke from the back of the hall. The crowd turned. A figure in a torn and dirty tunic, metal bands shining on his bare arms, eyes glinting behind his masked helmet, strode forward.

“Dayraven!” a glad voice cried out.

Ottar stepped forward to slap the warrior on the back. “We thought you were dead!”

A ripple of voices carried throughout the hall. “You’re just in time for the ceremony,” someone called out.

“There will be no ceremony,” Dayraven snarled.

The hall grew silent.

“That boy, that cursed whelp.” He pointed at Rune and looked around at the crowd. “He tried to kill King Beowulf, tried to push him over a cliff. I was there; I saw it with my own eyes.”

Rune felt the color drain from his face.

“We didn’t kill him when we should have long ago. The gods are still waiting for their sacrifice.” Dayraven looked from one person to another.

No one spoke.

“I will be your next king,” he said.

Five fully armed warriors stepped out of the crowd.

“Tie his hands,” Dayraven barked. “Take the cursed wretch away.”

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWO THINGS HAPPENED IN QUICK SUCCESSION. THE BARD
whispered, “Keep going!” and reached up to set the circlet on Rune’s head. As he did, Ketil stepped forward, drawing his sword from its sheath.

“I was there, too,” Ketil called out to the crowd. “I heard King Beowulf name Rune his heir. I saw Rune save the king’s life. And I saw Dayraven running from the dragon when his ring-giver needed help.”

Sword extended, Ketil surveyed the crowd. Rune watched him, wide-eyed, the circlet slipping over his ear. As he reached up to straighten it, he saw one of Dayraven’s men notching an arrow.

“Ketil!” Rune screamed, throwing himself forward, knocking his friend to the floor. He felt the seams of his
tunic split open just before white-hot pain seared through his arm. Suddenly, the hall was in motion, men shouting, women screaming, people running, swords clashing.

The moment Rune rolled off him, Ketil was up, flying into the melee. Rune unsheathed his sword, ignoring the old pain of his burned hand, the new wound in his shield arm. He looked for the Shylfings—were they part of this?—but he couldn’t see them. The bard stood directly before him. “We have to get people out of here. The side door,” Rune said. “Are there more men out there?”

The bard gave him a fast nod, then narrowed his single eye as he looked at Rune’s left arm. Rune glanced down at the blood seeping through his ripped sleeve. The arrow wound burned like dragonflame.