The Coming of the Dragon (6 page)

Before Rune was allowed to leave, the king questioned him. But first he was taken to a bench in a nearby house, where a bond servant brought him water and bread and a wedge of salty cheese to sink his teeth into. In his exhaustion, he found himself saying more than he wanted to, admitting not only that he’d been chasing Ollie, but also that he had been on the crag at half-light, when no man should be there.

“That was courageous,” the king said.

“Foolhardy, more like,” said a fair-haired man with a mail coat and sword. Finn, chief of the king’s hearth companions, who drilled Rune and the other boys in warcraft during the long winter months when farmwork ceased. In Geatland, every warrior became a farmer at harvest’s height, and when enemy spears glinted on the horizon, every farmer a warrior.

The king turned to Finn. “And was I foolhardy when, as a youth, I fought nine sea monsters all at the same time?”

“Well, no, my king.”

“Rather, say yes, Finn,” the king said, “for foolhardy I certainly was. But had I not been, how would I have learned what I needed to know to fight the sea wolf, Grendel’s mother? And had young Rune not been on the crag at twilight, how would he be able to tell us about the dragon?”

Finn bowed his head in acquiescence, a half-smile playing on his lips. Rune saw the look he flashed at the king and wondered if the two men had had this conversation before.

Both men glanced into the corner, and Rune realized a third man sat in the shadows. The bard. Rune shuddered. The man might have been the kingdom’s knowledge-keeper, honored for his wisdom and the vast wordhoard stored in his memory, but he made Rune nervous even when he wasn’t being watched by the man’s single eye; the other was gone, leaving a dark hole in his face. The bard’s neatly clipped beard and rich clothes somehow made the missing eye seem worse, as if it could
see
you. And worst of all, he said nothing, just stared at Rune and stroked his beard with his thumb.

The king turned back to Rune. “We were asleep when the dragon fired the hall. We shouldn’t have been, but we were asleep.” He closed his eyes briefly, and Rune was reminded of his great age, some eighty winters or more, Amma said. “I didn’t yet understand the slave’s message. Now I do.”

Rune looked at him, but the king didn’t explain, only shook his head. The stranger he had seen by the crag was a slave?

Finn took over. “We didn’t see the dragon up close the way you did, Rune.”

Rune’s mouth fell open. He closed it quickly and swallowed his bread. Now the king would know the depth of
his cowardice, how he had lain groveling on the rocks, weeping with terror and thinking he was dead. He hadn’t seen the dragon any closer than the king had.

He felt the king watching him, and heat rose to his face. He lowered his gaze to the wooden table before him. In it, a knothole patterned like a great eye stared at him, accusing.

“Not many have survived being so close to a dragon,” the king said. “Even Sigmund, the great dragon-slayer—what is it they say about his breeches, Finn?”

“Less dry than a fish’s cloak, or so I’ve heard.”

Their joke made Rune feel even worse. He might not have pissed himself, but what did it matter? Everyone knew what a coward he was, but even Skyn and Skoll, who saw it every day, would have been impressed by the new level of cowardice he had shown up there on the crag. “I—I didn’t see much, my lord,” he said.

“Of course you didn’t,” Finn said. “Only the greatest of heroes could simply stand by and watch a dragon when it was that near.”

In the corner, the bard made a noise. Maybe he was just clearing his throat, but it sounded like derision. Rune saw the king glance at him before he added to Finn’s words.

“There’s something, it’s told,” he said, “that freezes a man’s blood to its marrow when a dragon’s overhead. The old tales say even seasoned warriors aren’t spared, that they’re filled with terror.”

It was as if the king and Finn had seen him writhing in
horror, thinking he was dying, as the dragon passed over him. He knew they were trying to make him feel better, but it wasn’t working. Both men knew what a coward he was. So did the bard. Everybody knew.

But he had come here for a reason: to tell the king about the dragon. He might have been too late to warn the king and to save the golden hall, but he could tell him everything that had happened. He owed the king the truth, at the very least.

Rune took a deep breath, then looked up to meet the king’s eyes.

FOUR

RUNE JERKED AWAKE. HE HADN’T MEANT TO FALL ASLEEP.
He’d only closed his eyes to convince Finn’s wife, Thora, that he would get the rest she insisted on before he started for home. How late was it? Light filtered through chinks in the wall, telling him that at least he hadn’t slept the whole day through. All of his muscles still throbbed from last night’s journey, but he ignored them and leapt from the pallet. He had to get home as fast as he could. The dragon was still out there. He had to warn Amma, even if he’d been too late to save the king’s hall.

The king. As he pulled on his shoes, he remembered how gentle King Beowulf had been as Rune had laid bare his cowardice in the face of the dragon. He groaned in embarrassment. If the king had been harsher, less understanding, it might have been easier. It had been a long time
since the king was Rune’s age—what did he know of the needs of a half-boy, half-man like him? King Beowulf might have been misunderstood as a boy, long thought to be without promise—this was one of Amma’s favorite stories about him, one she’d told countless times as she sat working her whalebone weaving sword through the threads on her loom—but he’d proven himself so thoroughly a hero that the people who doubted him had become laughing-stocks.

“What you have seen is of great value to me,” the king had said to Rune, and Rune had looked away. What he had seen was the ground beneath him and the insides of his eyelids—the vision of a coward. Of what value was that to anybody?

He stood, eased the door open just enough to see that no one was in the courtyard, then slipped through.

“Rune!” The voice came from behind him.

He stopped. Thora couldn’t make him stay, could she? What right did she have? He had to leave; he had to get to the farm. Gathering his arguments, he turned.

A girl stood watching him. Wyn.

“I—I thought you were your mother,” he stammered, feeling his neck grow warm. He had known Wyn for years; she was one of the people who gathered in the king’s hall in the winters when her father led the weapons training. And for years, he’d blushed like a girl and stumbled over his words whenever she was near. Like the last time he’d spoken to her—the memory of the way he’d reddened and
stuttered made him cringe. Skyn and Skoll had seen it, and they’d hooted at him, right in front of Wyn. Worst of all, he’d seen her hide a smile behind her hand. He hoped she didn’t remember any of it, but, of course, she must. How could anyone have forgotten?

“Are you leaving?” she asked, swinging her long yellow braid behind her back.

“I
have
to. I have to warn Amma—” he started, but she held up her hand to stop him.

“Did anybody tell you about the horse?”

He looked at her, confused, willing the heat in his face and neck to cool.

“I didn’t think so. Come on.” She turned to go, then looked back to where Rune still stood, watching her. “Hurry, before my mother sees you.”

That was all he needed to hear. As he caught up, she said, “There’s a horse for you—from your farm.”

Rune raised his eyebrows. There was only one horse on the farm. What could it possibly be doing here?

Before he could ask, she silenced him with a finger to her lips. He followed her gaze and saw a woman with a distaff tucked under her arm, standing with her back to them. Thora, Wyn’s mother.

Wyn pulled him into a narrow lane and hurried down it. “We’ll take the long way. My mother means well, but I knew you’d want to get home,” she whispered.

The low wooden buildings they passed surrounded the still-smoking hall. As Rune gazed around him, he realized
that despite how close all the structures were to each other, only the king’s magnificent mead hall had burned. The knowledge chilled him: the dragon wasn’t some mindless monster. It had known what it was doing.

He pictured the inside of the hall, the king’s raised dais; the images of gods and giants and monsters painted on the wooden walls and carved into the massive beams that held up the roof; the bright banners swaying high overhead; the long tables lining the fire pit, where men sat telling stories or boasting over their mead; the benches on which warriors often slept at night, especially those who had drunk too heavily or who had early-morning guard duty. Had any of them been there last night?

He sucked in his breath. “Wyn?”

He felt her looking at him, but he kept his eyes on the hall, trying not to get flustered. “Did anyone—” He took a breath and started again. “Was anyone hurt last night?”

A brief glance at her face revealed the truth. She turned away, but not before Rune saw the tears rising to her eyes. He braced himself for the answer.

“Five of the king’s hearth companions died.” Her voice was steady, but Rune could see her jaw clenching. “My uncle Brand was one of them.” This time she couldn’t hide the tears in her voice. She swallowed hard and then said, almost as if she were chanting a lay, “Modi, Thorgrim, Ragnar, Beorc the Red.”

Rune caught his breath. Brand and Ragnar? Besides Finn and Dayraven, they were two of the kingdom’s best
warriors. The others were almost as good, especially Thorgrim, who had once single-handedly held off three Shylfing raiders before reinforcements arrived. Rune pictured good-natured Beorc the Red sitting at the mead bench, roaring with laughter at one of his own jokes. He remembered the time he’d seen Modi, a quiet man with a deadly sword, leading a troop of spearmen back from a winter patrol. The respectful way the men had watched Modi had impressed Rune as much as the look of Modi’s boar-crested helmet with its fearsome face mask, his eyes glittering through its slits.

Then he realized that Wyn hadn’t mentioned her older brothers. Surely they hadn’t been in the hall. Before he could ask, she spoke again. “I suppose we should thank the Shylfings that more didn’t die.”

Thank the enemy Shylfings? He glanced at her, puzzled.

“There was only a small guard at the hall. All the other troops were out riding the borders, looking for Shylfing raiders. My brothers and my cousin Bear are with them.”

Rune winced. The news of his father’s death would be waiting for Bear when he returned.

“Through here,” Wyn said.

His eyes widened as she led him into a stable. Despite the dimness, he could tell from the silence that almost every stall was empty. “Did the dragon kill the horses, too?”

“Anybody who wasn’t already out looking for Shylfings is hunting the dragon,” she said, then added, “That slave,
he’s up to no good. He showed up in the middle of the night on this horse.” She turned to him. “They say it came from your farm.”

He looked at the horse. “Hairy-Hoof! How did you get here?” The farm horse whinnied in recognition, and Rune rubbed the animal’s nose in delight. He didn’t know why it felt so good to see the familiar black and white horse. Hairy-Hoof seemed to feel the same way and nuzzled Rune’s ear.

“So it
is
from your farm,” Wyn said. “Why would they give that slave a horse?”

“I …” Rune didn’t know what to say. “I don’t think they would. Not Hwala—not during the harvest.”

“Well, he was riding it,” she said. She turned, then looked back. “Ride safe,” she said over her shoulder as she left the stable.

A feeling of warmth flushed through him, and he stared at the stable door, allowing the image of her and the sound of her words to linger. “Ride safe,” he whispered before he recalled his rush to get home. He hurried Hairy-Hoof into the yard, checking her over as he did; then he saddled her quickly, mounted, and took the path for home.

As he rode, Rune fingered the silver pendant he wore around his neck and thought about the stranger—the slave. He knew Hwala would never have lent out Hairy-Hoof at harvest time. Either the slave was no stranger at all, or, more likely, he’d stolen the horse. Who was he?

Hairy-Hoof cantered along the path. Rune didn’t want
to push her too much; he didn’t know how hard the slave had ridden her the previous night. Still, he couldn’t quell his anxiety, his desire to be home. Hairy-Hoof must have felt the tension in his legs, because she picked up the pace.

Ahead of him to the right, the mountain loomed, and he cast a nervous glance toward it. At any minute, the dragon could emerge again. He shuddered and looked away.

The pendant felt cold against his skin. He scratched his fingernail into its markings. He didn’t know what they meant, just that they were runes and that he was named for them. For them and because
rune
meant “a secret, a mystery,” which was something Rune had always been.

He couldn’t remember what came before he had washed ashore in Geatland in the little boat. He thought he might be able to remember the feel of wool against his cheek and the sound of waves slapping against the craft’s sides, but he wasn’t sure. Amma said he hadn’t been old enough to walk when she’d found him, alone and naked in the boat, surrounded by a sword, a warrior’s round shield, and a coat of mail—with the pendant around his neck.