The Coming Of The Dragon Part 5

SIX.

RUNE STIRRED, THEN ROLLED OVER, LONG STRANDS OF HIS dark hair falling into his face. Insects rustled in the thatch. Through closed lids, he could detect light. He squinted one eye open just enough to see through the smoke hole. Blue sky. It would be a fair day. dark hair falling into his face. Insects rustled in the thatch. Through closed lids, he could detect light. He squinted one eye open just enough to see through the smoke hole. Blue sky. It would be a fair day.

He pulled the scratchy goat-hair blanket over his head again and fell back into a doze, waiting for the sound of the fire snapping and the smell of bread baking in the ashes. Any minute now, Amma would start one of her low chanting prayers to Freyja.

Amma.

Rune's eyes snapped open. It hadn't been a dream. She was dead. And he was alone.

He couldn't get his breath. A terrible weight pressed against his chest, and he thought he might be sick. Unable to think, unable to move, he lay rigid on his pallet, battling the burden that threatened to drown him. The heaviness turned to helplessness, the knowledge that he had chosen wrong. I could have saved her. I could have warned her I could have saved her. I could have warned her. Beyond all desire, he wished he had come home instead of going to the king. He saw himself standing on the crag, deciding what to do-and making the wrong choice.

Again he saw the dragon soaring through the twilit sky, belching flames at field and farm, thatched roofs lighting like torches, people running in terror-and then falling as dragonflame enveloped them. The anger he had felt while he was digging the graves still lay smoldering in his belly. Now it kindled into rage, pus.h.i.+ng away the terrible weight of his grief.

He sat up, groaning at the ache in his shoulders, the dirt-encrusted blisters on his hands. He'd been too worn-out to even think of was.h.i.+ng last night after he had buried Amma.

He looked around the hut he'd shared with her all these years, at the fire pit in the middle, cold and black in the dim morning light, at the altars to Thor and Freyja, the stone image of the G.o.ddess no longer in its place beside the carving of the G.o.d's wagon. Amma's loom leaned against the thick earthen wall that protected them from the north wind, stones dangling from the warp threads, a pattern just beginning to emerge in the weft. On the eastern wall hung a tapestry she'd made long ago, stories of the G.o.ds woven into it in sinuous patterns, stories she had insisted he know-Freyja and her falcon-skin cloak, Loki and his son, the wolf Fenrir. Why had he resisted her so much lately, every time she tried to teach him some new tale? The more insistent she'd been, the less willing he'd been to learn. Shame bit at him and he closed his eyes.

When he opened them, he stared across the fire pit to where Amma's pallet lay empty, bits of straw poking from a mattress seam, the goat-hair blanket gone, and felt the same emptiness filling him. He shuddered, remembering wrapping her charred body in the blanket, lowering her into the grave.

Finally, he tore himself from his thoughts and rose from his own pallet. Shoulders stooped, he looked through the hut for something to eat. It was only this season that he'd grown too tall to stand to his full height inside. He opened the door to let in light and tied his hair back with a leather cord. A chunk of oat bread sat on the board, and in the dairy crock, he found some salted b.u.t.ter and the remains of Amma's last batch of skyr. They tasted like soot. Still hungry, he ate the cold porridge that had congealed in the pot, grimacing at its lumpy texture and smiling a little as he bit down on a pebble. This porridge was definitely Amma's handiwork. He washed it down with the water in the bottom of the bucket, ignoring the layer of ash on its surface. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he turned to the west wall of the hut and stared at the s.p.a.ce Amma had covered with goat hide. He found it hard to think, hard to know what to do.

Except that he knew exactly what he had to do.

Rune crossed the room in three paces and whipped the covering away. The wooden s.h.i.+eld stared at him, its metal boss like the pupil in a great round eye, mocking him, asking what a spineless boy like Rune could do against a dragon.

He looked back at the empty pallet and ground his molars. The dragon had killed Amma. He had to avenge her. And for that, he needed weapons. They were his, after all. And they had been his father's. Or at least he a.s.sumed they had. Why else would they have been in the boat? Over the years, he'd heard many versions of the story. Fulla, an old woman who lived in the stronghold, had told him the one he liked best, even though it probably wasn't true-after all, what would a woman like her know about weapons and armor? Still, he liked what she said about how when the boat came rus.h.i.+ng in over the waves, the s.h.i.+eld had been at his head, the sword at his feet, the mail s.h.i.+rt along his s.h.i.+eld-hand side, while Amma stood on the strand waiting for him.

He thought it was a good story, but he would have preferred to know the truth instead. The only things he really knew about the weapons were that Amma didn't like him touching them and that she only let him use the sword in the winter because the king said she had to. And that she had known more about the weapons-and about him him-than she had revealed.

He reached for the mail s.h.i.+rt, examining its closely linked rings. In the hall, he'd watched warriors to see how they put them on, how they cinched them to keep their sword arms free. He'd even tried on Ketil's mail once. But he'd never worn his own.

He took a deep breath and pulled it over his head. As the cold metal settled over his shoulders and fell to his thighs, it felt strange and heavy, not at all how he'd expected. He took a step back and heard the clinking sound of Amma's metal bracelets. He whirled and the mail s.h.i.+rt whirled with him, its rings. .h.i.tting together with a metallic sound. Amma wasn't there; of course she wasn't. It was the mail s.h.i.+rt that made the music of her bangles-a hundred times over.

He steadied himself and turned back to the hide covering. The sword lay in its wood and leather sheath, crisscrossed with leather bands-and wound around with Amma's disapproval. The very first time Rune had joined the other boys for sword training, Amma had marched into the middle of the hall. She had put her face so close to Finn's that he took a step back. Then she told him-loudly enough that everyone in the hall could hear-that he could only teach Rune to defend himself, not to attack. Rune didn't remember the rest of the conversation, only the laughter from both the boys and the warriors standing nearby. If one of Thor's thunderbolts had struck him dead then and there, he would have been relieved. The only good thing that had come of it was that the boy across from him had caught his eye and given him a wry look, as if to say, Women! Women! That had been Rune's introduction to Ketil, back when his friend's nose had only been broken once. That had been Rune's introduction to Ketil, back when his friend's nose had only been broken once.

He wasn't sure whether he'd be less awkward with the sword if his introduction to it had been more auspicious. Finn ignored Amma's admonition and taught Rune all aspects of swordfighting, but Rune always seemed to be doing something wrong: thrusting or parrying a breath too late, holding the blade too low or too high, putting his weight on the wrong foot. Ketil had encouraged him, but Rune had felt the eyes of the other boys on him, wondering why a farmer was training with a sword in the first place. He'd wondered the same thing.

The worst day had been the one when Finn stopped in front of him, shaking his head in exasperation. "It's a sword, not a scythe," he'd said, taking Rune's blade away from him. He had examined it closely, balancing it in his hand, feeling its weight, running his fingers over the patterned metal, before saying, "This is a warrior's weapon." Then he had handed Rune a wooden practice blade. In front of everyone. Even Ketil had looked away, and Rune didn't blame him. Skyn and Skoll had never let him forget the humiliation.

Rune thought of the brothers lying side by side in the grave he had dug. He closed his eyes.

Then, opening them, he grasped the sword by its hilt and slid it from its sheath. It came out easily-Amma's whale oil had seen to that-but it still felt unwieldy, as if it weren't balanced. As if it weren't made for him or he for it. The touch of the hilt stung a blister on his palm, and he s.h.i.+fted the weapon to find a better grip. When he extended the blade, the sense memory of Finn's lessons came back to him. He moved the sword as if to block a heavy blow, and as he did, his legs automatically knew how to stand. His arm, too, went where it should. That was something, anyway.

Careful not to cut himself, he slid the sword back into its sheath.

Finally, he looked back at the yellow s.h.i.+eld. This time it stared straight at him, expressionless. He hefted it, grunting at the surprising weight of the linden wood, and swung it over his back.

On his way out, he stopped in front of the altar, touching the flat stone with Thor's goat-pulled wagon carved into it. "I chose the wrong path before. May I regain my honor today," he whispered. Then, bowing his head to the statue, he said, "As Thor defeated the Midgard Serpent, so may I defeat the dragon." He turned to go, then stopped again, laying his hand flat on the lintel where the image of Freyja had been, the stone now buried with Amma. "Lady of the Vanir," he whispered, and glanced at Amma's tapestry, with its image of the G.o.ddess, her hair looped in an intricate knot, her arms outstretched as she offered her falcon-skin cloak to the G.o.d Loki. "Lady," he whispered again, the stone now warm under his hand. "Help me avenge her." Then he ducked through the door.

Outside, the air still reeked of smoke from the burned farmhouse and fields, but a weak sun shone through the leaves of the ash tree. Rune forced himself to look at the raw grave. An orange mouser, one of the stable cats that had escaped from the fire, sat atop it, placidly cleaning its ears.

Rune watched as the sun gleamed off the animal's golden fur. It was a good omen. Freyja must have welcomed Amma into her hall-cats were sacred to the G.o.ddess.

He lowered his head in thanks.

Hairy-Hoof greeted Rune with a whinny and a toss of her mane. He hadn't taken as good care of the horse as he should have, so busy had he been burying the dead, but she seemed to forgive him. Mounting her was harder than he had antic.i.p.ated, with both sword and s.h.i.+eld to manage and his mail coat restricting his legs. After two tries, he balanced the s.h.i.+eld in a fork of the ash tree, retrieving it when he was seated on Hairy-Hoof's back, careful to keep the horse from stepping on Amma's grave.

Together they headed away from the farm, past fire-blackened fields. A single acre of oats stood untouched, golden stalks bright against the darkness of the destroyed fields around it. It looked as if the dragon had left it alone on purpose, as a taunting threat that it might return.

They took the trail down through the birches that surrounded the stream, the trees themselves marked by fire, some of their white trunks blackened, half their green and red-gold leaves scorched. Hairy-Hoof picked her way carefully over the rocks and splashed through the stream, then climbed up the bank, out of the trees, and onto the path that led to the tall runestone. The s.h.i.+eld banged into Rune's back as the horse's hooves clopped over the dirt, sending up flurries of ash. Rune stared stonily ahead, refusing to look at the burned fields on either side of him, but he couldn't keep the smell of smoke from filling his nostrils.

Far in the distance, the giants' mountain loomed dark and forbidding. Amma had warned him never to go there. The crag was only the footstep of the mountain, and it was dangerous enough. But the mountain itself? He s.h.i.+vered. Yet, if he was to find the dragon, he would have to climb it.

He rode on, eyeing the steep slopes, wondering how he would ever find the dragon's lair. Countless years the monster must have dwelt there, sleeping on its h.o.a.rd, yet no one had even known about it. Why had it emerged now? And what made him think he could find it?

He had been on the crag when the dragon had flown over him. As he drew nearer, he scanned the rocky heights. Maybe its cave was nearby. Maybe not, but he couldn't think of any other place to start.

He shrugged and heard his mail s.h.i.+rt clink with the sound of Amma's bracelets. He took it as a sign.

When he finally got to the bottom of the crag, he stopped. Hairy-Hoof would never make it up slopes that steep and rocky. Careful not to drop the s.h.i.+eld or let the sword trip him, he dismounted, grateful that there was no one nearby to see his lack of grace.

He was settling the s.h.i.+eld more firmly on his back when his eye fell on the runes the stranger had scratched into the dirt. They were still there. He reached for his pendant and held it for a moment before he began climbing.

He had taken only a few steps when something made him turn. Below him, two shapes like shadows darkened the patch of dirt. Ravens. Where had they come from? He watched as they hopped on the dirt, pecking at it. He couldn't be sure from this distance, but it looked as if the birds had wiped out the stranger's marks.

The hair on his arms p.r.i.c.kled. The king's hearth companions had a saying: "Fate often protects an undoomed man, if his courage is good." Courage had never been Rune's companion, and he felt as though doom walked alongside him. It didn't matter. To avenge Amma, all he had to do was kill the dragon. He didn't have to survive.

He began climbing again.

At the top of the crag, he stopped to catch his breath and readjust his sword and s.h.i.+eld. He hadn't considered how much harder mountain climbing would be, enc.u.mbered by such weight. At least the air was still today, so he wouldn't have to worry about the wind buffeting him as he climbed. He stared up the slopes at the mountain's beard of spruce and firs. Surely he should be able to see where the dragon had emerged. He shuddered, remembering just how huge it had been, how long it had taken to thunder over him. Although it had probably only been the s.p.a.ce of a few breaths, it had seemed like a lifetime.

Above the tree line, the mountain was strewn with boulders, but Rune could see no place where the monster had trampled trees or bushes, no burn marks on the ground. "A dragon must live in a barrow, old and proud of its treasures." He whispered the adage, one of the hundreds Amma had taught him. But where was there a barrow? He'd never heard of any old grave mounds near here, nor caves full of bones and treasure. It would have to be a sizeable cave if the dragon was to get into it, although people said the creatures could flatten themselves the way a mouse does to crawl into tight places.

He scanned the mountain for cave mouths but saw nothing promising. How would he ever find the dragon?

Footsteps sounded behind him. He whipped around, hand tight on his sword hilt.

A goat balanced on a rock, watching him.

Rune let out his breath in a whoosh of relief. He gazed at it; the goat must have been twice as big as Ollie. Its coat was pure white, and there was something strange about its eyes. For a goat, he thought, that was saying something. It gave a nasal bleat, then sprang off the rock and ran lightly up the mountainside. As Rune watched, another goat pranced out from behind a boulder, and the two animals clashed horns lightly. The first goat looked back at him before both of them dashed farther up the mountain.

They could be ordinary mountain goats, he thought, but they didn't look like it. Could the Thunderer have sent them as guides? It was a chance he would have to take. He started after them.

The goats had disappeared by the time he made it to the boulder. He grasped at a tree root that offered itself like a handle and pulled himself up to rest on the stony surface, lowering his s.h.i.+eld from his back. Until today, he'd never realized just how big and c.u.mbersome a warrior's s.h.i.+eld could be-the round wood stood half as high as Rune, and in places, the metal edges and fittings dug into his flesh. He was sure he had a pattern of ring-shaped bruises where the s.h.i.+eld had pressed his mail coat into his back.

From where he sat, he could see the goat trail disappearing into the clouds that covered the mountaintop, but he saw no cave. He wrapped his arms around himself, wis.h.i.+ng he'd worn his cloak against the cold. Far in the distance, serpentine rock shapes rose out of the dark seawater. At least, he hoped they were rocks.

When he looked back up the mountainside, a sudden movement caught his eye. The goats? No, not goats-it was a tendril of smoke curling through the air.

Smoke! The dragon's smoky breath? The dragon's smoky breath?

Steeling himself, he picked up his s.h.i.+eld again and started climbing fast, keeping his eyes on the smudge in the air.

There was no straight path; he dodged around scraggly trees and bushes, climbed over rocks, slipped on loose pebbles, and zigzagged his way up the slope, his heart hammering with effort and fear. His feet crunched on something, and he looked down to see a skeleton, some animal he didn't recognize, its rib cage whitened with age. Beside it, an indentation in the ground was shaped like a giant's footprint. He shuddered and hurried onward.

Now his swordbelt, too loose to keep the sheath stable on his left side, slipped down over his hips, making the rings of his mail s.h.i.+rt bite into bone. Irritably, he yanked it up. A boulder rose before him, and, still tugging at his belt, he edged around it and through a stand of fir trees. He burst through them-and stopped short, teetering, his heart in his throat.

Below him, the mountain dropped away in a sheer cliff. One more step and he would have gone over the side.

Barely daring to breathe, he drew his foot back. Steadying himself, grasping the boulder for balance, he looked down. Far below him, an eagle hovered on a current of air. He heard it shriek, a faint sound carried on the wind. It was a long way to the bottom.

Edging back to the other side of the boulder, he began his ascent again, more carefully this time. But as he scanned the heights, he could no longer see the trail of smoke, nor the boulders that had been near it. Instead, a gray cloud hung over the mountaintop, obscuring them.

Higher and higher he climbed, blinking away mist. He kept going, wiping dampness from his face and focusing on his path, watching for sudden drop-offs. When he reached forward to steady himself on a rock, he stopped, amazed to see his arm disappear into the air. Mist swirled around him, cutting off sound and light, chilling him. Water droplets formed in his hair, on his clothes and skin. If he kept climbing, he might go straight past the dragon's lair without seeing it. Or he might come to another cliff-but this time, he wouldn't know until it was too late.

Above him, below him, on his sword-hand side, on his s.h.i.+eld-hand side, the air was solid, a white-gray ma.s.s that no human eye could penetrate.

There was nothing he could do. He lowered himself to the ground beside the rock.

He was trapped.

SEVEN.

BEADS OF MOISTURE SETTLED ON RUNE'S EYELASHES. HE hunched his shoulders against the fog and wished for his cloak, the one Amma had woven for him. He thought of her sitting at her loom, chanting songs as she worked, stories of G.o.ds and giants and heroes, of King Beowulf's battles, of the feuds between the tribes, the Shylfings and the Frisians, the Geats and the Danes. People said Amma could out-chant the bard, she knew so many tales. Much as Rune liked the stories, he'd never seen the point of having to learn them himself. And especially not all the histories of the tribes and their leaders or the wisdom poems, like the one about what was expected of king and queen, earl and churl. A churl-a farmer like him-hardly needed a poem to know how to harvest a field. hunched his shoulders against the fog and wished for his cloak, the one Amma had woven for him. He thought of her sitting at her loom, chanting songs as she worked, stories of G.o.ds and giants and heroes, of King Beowulf's battles, of the feuds between the tribes, the Shylfings and the Frisians, the Geats and the Danes. People said Amma could out-chant the bard, she knew so many tales. Much as Rune liked the stories, he'd never seen the point of having to learn them himself. And especially not all the histories of the tribes and their leaders or the wisdom poems, like the one about what was expected of king and queen, earl and churl. A churl-a farmer like him-hardly needed a poem to know how to harvest a field.

s.h.i.+vering, he wrapped his arms around himself and stared at the mist. Never still, it eddied and purled like stream water. Sometimes he thought he could see shapes moving within it-giants going about their business? He sat frozen, hunched like a boulder, hoping that giants couldn't see through the gray air any better than he could.

Now he thought he could discern sounds, vague and muted. A wordless voice seemed to float toward him through the mist. For a moment, he thought it sounded like Amma's voice.

Sudden anger welled in Rune, anger at himself for leaving the farm unprotected, for not warning Amma about the dragon. The dragon! Such rage as he had never felt before flooded through him. If he had to crouch here, unmoving, on this mountainside for even one more heartbeat, he would explode.

Maybe it was too dangerous to walk, but he could crawl, couldn't he? Whatever it took, he would find the dragon, and he would take his vengeance for Amma, for Hwala and his sons, for Ula, for the fields of ripened grain, for the burned gables of the king's golden hall. For the king's hearth companions.

He dropped to hands and knees and slung his s.h.i.+eld onto his back. His sword dragged and the s.h.i.+eld slid forward, hitting the ground and making his going slow, but nothing would stop him now, not the rocks biting into his hands and knees, nor the mist that seemed to thicken with every move he made.

That voice again-he seemed to hear it ahead of him now, leading him on, almost pulling him up the steep slope. He rose to his feet for speed, keeping his hands to the ground like a bear, the s.h.i.+eld falling forward until finally he rose to his full height. Let the mist try to slow him. He wanted the dragon now now, while he was white-hot with fury.

Shapes rose before him in the mist, boulders hunched like trolls, fir trees standing like spears, but he scarcely noticed. He grabbed hold of one to pull himself upward, then stumbled, righted himself, and stumbled again. This time, he caught hold of a bush whose thorns pierced his hand.

The pain fueled his anger and pushed him blindly on. As long as he was heading up the mountain, he must be going the right way.

Until a wall stopped him, a cliff face. In the fog, there was no way for him to see how high it was. He reached for handholds but found no way to scale it. As he stood before the wall, a muted sound pierced the solid air. Rune stood stock-still, listening. Again he heard it, the sound like a voice, coming from his sword-hand side.

"Amma?" Rune said softly, and strained his ears for a reply.

None came, nor any sign.

He swallowed hard. Then, one hand on the rock wall, he began edging to the right, each foot stretching out to feel for solid ground.

Suddenly, his hand met air and he pulled back. But his feet told him the ground was still there. He reached down to feel scraggly bushes and, beside them, a path that seemed to go around the cliff face.

He was right-the voice was was leading him. Was it Amma's spirit helping him to avenge her death? Or some malign presence luring him to his doom? leading him. Was it Amma's spirit helping him to avenge her death? Or some malign presence luring him to his doom?

The path, probably a goat trail, led him higher and farther to the sword-hand side. It seemed like the right way, but in the fog, he had no idea where he was or where the curl of smoke had been, the smoke that had looked like the dragon's breath.

The thought of the dragon lying smugly on its treasure h.o.a.rd made his anger flame. He grasped at his sword hilt but let it go as a root tripped him, sending him sprawling. As he fell, his hands reached out, touching...nothing.

He lay still for a moment, listening, breathing. Then, cautiously, he pulled himself forward on his belly, feeling the ground in front of him and the air beyond, where mountain gave way to cliff. Still splayed on the ground and blind in the mist, he searched with his hand until he found a loose stone and dropped it over the edge, listening for its landing. No sound answered. For all he could tell, the cliff might plunge all the way to the sea.

He reached behind him and took hold of the root that had tripped him, saving his life.

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 s.h.i.+eld 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, s.h.i.+eld 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!" "No!" he cried out. "Vengeance!" he cried out. "Vengeance!"