The Coming Of The Dragon Part 17

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 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 G.o.ds, 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 sh.o.r.es 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 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? 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 s.n.a.t.c.hed 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 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 youth men doubted, he made known his merit,Nine sea monsters he slew in his swimming feat,He saved the Spear-Danes from their monstrous night-stalker.

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 h.o.a.rd 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 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 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. a song; the bard was singing them. As Rune looked up, firelight caught the gleaming harp strings, and the bard looked directly at him.

That brave man's hand was burned; when he plunged his swordInto the creature's chest, his courage did not fail.The gold-giver of the Geats drew his dagger, his battle-sharp blade;Together the two n.o.ble kinsmen felled their foe.

Rune listened in wonder. How could the bard know all this?

A movement beside him made him turn, and suddenly he understood. Ketil was back, crouching beside him-his shoulder companion.

Rune caught his eye and Ketil grinned, just like the old days, back when they were boys in the hall.

TWENTY-FOUR.

HE WAS LOST IN A DREAM OF FIRE AND DARKNESS WHEN the drumming of hoofbeats startled him awake. He lay taut, listening. Horses neighed. Men shouted. Shylfings? An attack? He flung off the blanket and, grabbing his sword, opened the door a finger's breadth to peer out. the drumming of hoofbeats startled him awake. He lay taut, listening. Horses neighed. Men shouted. Shylfings? An attack? He flung off the blanket and, grabbing his sword, opened the door a finger's breadth to peer out.

It wasn't Shylfings-a border patrol had returned.

By the time Rune had dressed and rushed outside, the eight members of the patrol knew all the news from Gar, who had been on guard. They stood cl.u.s.tered together, their clothes stained by days in the saddle, their horses behind them, stamping impatiently. As he neared them, Rune could feel the men eyeing him, taking his measure. They had returned expecting to speak to King Beowulf in his golden hall. Instead, they found blackened timbers, a smoking funeral pyre-and an untried youth masquerading as king.

"My lord." Gar stepped forward so that all the members of the patrol could see him bowing, and Rune appreciated his support. "My lord," he said again, "Horsa and his men have just returned from the northern borders."

There was probably some formulaic way to respond, Rune thought, but it wasn't something he'd ever learned.

"Horsa, what have you seen?" the bard asked, hurrying toward them.

Everyone turned to the poet, and Rune was relieved of the need to speak for the moment.

"Horse trails through the forest-trails we didn't make," a solid man in a mud-spattered cloak said. He handed his reins to one of his companions and held up an arrow shaft, its tip broken off. "Shylfings. See the feathers?"

The bard took the arrow from him. He looked at it closely and nodded before handing it to Rune. Rune stared at the feathers, wondering what Horsa saw in them that identified them as Shylfing work. He was sure the warriors gathered behind Horsa could sense his ignorance.

Before he could speak, a man in the back of the group called out.

"Mother!" He and another man detached themselves from the other warriors and moved toward Thora, who hurried from her house with a shawl hastily thrown over her shoulders, still knotting her braids behind her head.

Wyn's brothers. Gar must have already told them about their father. Thora reached out, silent, and placed her palm first against one son's cheek and then against the other's. As she did, each man closed his eyes and tightened his jaw, as if he was drawing strength from her. Then all three walked to Thora's house and disappeared inside.

Rune watched them go, feeling in his heart the bleakness that would overtake them. He jumped as Ketil whispered in his ear, "Welcome them home and thank them for their service." When had he gotten there?

Then, as if the exchange had never taken place, Ketil moved to stand beside the bard and bowed to Rune.

Rune turned back to the remaining members of Horsa's troop. "You are welcome home." The words sounded false, as if he were playacting with his foster brothers the way they had when they were children. "Many thanks for your service to the kingdom."

The men regarded him, unmoving.

"The hall may have been burned, but there is meat and ale for hungry warriors," he added. He gestured at a bond servant who hovered close by. The man scurried off to bring food. "Rest now, and eat."

Nothing happened for a moment, and Rune stood rigid, waiting. Then Horsa inclined his head. As he did, the others bowed briefly before they dispersed, the jingling of their horses' bridles and the clopping of hooves filling the dreadful silence.

Rune watched them go. The king might have named him his heir, but the words meant nothing if the warriors didn't accept him as their leader.

One of the men looked back over his shoulder, staring a challenge at Rune. He straightened his spine and met the man's eyes. The warrior turned away again, following his companions.

"We'll need to rebuild the hall, first thing," the bard said, rubbing his hands against the morning chill. "We can't have meetings out here like this."

Rune nodded. The hall did need to be rebuilt. Winter was coming and people would need a place to gather.

He gazed around him. Morning mist hovered near the ground. Autumn mist. He looked toward a line of birches at the edge of the stronghold. Their leaves had almost all turned. A sense of urgency filled him. If people were to survive the winter, the harvest had to be brought in. It was too late for many fields-the dragon had seen to that-but not all of them. Yet, with so many farms burned, every bit of grain they saved would count.

He looked back at the bard. "The hall will have to wait."

The bard fixed his single eye on Rune. The dark, empty socket seemed to stare at him, as if it could see right through him.

He struggled not to shudder. "The fields have to be harvested."

Ketil stepped closer, his hand on his sword hilt. "We've never been more vulnerable to attack. You heard what Horsa said. If everyone's out in the fields, we'll be in even more danger."

"The hall has to come first," the bard said. "It's a symbol of the kingdom's strength. We'll need it for your coronation, too."

Rune felt his shoulders sag. His stomach growled. Didn't these two have any idea where the kingdom's grain came from, or the hay for the horses?

At that moment, the bond servant he had sent to get food for the patrol returned, a huge tray in his arms. He looked around, expecting to find Horsa and his men.

"We'll take that," the bard said. He grabbed a drumstick off the tray and bit into it.

Rune shook his head in exasperation. For the bard, he thought wryly, food probably always came from trays, served up to him hot, anytime he wanted it.

By the time the sun had burned off the mist, Rune ached to be home, harvesting Hwala's single unscathed field. A small group had gathered to plan their next move, but to Rune, all the talk seemed pointless. He'd already explained himself, and more than once, but the discussion went round and round.

Horsa still wore his travel-stained cloak. "The signs we saw weren't fresh, but they were definitely Shylfing," he said. "Three patrols are still on the borders; we don't know what they've seen." He took a bite of the bread he was holding and spoke through a full mouth. "It's not just the Shylfings we should fear, either. Other tribes will hear about King Beowulf's death, too, and know we're weak."

At the word weak weak, Rune felt Horsa's eyes on him, but he didn't respond.

"If they see the golden roof on our hall, they won't think us weak," the bard said. "It gives the people the symbol of hope they need in these times."

How had King Beowulf stood it? If the bard said one more word about the hall, Rune thought he would scream. He could almost feel his sinews moving in time to the scythe, cutting the grain that would help feed the kingdom. What would it take to make the others understand that hunger was just as deadly an enemy as Shylfings?

Unexpectedly, Thora came to his aid. She had left her sons sleeping, Wyn attending them. Her eyes still bore a haunted look from their bitter homecoming. Now, she looked at the bard and spoke dryly. "Hope is easier to come by on a full stomach." She turned toward Horsa. "If the people starve to death over the winter, they'll hardly need your sword."

At her words, Rune felt a flush of warmth. Emboldened, he stepped forward, a new idea forming in his mind as he spoke. "Long ago, there was a feud between our people and the Danes." He thought about something Amma had taught him, a part of the "Lay of Beowulf" the bard never sang. "That feud came to an end when King Beowulf offered his strength to the Danish king-when he killed the monster Grendel," he said, and looked around. Horsa was scowling, but at least he was listening. The bard was examining his fingernails, not looking at Rune, but he was sure he had the man's attention.

"Go on," Ketil said.

"King Beowulf's feud with the Shylfings-it's not my feud. It wasn't his feud, either. Do any of you even know how it started, what we're avenging? Anyone besides the bard, I mean," he added quickly.

Thora looked at him sharply.

He stiffened at her expression, then plunged ahead. "Why should we wait for them to attack us? If they were our allies, the way the Danes are now, think how strong we would be."