The Coming Of The Dragon Part 19

"Not just farming-living," another man answered, and an older woman agreed with him.

"Bringing up children you don't have to send off to war," she said.

Rune wondered how many sons she had lost to the Shylfings.

But not everyone thought the truce was a good idea. At the next farm, a young farmer exploded with anger at Ketil's words. Ketil kept working alongside him, and Rune heard him asking who the man had lost to the enemy.

"n.o.body in my family," he answered as he swung a bale of hay onto a cart.

"Friends of yours, then," Ketil said sympathetically.

"No, n.o.body I know," the man said. "But you can't just stop a feud with words. Those Shylfings, they'll say they want peace, but when we let our guard down..."

"No matter what happens," Rune said, "we'll never let our guard down."

The farmer stared at him for a moment, then leaned over to pick up another bale. The man was right, Rune thought. King Beowulf had known it. What did Rune think he was doing, acting against the king's wishes, against all of the wisdom age and experience had conferred on him?

Then he remembered what Amma had taught him about the king ending the feud between the Danes and the Geats. Some feuds could be ended, some couldn't, but how was he to know which was which? He shook his head in bewilderment.

After that, Rune kept his mouth shut and let Ketil do the talking. More often than not, the people on the farms they visited supported the truce. Sometimes Ketil asked them if they knew how it had started. Only once did someone say she did, a wizened old woman who wore a hat that looked like a sack. But the version of the story she told was different from the one Rune knew. He wondered if either of them was right.

As they left Surt's farm, Rune pictured Thialfi and Wyn's brothers on their horses, riding through hostile lands. Could they have reached the Shylfings yet? Ketil said no, that it would take many days to get there, then time to negotiate and travel home again-if nothing went wrong. Rune couldn't stop worrying that Horsa had been right: any envoys to the Shylfings would be killed before they delivered their message.

What was I thinking? Rune wondered. When Thora had backed him, sending the men had seemed like the right thing to do. Now it seemed like a fool's errand, or worse. Had he sent them to their deaths? Rune wondered. When Thora had backed him, sending the men had seemed like the right thing to do. Now it seemed like a fool's errand, or worse. Had he sent them to their deaths?

He looked down at the pouch on his belt where he'd tucked the piece of wood and once again saw the vision of terror and destruction his mother had saved him from. Could that happen to the Geats? Had it already happened at the settlement, while he and Ketil had been away? He imagined Wyn and her mother cowering in their house; Elli holding her baby, terror and grief on her face as a sword came down.

The sound of Ketil whistling broke into his dark thoughts. He looked up at the bright autumn sky, at a group of birches in the distance, their leaves flickering red and gold. A breeze ruffled through his hair and across his eyelashes. Ahead, he could hear the sounds of men in the fields, laughing as they worked. He nudged Hairy-Hoof's sides, and as she broke into a canter, Ketil kept pace beside him.

They stopped at Buri's place last. The young farmer needed no help, but he was glad to see them all the same and to show off his new son. "I wanted to call him Beowulf, but the wife said no," he said. "Too high for the likes of us, she said, so we're still trying to decide."

Rune held out his shield hand. The baby grabbed his little finger, twisting it hard. He gritted his teeth, letting the infant have its way. "Quite a grip on this one."

Buri laughed.

"Finn was a good man," Rune said. "What about Finn for a name?"

Buri nodded. "Fair but firm he was, wasn't he?" He turned around to look at his wife, who peered shyly at them from the doorway. She nodded and Buri looked down at his son. "How does Finn suit you?" he asked.

The baby gurgled happily.

From Buri's, Rune and Ketil made their way back to the settlement, their path leading them through a wide swath of land the dragon hadn't burned. They pa.s.sed field after newly harvested field, and Rune thought there might be just enough grain and hay to get the kingdom through the winter, at least if spring didn't come too late.

As long as the Shylfings didn't attack.

And as long as the warriors hadn't already splintered into factions while he and Ketil had been gone. What would they find when they returned?

TWENTY-SIX.

RUNE STOOD UNMOVING, HIS ARMS HELD OUT LIKE WINGS, flinching at p.r.i.c.ks of pain. There was no escape. flinching at p.r.i.c.ks of pain. There was no escape.

In front of him, Wyn looked him up and down, frowning, hands on her hips. She pulled a pin from between her lips and took hold of his shirt.

"Ow," Rune said, and looked at Thora, who stood beside him, pinning on a sleeve. Gerd worked on the other one, on his sword-hand side, giggling occasionally as she warned him not to move. She was the best seamstress of the three women, and Rune trusted her not to touch his burned hand. He was still wearing the padded glove she'd made him.

If only the tunic would fit as well as the glove did. It had been Finn's best, embroidered down the front, and Thora had cut it down for Rune. n.o.body said it, but Rune was sure the task would have been simpler if Thora had allowed Gerd to do the initial cutting. Now, no matter what they did, the three women couldn't get it to fit Rune properly, with the embroidery in the right place.

He endured their ministrations. There was no point in protesting-they were doing their best, and they didn't have much time. The coronation was tomorrow, and the cloak still wasn't ready, either. Fulla had been working feverishly on it, and now several other women were helping her. Or so Rune had been told.

It wasn't as if they had waited until the last minute. They had worked as hard as Rune and Ketil had. So had everyone else-men, women, and children. Carts of grain had rumbled into the stronghold-not as full as in previous years, Thora had told him, but perhaps enough to see them through the winter. Rune had been gratified to hear people remarking on them, and more than one warrior had given him a nod of approval at the sight of a cart laden with hay.

There had been no word from the envoys when Rune and Ketil got back to the settlement. Even though he knew it was too early, Rune couldn't quell his anxiety. They increased the number of border patrols, and finally Rune agreed with the bard that it was time to rebuild the hall. It wouldn't be anything grand the way King Beowulf's golden-roofed hall had been, let alone shingled with shields the way Odin's hall was said to be. For now, plain thatch would have to do, despite the bard's disappointment. If they were to finish before the snows set in, they didn't have time for luxuries. What they needed now was a place for the people to a.s.semble, especially in case of attack, a place where the men and boys could practice their weapons during the winter. Rune thought the women needed to meet there, too, even if he wasn't sure what it was they did.

The last of the border patrols that had left before King Beowulf died came riding in when they were just finishing the roof. The men watched Rune, their eyes expressionless, as the troop leader gave his report. Later, Rune saw them looking with disdain at the new hall's dirt floor, not a wooden one like in King Beowulf's hall; at its wooden beams as yet undecorated with the elaborate carvings they were accustomed to; at its simple thatched roof that made it look like a farmhouse. Seeing the hall through their eyes, he understood how it fared in contrast with the great mead hall they had left behind them when they went out to patrol the borders. Their entire world had collapsed while they had been gone, and the new hall was a symbol of just how diminished things had become. Well, Rune told himself, it would have to serve. At least it had long benches lining its interior, surrounding the fire pit, like King Beowulf's hall had had. And at least there would be enough food to survive the winter, if the hunting was good.

As the patrol dispersed, Rune could hear murmuring among the men. It wasn't just the hall they were objecting to, he was sure. He set his jaw and turned back to helping Gar with the thatch they had been working on.

That night, they consecrated the hall to Thor, sacrificing a goat in his honor and cooking it over a roaring fire in the middle of the structure as warriors gathered on the benches. Outside, the wind whistled, nosing around the eaves, inspecting the walls and finding no entry. Sawdust still littered the ground, but the joints were solid.

The bard took charge of the ceremony, and Rune was content to watch until a servant bowed low in front of him, holding out a platter. Unsure of what to do, Rune sought out the bard with his eyes, but the poet was looking elsewhere. He was the only one-everyone else in the hall seemed to be staring at Rune. Then he remembered the last goat sacrifice he'd seen, at the Feasting Field, when King Beowulf had chosen the men who would help him fight the dragon. The king had eaten the goat's liver first, before the warriors ate the choicest cuts of meat. He took a deep breath, then grabbed the liver from the platter, held it up for the people to see, and took a bite as the juices dripped down his wrist and chin.

After the meal, people made themselves comfortable on the benches, firelight and torches illuminating the pale wooden walls, while shadows lurked in the corners. Bond servants moved around the hall, refilling cups and drinking horns and adding wood to the fire. Rune directed them to make sure the newly returned patrol had everything they needed. He watched the men from that troop watching him and pretended not to notice. When they whispered to each other, he told himself they were just catching up on the news. The other patrols seemed to have accepted him. This one just needed time.

The bard strode forward and struck his harp. "Listen!" he called.

Conversations quieted and people turned toward him. Rune watched the firelight gleaming on their teeth when they smiled. It shone in the whites of their eyes and reflected off gold arm rings as warriors shifted on the benches.

"We have heard of the deeds of the kings," the bard began, signaling the start of the "Lay of Beowulf." People nodded their heads in recognition; it was an appropriate tale to soak into the timbers of the newly consecrated hall, reminding men of the deeds of a hero from days long past.

But as Rune listened, he realized the bard was skipping over the familiar parts of the story and beginning instead with the dragon fight. Winding his words into sinuous patterns, the bard sang the dragon-and the king-back to life. Warriors leaned forward, listening. Not all of them had heard this tale.

The harp strings thrummed as the bard plucked them. "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," he sang.

Sitting up front where everyone could see him, Rune felt alone and exposed. He wished Ketil hadn't drawn guard duty for tonight. He closed his eyes to the crowd and listened, allowing the song to flow over him, the past to flood back into his head. Knowing what was coming, he cringed at the memory of the dragon's fangs biting into the king's neck, the poisonous venom bubbling green on the king's skin. But the words didn't come. Instead, the bard took a new turn.

Who among men knew when the boat came to Geatish sh.o.r.esThat its cargo would be a king.The son of a princess, raised by a princess,The young hero who rushed to his ring-giver's side.Heedless of danger the two fought the dragon,Saving the kingdom, revealing the new king.

The back of his neck grew hot. Rune knew the bard was doing his best to help the warriors accept him as their leader, but knowing so didn't make him feel any less awkward.

When he'd shown the bard the piece of wood from Amma's hut and asked him if he knew anything about his mother, he hadn't expected her to become part of a song. He should have, he realized. Especially when the bard had nodded gravely and said, "Inga Til. I know the name. Her father was the king of the Brondings. What became of her I have never heard." He had stared at Rune with his piercing eye and said, "From your father, you are kin to King Beowulf; from your mother, to the lord of the Brondings. And brought up by a n.o.blewoman, too." He fell silent, but he kept up his fierce gaze until Rune had to look away.

Later, when there was time, Rune thought, he might tell the bard the vision he'd had, of his mother racing from terror and destruction to save her child's life, certain of her own death. For a moment, he could feel the rough wool of her clothes against his cheek, the beating of her heart as she placed him in the boat. If anyone deserved a song of her own, she did.

He looked out into the firelit hall and again saw men watching him, appraising him, their expressions unreadable.

As the song ended, there was a roar of approval. Rune signaled the bond servants to refill the drinking horns. They would have to be more careful with their resources later, in order to get through the long winter, but he didn't think now was the time. Tonight, at least, the people needed to celebrate.

"Let's have the part where the dragon comes out of the barrow again," someone called, and the bard rang his fingers across the harp strings, happy to oblige.

Rune slipped out the side door of the hall and took a deep breath of the cold night air. He heard someone coming out behind him and turned to see Wyn pulling her cloak tightly around her.

"While you and Ketil were gone, he sang the dragon fight every time a new patrol came back," she said. "But the part about your mother-that's new."

He nodded.

"I'm glad he added it."

"So am I," Rune said. Something cold landed on his cheek, and he looked up to see white flakes spiraling down through the dark.

The first snow. They had finished the hall just in time.

Now, a day later, they rushed to prepare for the coronation.

"Ow!" Rune said again, and Gerd laughed.

"If you'd hold still, you wouldn't get pinned." Her face turned serious as she concentrated on his sleeve.

"I was was holding still," he said. holding still," he said.

A knock sounded at the door, and Ketil stuck his head in, shaking snow from his hair. "Thialfi and your brothers are back," he hissed, looking at Wyn. "With a bunch of Shylfings."

Shylfings? Rune looked sharply at Ketil.

"Shylfing envoys," Ketil said.

Rune dropped his arms, and the women quickly stripped him of the new shirt and tunic. Gerd stuffed his old clothes into his arms, and he dressed fast. "Here," Gerd said, fastening the garnet clasp on his cloak. His sword and mail coat were in the chest by his bed-King Beowulf's old bed in his house just beyond the hall. He looked at Ketil, spreading his hands to indicate that he didn't have them here.

Ketil nodded his understanding. "I'll take them the long way to the hall," he said. "You can come in the side door."

Rune glanced at Thora. "Would you-?" he started to ask, but she was already moving, her cloak over her shoulders, a basket on her arm.

"Wyn," she said. "Find the bard. Gerd, make sure there are no chickens in the hall."

They ran.

Rune got to the hall a half-step before Ketil. As he straightened his cloak, he could hear him speaking to the Shylfings, who were stamping snow from their boots in the alcove that kept the wind from howling through whenever the door was opened.

Someone had already lit the hall fire. Rune mouthed a silent thanks to whoever it had been. He moved toward it as the bard came hurrying, Thora just behind him. They stood on either side of Rune, all of them listening to the sounds of swords being pulled from sheaths. Ketil would be directing the Shylfings to leave their weapons at the door.

Ottar and Gar stepped to the sides of the hall, helmets down, spears up, and Rune felt rather than saw Wyn and Gerd falling into place near the side door, ready to help if he needed them.

Ketil strode into view and then Thialfi, the pair of them flanking two Shylfing warriors. Behind them, Rune could see another figure hidden by a furred cloak-not a fighter, perhaps an emissary-and another Shylfing warrior, followed by Wyn's brothers. He heard their mail clinking as they approached, and before he could speak, one of the Shylfings stepped forward.

"Hail, Wiglaf, son of Weohstan," the man called out.

He watched the warrior carefully, the mustached face, the dark brown beard, the powerful shoulders.

"Our king sends you greeting," the warrior said in a strong voice. Rune saw him glance around the hall, his eyes taking in everything in an instant before he looked back at Rune. What was his expression? Contempt? Rune wasn't sure.

He stepped forward. "You are welcome to the land of the Geats. You have journeyed far and returned our valued thanes, free from harm. We thank you." At least he hoped they were free from harm, but he didn't want to take his eyes from the Shylfing's to check. Much as his fingers itched to clutch his sword, he clamped his gloved palm to his side.

"Past hostilities have divided our people," the Shylfing said. "My king asks that they be forgotten." His tone suggested that he didn't agree with his king.

Rune almost bowed, catching himself just in time. Never show submission to an emissary, no matter how high his status Never show submission to an emissary, no matter how high his status, the bard had told him as they had waited for the envoys' return.

"Your lord speaks wisely," Rune said.

The emissary regarded him coldly. "We thought we would find a king," he said.

Rune nodded, enlightened. "The coronation takes place tomorrow," he said, inwardly cursing himself. The bard had wanted to have Rune crowned as early as possible, but Rune had postponed the coronation until after the harvest, and then again until after the hall was built. He hadn't thought about what it would mean to the Shylfings. "You will be our honored guests," he added.

Without moving his head, the Shylfing warrior glanced at the man beside him, who gave him a curt nod. They both looked back at Rune. The first man spoke again. "Our king sends a peace pledge between our two nations." He stepped back, and the figure behind him came forward, pushing back the furred hood of a cloak.

Rune's eyes widened. A profound silence filled the hall. Only the fire dared dance and snap.

"Hild, our king's sister-daughter," the warrior said.

A grave-faced girl, her dark hair pulled back, sank into a low curtsy.

"Be welcome, Hild," Rune said, stepping forward to raise her by the hand.

She matched him for height and met his eyes with her own dark ones. One eye looked directly at him, while the other seemed to see beyond him, making it hard for him to know where to focus. Just like Amma's eyes, the girl's seemed to see right through him, challenging him, taking his measure.

He struggled to find his voice in a mouth gone dry as stone. "Be welcome, all of you," he managed to say, then added, "Sit and rest after your journey." He guided Hild to Thora, and the two curtsied to each other before Thora led the girl to a bench near the fire.

Suddenly, the hall was a flurry of activity as the Shylfings took their seats on the mead benches, as Geats brought them food, as a bond servant dumped a load of logs by the fire and built it to a roar.

Ketil came alongside Rune and looked him a question.

"That," Rune said, his knees weak, "was more terrifying than any dragon."

TWENTY-SEVEN.