The Coming Of The Dragon Part 3

THREE.

UNDER THE SHADOW OF THE MOUNTAIN, DARKNESS CAME fast. As he ran, Rune glanced behind him at every noise. Over and over he chanted a prayer to Thor, the Hammer-Wielder, to guard him. No one should be out in the dark this way, especially with a dragon abroad. fast. As he ran, Rune glanced behind him at every noise. Over and over he chanted a prayer to Thor, the Hammer-Wielder, to guard him. No one should be out in the dark this way, especially with a dragon abroad.

A stone caught his foot, tripping him. He went down hard, palms. .h.i.tting the dirt, and lay still, breathing heavily, feeling his stinging hands, listening for noises on the wind. Where was the dragon? Winging silently over him, preparing to strike? He sniffed, testing the air for the creature's acrid, choking odor. Instead, the sharp scent of fir trees filled his nose.

If he had a horse, he could get to the king before the darkest hour of the night, but he had no horse, only his two feet, a dagger, and his lungs full of air. He raised himself and started running again.

The darkness deepened. No moon offered itself as a beacon, and he had to judge his way by the greater blackness of the mountain and the feel of it looming on his shield-hand side, reminding him of the giants. Did they descend at night to stalk the forests and the marshes? On he ran into the gloom, gulping air, forcing himself to keep going, his shoes pounding too loudly into the earth, alerting anything that cared of his presence.

Later, when a st.i.tch in his side grew more painful than he could bear, he slowed to a halt, hands on his knees, to rest, to breathe. As his ragged gasps grew quieter, he began to hear the night sounds that surrounded him, pressing toward him. In the distance, a wolf howled, raising its voice in a long wail. He shuddered. If wolves found him, or giants, or the dragon, he was dead.

Nearby, something sighed in the darkness, a sound like breathing. He whirled and heard a whirring sound almost inside his ear. Barely stopping himself from crying out, he fled forward into the night.

As he came out of the firs, he could see something glowing far in the distance. Fire from the dragon-or was it the eerie flames people sometimes saw in the marshes? Had he gone the wrong way? No, the ground felt solid beneath his feet, and he couldn't smell the rancid, rotting stench of the bogs.

He kept running, stopping when he could push himself no farther, then running again-tripping and righting himself and falling once more until his palms were b.l.o.o.d.y-asking the Thunderer for protection, for the right road to the king.

He lost all sense of time. No stars guided his way. The night was as endless as his path. Surely he should be there by now. When he went to the stronghold during the winters, they hitched the horse to the sleigh and rode or skied alongside. It couldn't have taken this long to get there, he was certain.

On he went, through stands of ash and elm, branches tearing at his clothes, up and over a rise that robbed him of his breath and made him skid his way downward, losing his footing before catching himself again.

Every step brought new terrors. He felt eyes watching him. What kinds of creatures were out in the night? Would they let him pa.s.s?

Fear made him keep going, but even fear couldn't keep him running forever. He faltered, gasping for air, his strength almost gone. He blinked. In his exhaustion, his eyes played tricks on him, making shapes in the darkness.

He blinked again. It wasn't trickery. The night was ending. The sky looked less black than gray, and boulders and bushes began to take on ghostly forms in the mist. He lifted his eyes and froze.

In the distance, something towered, a dark shape, monstrously big. He squinted, trying to understand what he was seeing.

A giant. It stood directly in his path.

He dared not breathe. If he moved, it might see him. Cold sweat trickled down his back, mingling with the hot sweat of exertion. More than anything, he wanted to turn, to hide, to bury himself behind some rock. Turning tail was what he was best at, after all, he thought grimly. But he couldn't. Not this time. Not after he'd come this far, when the message was this important. Too many lives hung by a thread, ready to be snipped off by the witch-women if he did nothing to save them. The king had to know about the dragon before it was too late.

Steeling himself, gripping his dagger tight, he took a step, then another, forcing himself to creep toward the giant. Fear walked with him, clenching his chest.

Closer he came, and closer, but the giant didn't move.

Had it seen him yet? Was it toying with him, waiting until he was near enough before it attacked?

Another step, and still it didn't stir.

Hope gleamed like sunrise. Maybe it was sleeping. Maybe he could slip past it without being seen.

Two more steps, and another. He could see a giant arm held high.

A voice called out, a harsh cry, and he jumped back, his heart in his throat.

It had seen him.

The voice called again, a throaty caw.

Rune almost dropped his dagger as he staggered in relief, drawing in breath after breath of sweet air. It was no giant-it was a tree. And not just any tree; it was Thor's Oak, in the Feasting Field near the king's stronghold.

The raven cawed again, and now a second voice joined it. Rune let the sound wash over him as his fear fled.

Then he groaned. If this was the Feasting Field, he'd come too far by at least a mile-mark. In the dark, he had missed the path that led to the king's hall.

Weariness made him sink to the ground, his muscles jumping with fatigue, his chin bowing to his chest. Sleep. He craved sleep, and water, and food. But when he closed his eyes, images of dragonfire, of farms and fields burned to ashes, played against his lids. He opened them and remembered his prayer to the Hammer-Wielder, who had guarded him through the night and brought him to his sacred tree.

Rune stood.

The sky grew lighter, and by the time he had found the proper path, the mist had lifted. Squaring his shoulders, he turned down it.

What would he say to the king? My lord, a calamity is upon us My lord, a calamity is upon us. No, that sounded pompous. Dear King, the time has come for men to honor their mead-hall boasts Dear King, the time has come for men to honor their mead-hall boasts. Bah. Even worse.

In the distance, across a gra.s.sy plain, he could just make out the dark shapes of buildings. Beyond them lay the king's golden hall. When the sun rose, its burnished wooden gables would gleam like fire. Rune had seen it before, but only in the winter. If he could make himself go just a step or two faster, he would see it again.

The comforting smell of wood smoke filled his nostrils, and his stomach grumbled. He hoped somebody would give him breakfast.

He pa.s.sed a group of silent houses, then a farmshed, then a barn. It all looked unfamiliar to him-he'd never seen it without a cover of snow. The path turned into a rough road with wooden buildings on either side, and ahead he could see a gathering of people, men and women and children, standing in the road a few furlongs in front of him, and beyond them a high, dark barn against the gray sky.

What was going on?

He kept walking, and as he did, a figure stepped out of the group, a tall, white-haired man with a fur-trimmed cloak clasped about his stooped shoulders, a long sword sheathed by his side. He walked several steps with his head down, as if deep in thought. Then he looked up. Rune could feel the man watching him from under bushy white brows.

His mouth went dry, although he couldn't imagine it being any drier. He kept going, his eyes held by the man's fierce blue ones, eyes barely dimmed by age. Rune was vaguely aware of the murmuring of the crowd and the smell of smoke, but he felt trapped by those eyes.

A few steps now, just a few steps, he thought, and then he dropped to his knees.

The man reached out and covered Rune's bowed head with his hand. Rune could feel its warmth penetrating his scalp. The hand lifted and touched his shoulder, signaling him to rise.

"My lord, King Beowulf," Rune said, his voice gravelly with nervousness and fatigue.

The old king looked at him, and this time, Rune could see the tears glinting in his eyes. A great surge of love for the old man filled him, and grat.i.tude for the kindness the king had always shown him, ever since Rune could remember.

Then, as the b.l.o.o.d.y sun pierced the gloom, the king turned. Rune followed his gaze and saw a beam of light hit the dark building he'd taken to be a barn.

It was no barn. It was the king's golden hall, its timbers scorched and smoking.

"The dragon," Rune whispered.

King Beowulf turned back to him.

"I'm too late." Rune's head dropped, and the full weight of his weariness fell over him, making him stagger.

The king caught his arm, steadying him. "Rune," he said. "There was nothing you could have done. Against a dragon, no warning can help. And we were warned."

A movement caused Rune to look toward the crowd. A man stepped out of it-the stranger from the path by the crag. He met Rune's eyes and barked his humorless laugh. Then one of the king's guards jerked on his arm and led him away.

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 wordh.o.a.rd 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 see you. And worst of all, he said nothing, just stared at Rune and stroked his beard with his thumb. 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 p.i.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed 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 c.h.i.n.ks 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. 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 c.h.i.n.ks 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 embarra.s.sment. 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 have to. I have to warn Amma-" he started, but she held up her hand to stop him. 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 pa.s.sed 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 G.o.ds and giants and monsters painted on the wooden walls and carved into the ma.s.sive 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 fl.u.s.tered. "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.