The Coming Of The Dragon Part 8

Cheers erupted, and the sounds of metal clashing against metal. Hemming yelled, "The king! The king!" and a few feet away from him, Buri and Surt, farmers from a day's journey to the south, took up the cry, sending it around the circle as men rattled their spears and hit sword against shield. On the other side of the circle, Rune could see Ottar's two little boys dancing in excitement, their cousin Gerd frowning at them. Suddenly, he realized that beside him, Hemming was struggling to unsheathe his sword. Rune ducked out of the way just in time as the old warrior swung it uncertainly.

With so many of his hearth companions away, patrolling the borders against a Shylfing attack, the king didn't have many men to choose from. Surely, Rune thought, for all his kind words, King Beowulf wouldn't take Hemming now that age had stolen his strength. Dayraven, of course, who would probably be chosen as the king's successor now that Finn was dead. The people would accept him because of his prowess in battle. Gar and Ketil would go, and Ottar and Brokk. But with Finn gone, and five of the king's best warriors killed during the dragon's attack on the hall, who else was there? Buri? Surt? They knew more of farming and ax-work than sword or spear. Thialfi, with his damaged sword arm? Od, who was even younger than Rune? His mother would never let him go. Rune glanced around the circle of cheering people and saw a pair of furtive green eyes-Ottar's-doing the same. Rune wasn't the only one wondering whom the king would choose-and whether there were enough warriors to mount an attack against the dragon.

Finally, the king raised his hands to quiet the crowd. As the noise died down, the high-pitched wail of Elli's baby rose up and lingered in the new silence.

The king waited. When the infant calmed, he turned back to the slave. "Tell us about the dragon."

The slave grinned mirthlessly and said, "What do you want to know?" Rune could hardly believe the man's insolent tone. He, who had caused so many deaths, so much destruction, had just been offered his life, and at what price? Information. He should be happy to give the king what he wanted.

"Everything you can remember." King Beowulf's words sounded mild, but Rune hoped the slave wouldn't test him further.

The bard stepped forward, one hand resting lightly on his harp strings. "Describe the worm-how big? What color? Were his scales ragged? Did you see any wounds?"

The slave c.o.c.ked his head to the side and squinted at the bard. "Didn't see it, not that you'll believe me. Saw its h.o.a.rd. Gold, jewels, old swords and drinking horns." He scrolled his fingers through the air, as if to list all the other things he'd seen.

"I believe you," the king said. "It takes more courage than you might possess to remain calm at the sight of a dragon. Battle-hardened warriors have been known to run in terror when such a monster appears."

"You didn't see it, then," the bard said. "But you must have seen something."

"Aye, I saw something." The slave's tone was no less surly when he spoke to the bard. "In the dragon's barrow, I saw piles of treasure-and piles of bones."

The king and the bard exchanged a glance. The poet spoke again. "What kind of bones?"

The slave looked from one man to the other, then sneered. "Human bones." He dragged out the words, shifting his eyes around the crowd as he spoke.

Rune felt a p.r.i.c.kling at the back of his neck. Near him, he could hear people murmuring to each other and Fulla hissing something to her husband as she caught him by the arm.

"If you saw the h.o.a.rd, why couldn't you see the dragon?" the bard asked.

The slave gave another shifty grin. "I reckon it was on the other side of all that gold. Where the smoke was coming from." He gestured at his nose as if to show smoke rising from it.

The king gave his head an impatient shake, making Rune think of a warhorse. "This man might not have seen the dragon, but it's been seen nonetheless." Suddenly, he turned to Rune. "Come forward, son," he said.

Rune's stomach dropped to his knees. He stood rooted to the ground, staring at the king.

"Step forward, he said," a woman whispered fiercely.

"Go on, lad," Hemming said, giving him a push.

The king spoke to the crowd. "Rune was on the crag when the dragon flew over. The fear the monster inspires is so great that he wasn't able to see much."

Someone snorted derisively. Dayraven.

The king ignored it, turning back to Rune. "Ketil tells me you've seen the dragon again."

So Ketil had had believed him after all. Rune's throat grew dry. He closed his eyes, willing the crowd to disappear, but he could hear them murmuring. believed him after all. Rune's throat grew dry. He closed his eyes, willing the crowd to disappear, but he could hear them murmuring.

"Tell me what happened," the king said, his voice gentle. Rune opened his eyes and looked into the king's bright blue ones. As he did, it seemed as if the rest of the world had disappeared, taking all the sound and scorn and mockery with it, leaving just Rune and the king.

He gulped in air. "I was on the mountain," he said, "on the trail that leads up from the crag."

The king nodded, encouraging him.

"A mist came up-I couldn't see."

"Ahh, the giant's breath," he heard the bard say, but Rune didn't take his eyes from the king's. "The giants may be in league with the dragon."

"Go on, Rune."

He swallowed, trying to wet his tongue enough so he could speak.

"It came out of the mist and flew just over my head." He raised his hands as if they held shield and sword, reliving the moment. "It burned my shield-and then I fell, and I lost my sword." Breaking his eyes from the king's in his shame, he looked down at his sheathed weapon and mumbled, "Ketil found it."

A croaking sound made him look up again in time to see a raven settling itself on a thatched roof just beyond the crowd. Finn's roof.

The king saw it, too. He looked back at Rune. "Could you tell how big it was?"

Rune nodded. "Huge, as big as a ship, a longboat. It reared back its head, the way a horse does, before it breathed fire on me."

"You saw that?" the king asked, excitement in his voice.

The bard stepped up to stand beside the king. "You saw its neck, its underside?"

Rune stared at them, trying to remember. It had all happened so fast. "I-" He shook his head.

"Could you see its scales?" the bard asked.

Rune nodded.

"Were they a different color underneath? Lighter?"

Again, he nodded, in his memory looking up again at the dragon as it shot fire toward him. "And when it reared back, there was a light place here"-he brought his hand to his chest-"a white spot."

"A white spot? Are you certain?" The bard fixed him with his single eye, giving him a look that just moments ago would have made him shudder. But now, Rune looked away, nodding, his eyes firmly on the dragon who flew through his memory.

"Yes, I'm certain," he said, and as he spoke, he remembered more. "There was a circle of scales, gold or bronze, maybe, and a spot of white inside them."

The bard looked at the king, who was smiling.

"Do you realize what you've done?" the king asked Rune.

Rune shook his head, not understanding.

The king turned from him and spoke loudly, addressing the crowd. "The dragon's weak spot, the place a sword can enter-Rune has found it!"

Rune kept his eyes on the king while, around him, people began talking. "Every dragon is different," the king said, his voice commanding the crowd to listen. "Each has a vulnerable place on its body-under the arm, in the belly. But now we know about our dragon, our enemy, and with that knowledge, we will defeat it!"

Cheers broke out, and Rune could hear the rattling of spears, the clashing of metal as shields answered them. Oski, one of Ottar's sons, yelled, "Rune!" and Rune turned to see the little boy waving at him, his brother Omi jumping up and down beside him in excitement.

Rune felt his neck flaming, and he hung his head in embarra.s.sment as a strong arm encircled his shoulder. "Well done," the king said quietly, and Rune looked up to meet his eyes. They looked at each other for a long moment before the king called out, "Ketil! Is there any ale to be spared for this warrior?"

Rune hadn't thought he could flush more deeply.

Ketil gave him a lopsided grin and turned to go, but a voice called out, "I'll get it, Ketil." Wyn. Rune hadn't seen her standing beside her mother, behind the king. Now, her skirts flared behind her as she ran to her house.

As Rune watched her go, the raven on the thatched roof caught his eye. A breeze ruffled the downy feathers around its neck, and it c.o.c.ked its head, hopped twice along the gables, then spread its wings and wheeled out of sight.

Wyn emerged from the doorway, a drinking horn in her hands. Rune was watching her when he became aware of the slave's voice. "Hear me, O King."

King Beowulf looked at the man, who said, "Where did he get that sword?" and motioned with his head toward Rune.

"It's his-from his father before him."

A sudden silence fell over the circle of people surrounding Rune. Wyn stopped uncertainly, halfway between the doorway and the king, watching.

"Then his father is a traitor and a coward. That sword belonged to Eanmund-and Eanmund was stabbed in the back." The slave's words fell with the weight of an anvil in the hushed crowd.

Rune stared at the slave unseeing and felt the eyes of the people boring into him.

ELEVEN.

HE DIDN'T KNOW EXACTLY HOW HE'D ENDED UP IN FINN'S house-it was as if his mind had been stolen from him the moment the slave had spoken. All he could remember was the stricken look on the king's face and someone's hand on his arm, exactly where he had a bruise from falling down the mountain. As men hustled him forward, images and sounds splintered into shards around him, mingling with the sharp pain in his arm. house-it was as if his mind had been stolen from him the moment the slave had spoken. All he could remember was the stricken look on the king's face and someone's hand on his arm, exactly where he had a bruise from falling down the mountain. As men hustled him forward, images and sounds splintered into shards around him, mingling with the sharp pain in his arm.

And now, the dark interior of Finn's house, where the Thor's hammer amulet hung from a peg on the wall, a cup below it, an offering to the G.o.d. Goat's milk? Mead? Goat's milk? Mead? Rune wondered distractedly, unable to focus. Rune wondered distractedly, unable to focus.

"Sit," somebody said, pushing him onto a bench, and he sat, despite the ache in his tailbone.

A body before him resolved itself into Gar, gripping the slave by an arm. Rune looked down.

The bench creaked, and he felt it shift as a man lowered himself onto it. The king.

His mind was clear enough to know that he shouldn't be sitting by the king this way, but as he started to rise, the king put a hand on Rune's leg, guiding him back down.

In front of him, a pair of rich leather shoes worked with decorative st.i.tching, shoes without even a hint of dirt on them-the bard's-paced back and forth, sometimes nearing the slave's stained and ragged shoes. A smaller pair of feet in brown wool slippers peeked out from the bottom of a skirt. They came forward, then backed away. Rune looked up dully to see Thora setting a drinking horn on the sideboard. Dayraven stood beside the door, sword in hand.

"Tell us what you know." The king spoke without ceremony, and Rune turned to him, startled, wondering how to answer. But the king was looking at the slave.

"I know how Eanmund died. And I know who killed him." The slave kept his voice low and steady, with no hint of scorn.

"There are many Eanmunds," the bard said.

"Eanmund, son of Ohthere."

No one spoke.

Rune could hear Gar's whistling breath. Outside, a child called out-or maybe it was a bird-and he pictured the bright bowl of the sky, the clean chill of the air, and wished he were out in it. Anywhere but here, where the thatch of the roof seemed to bear down on him, the wood of the walls tilted in toward him, and his life seemed as if it were being ground into darkness.

His father a traitor and a backstabber! People had been right to treat him with scorn. Maybe cowardice was a family trait.

"So." The king breathed out heavily. He sounded weary. "You are a Swede, then."

"I have been among that tribe."

"And you count yourself loyal to them, although you come here, seeking a place in my kingdom?"

The slave didn't answer.

"Why should we trust his word?" Thora said from the shadows. "He's already told us what he thinks of honor."

From his position guarding the door, Dayraven said, "I want to hear what he has to say about the boy's father."

Out of the corner of his eye, Rune could see the king nodding.

"Go on," he said.

The slave shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Rune looked up at his face, his skin creased and beaten by weather and age and who knew what else. As he watched, the man's face seemed to shift somehow, his skin looking smooth and supple for an instant. Rune blinked. It must have been a trick of the light. The slave flicked his eyes at Rune, then back to the king.

"I was Eanmund's man. I served him well."

When the slave stopped, the bard said, "Where were you when he died?"

"I wasn't there." The sneer returned to his face, the snarl to his voice. "I was a captive. Taken by the filthy Wayamundings to be their slave."

The king made a noise, a cross between a cough and a bark. "So you escaped them and ran straight to me."

The slave raised his chin, giving him a look of such insolence that Gar jerked him by the arm.

"Perhaps you didn't know that my father was a Wayamunding," the king said mildly. "Either way, you haven't told us how Eanmund died."

"Like I said. His His father"-he jerked a hand toward Rune, who felt it like a blow, as if he'd been hit by elf-shot-"his father stabbed Eanmund in the back. After they'd sworn a truce." father"-he jerked a hand toward Rune, who felt it like a blow, as if he'd been hit by elf-shot-"his father stabbed Eanmund in the back. After they'd sworn a truce."

Rune closed his eyes.

"I wonder how you could know that when you weren't there-when you were held captive by the Wayamundings."

"I've heard." The slave's voice dripped with contempt. "They made me a slave; they didn't cut off my ears."

Rune opened his eyes at the sound of a dagger sliding from its sheath and saw Gar pushing its point into the slave's neck just under his ear. "Interesting suggestion," he said.

The king made a tiny gesture, and Gar lowered the blade, giving Ketil a grim smile over the slave's head.