The Coming Of The Dragon Part 4

"Five of the king's hearth companions died." Her voice was steady, but Rune could see her jaw clenching. "My uncle Brand was one of them." This time she couldn't hide the tears in her voice. She swallowed hard and then said, almost as if she were chanting a lay, "Modi, Thorgrim, Ragnar, Beorc the Red."

Rune caught his breath. Brand and Ragnar? Besides Finn and Dayraven, they were two of the kingdom's best warriors. The others were almost as good, especially Thorgrim, who had once single-handedly held off three Shylfing raiders before reinforcements arrived. Rune pictured good-natured Beorc the Red sitting at the mead bench, roaring with laughter at one of his own jokes. He remembered the time he'd seen Modi, a quiet man with a deadly sword, leading a troop of spearmen back from a winter patrol. The respectful way the men had watched Modi had impressed Rune as much as the look of Modi's boar-crested helmet with its fearsome face mask, his eyes glittering through its slits.

Then he realized that Wyn hadn't mentioned her older brothers. Surely they hadn't been in the hall. Before he could ask, she spoke again. "I suppose we should thank the Shylfings that more didn't die."

Thank the enemy Shylfings? He glanced at her, puzzled.

"There was only a small guard at the hall. All the other troops were out riding the borders, looking for Shylfing raiders. My brothers and my cousin Bear are with them."

Rune winced. The news of his father's death would be waiting for Bear when he returned.

"Through here," Wyn said.

His eyes widened as she led him into a stable. Despite the dimness, he could tell from the silence that almost every stall was empty. "Did the dragon kill the horses, too?"

"Anybody who wasn't already out looking for Shylfings is hunting the dragon," she said, then added, "That slave, he's up to no good. He showed up in the middle of the night on this horse." She turned to him. "They say it came from your farm."

He looked at the horse. "Hairy-Hoof! How did you get here?" The farm horse whinnied in recognition, and Rune rubbed the animal's nose in delight. He didn't know why it felt so good to see the familiar black and white horse. Hairy-Hoof seemed to feel the same way and nuzzled Rune's ear.

"So it is is from your farm," Wyn said. "Why would they give that slave a horse?" from your farm," Wyn said. "Why would they give that slave a horse?"

"I..." Rune didn't know what to say. "I don't think they would. Not Hwala-not during the harvest."

"Well, he was riding it," she said. She turned, then looked back. "Ride safe," she said over her shoulder as she left the stable.

A feeling of warmth flushed through him, and he stared at the stable door, allowing the image of her and the sound of her words to linger. "Ride safe," he whispered before he recalled his rush to get home. He hurried Hairy-Hoof into the yard, checking her over as he did; then he saddled her quickly, mounted, and took the path for home.

As he rode, Rune fingered the silver pendant he wore around his neck and thought about the stranger-the slave. He knew Hwala would never have lent out Hairy-Hoof at harvest time. Either the slave was no stranger at all, or, more likely, he'd stolen the horse. Who was he?

Hairy-Hoof cantered along the path. Rune didn't want to push her too much; he didn't know how hard the slave had ridden her the previous night. Still, he couldn't quell his anxiety, his desire to be home. Hairy-Hoof must have felt the tension in his legs, because she picked up the pace.

Ahead of him to the right, the mountain loomed, and he cast a nervous glance toward it. At any minute, the dragon could emerge again. He shuddered and looked away.

The pendant felt cold against his skin. He scratched his fingernail into its markings. He didn't know what they meant, just that they were runes and that he was named for them. For them and because rune rune meant "a secret, a mystery," which was something Rune had always been. meant "a secret, a mystery," which was something Rune had always been.

He couldn't remember what came before he had washed ash.o.r.e in Geatland in the little boat. He thought he might be able to remember the feel of wool against his cheek and the sound of waves slapping against the craft's sides, but he wasn't sure. Amma said he hadn't been old enough to walk when she'd found him, alone and naked in the boat, surrounded by a sword, a warrior's round s.h.i.+eld, and a coat of mail-with the pendant around his neck.

If it hadn't been for the king, Amma said, he would have been killed or set out on the whaleroad in the boat again, left to drown or starve or come to some other sh.o.r.e. Amma hadn't told him, but he'd heard that Dayraven had wanted to kill him. Dayraven wasn't the only one who thought that letting him live would bring a curse on the kingdom.

"The king himself lifted you from the boat," Amma had told him more than once. "He held you in one hand, his sword in the other, and said, 'Whoever plans to take this child's life will have to take mine first.'"

"Why?" Rune had asked her. "Why did the king save me?"

Amma had looked at him, and Rune felt himself falling into the depths of her gaze. She knew things that other people didn't. Long before anyone showed up, Amma would know that Embla, from Sigurd's farm, or one of the women who lived past the ash grove was making her way toward the hut to have a dream interpreted or to beg for a potion for a love gone wrong. Once, Embla had told Rune that on the day he washed ash.o.r.e, Amma had stood staring out at the waves as if she was waiting for something. "For you, it turned out," Embla said. Whenever Rune asked Amma about it, though, she turned the subject back to the king.

"He protected you because he remembers the legends, same as I do," Amma said.

As if that were an answer. But when Rune asked her to explain, she just shook her head. "Ask the bard if you want to know." She knew as well as he did that a boy like him wouldn't have the courage to question the one-eyed poet.

The king might have saved his life, but he could do nothing to free Rune from people's suspicion or their ridicule. Skyn and Skoll had only been mewling crib-children when the little boat came ash.o.r.e, but that didn't stop them from telling Rune he'd been a s.h.i.+t-covered baby whose own mother didn't want him. The fact that they were probably right made their taunts cut deeper. And they were sure to repeat loudly in Rune's hearing whatever Dayraven or others said about Rune bringing a curse on the kingdom.

It had been years since anyone had mentioned the curse, and Rune hoped Dayraven had forgotten it. During weapons training, he had tried, without much luck, to impress the warrior, hoping to show him how much of an a.s.set he could be to the houseguard. Fortunately, Dayraven rarely stayed in the hall during Finn's training sessions.

A thought struck Rune, making him jerk on the reins and causing Hairy-Hoof to toss her head and whinny. "Sorry, girl," he whispered, stroking her neck. "Do you need a rest?" He swung himself down from her back to run alongside for a while. As he did, he looked sideways at the mountain. Maybe Dayraven had been right. Maybe he was was cursed. Could he have somehow awoken the dragon by going to the crag at the Between Time? There was so much that he didn't know about himself. cursed. Could he have somehow awoken the dragon by going to the crag at the Between Time? There was so much that he didn't know about himself.

Amma knew, though; he was sure of it. At least, she knew more than she had ever told him. He had seen the way she held back when she told tales before the fire, how she wove words together until they came too close to his story. Then she stopped or took a turn into a different tale, one she'd be sure to make him learn.

Rune gripped the pendant. When he got back to the farm, he'd ask her to tell him. No, he'd make make her tell him. He had to know. He was old enough to be a warrior; it was time she stopped treating him like a child. her tell him. He had to know. He was old enough to be a warrior; it was time she stopped treating him like a child.

It was half-light by the time he reached the runestone that marked the edge of Hwala's lands-the same time the dragon had emerged a day before. As stiff as Rune's body was, he felt his shoulders stiffen further. He scanned the sky and kept his ears taut, sure that every sound he heard was a dragon, not the call of a bird settling in for the night.

He was glad to be near the end of the journey. Despite the trouble he'd be in from Hwala for everything he'd done, he'd welcome a warm meal and his own pallet across the fire from Amma's. He shook his head as he reviewed his transgressions: losing Ollie, going to the crag at twilight, going straight to the king instead of to the farm. He'd probably even be blamed for Hairy-Hoof's absence instead of praised for bringing her back. Even so, it would be good to be home.

He turned onto the path toward the farm. Recognizing it, Hairy-Hoof p.r.i.c.ked up her ears and picked up the pace, eager for oats.

Ahead of him, Rune could see the line of birches that marked the stream. Beyond that, he could barely make out the farm buildings, dark in the distance. A low ray of the setting sun caught something-he couldn't tell what-and made it gleam like flame.

The smell of smoke reached Rune's nose just as Hairy-Hoof neighed nervously and pulled up short. Rune narrowed his eyes. Before the stream lay the far field-blackened by fire, wisps of smoke rising from it like ghosts.

The air drained from his lungs. He kicked Hairy-Hoof's sides, urging her into a gallop.

He was too late.

The dragon had found the farm.

FIVE.

HE FOUND ULA FIRST. HWALA'S BOND SERVANT LAY FACEDOWN in the stream, her bucket beside the bank, her back blackened by fire. Gently, he turned her face toward his, but he didn't need to see her cloudy eyes, her blank stare, to know she was dead. The smell of her charred hair made his gorge rise. He swallowed and laid her body beside the bank, out of the water. Not allowing himself to think, he raced for Hairy-Hoof. in the stream, her bucket beside the bank, her back blackened by fire. Gently, he turned her face toward his, but he didn't need to see her cloudy eyes, her blank stare, to know she was dead. The smell of her charred hair made his gorge rise. He swallowed and laid her body beside the bank, out of the water. Not allowing himself to think, he raced for Hairy-Hoof.

Small flames danced, wraithlike, in the charred timbers of the farmhouse and stable as Rune approached. He fumbled as he dismounted, his eyes searching for what he dared not find.

"Amma!" His voice cracked as he cried her name into the stillness. No answer came.

Just inside the farmhouse ruins, he stumbled on a figure, a human body, and his hand rose to his mouth in horror. It could be Skyn or Skoll, he couldn't even tell-the figure was so badly burned. Could it be Amma?

He reached out his hand toward a glint of metal, then s.n.a.t.c.hed it back, gasping-it was like sticking his hand in a fire's glowing embers. He looked again at the metal. It was a dagger, and now he could see the wolf shape etched into it. Skoll's dagger.

Rune shut his eyes tightly against the smoke, against the sight, and screamed, "Amma!"

In the answering silence, he heard only low flames licking gently at what was left of the beams.

He stepped around the body, the hot coals scorching his feet through his shoes.

Farther inside the farmhouse, Hwala lay on the floor near what had been his pallet, one leg pulled up as if he'd been trying to protect his wound from the flames.

The building wasn't large. He stared around fearfully but saw no one else.

Skyn he found in what was left of the stable, a beam across his chest, his clothes burned off, his shorter left arm stretched toward something he would never reach. Beside him lay a dead goat. The smell of its charred flesh made Rune's mouth water incongruously. Or was it Skyn's flesh?

A sound he didn't recognize rose out of his chest and escaped his lips, a whimper of dread. If all the others were dead...

He looked across the homefield, over the blackened hay, toward the hut he had shared with Amma for as long as he could remember. It was still standing-the dragon hadn't burned it. He ran.

"Amma!" The word came out like a cry when he saw her lying on the threshold. As he knelt beside her, she looked at him, one eye meeting his, the other drifting into the distance. She was still alive, but her burns were terrible.

He lifted her as gently as he could, but she moaned in pain until he laid her on her pallet. "I'll get you water, I'll take care of you, you'll be all right," he said, pulling the blanket over her as much to hide her wounds as to warm her.

She stared at him, her mouth working as if she was trying to speak.

"What, Amma? What is it?"

She reached a clawlike hand to his face, her metal bracelets clinking against each other. Then she brought her hand to her lips. He leaned his head toward hers, his ear near her mouth.

"Rune." Her voice was a creaking rasp.

"I'm here, Amma. I'll take care of you."

"No!" The voice had more force than she seemed to have the strength for. Again, he brought his ear to her lips.

Rune held his head still, listening to Amma's heavy, tortured breathing. Finally, she spoke again.

"Survivor of war."

He shook his head. He needed to build up the fire to warm her, to find her water and something to eat, to dress her wounds. "It isn't war, Amma. It was a dragon."

She grimaced. "No," she rasped again. "You." She half pointed with her clawed hand, then dropped it to her chest. Heavily, her eyes closed.

"Amma?" Rune said, fear making the air catch in his throat. But as he watched, her chest continued to rise and fall. She was still breathing.

He looked in the rain barrel; soot floated on the top. He strained water through a cloth and then, cradling her head in his arms, tried to get Amma to drink, but the water dribbled down her chin.

The same thing happened when he tried to feed her the porridge he found in the pot on its tripod over the cookfire-the supper she had probably made for him. He wiped her face off, thankful that it wasn't burned like so much of the rest of her; then he sat down, leaning his trembling body against the wall, and took one of Amma's hands in his. Gently, he kneaded it, caressing her fingers the way he'd done these past few years when the stiffness in her knuckles pained her. She often sang to him when he did, choosing stories of the feuds between tribes, of the fates of the women and children when men sought vengeance. She wouldn't be singing tonight.

She was in bad shape, he knew, and he didn't know what to do to help her. She She was the one people came to when they needed healing. Even if there had been somebody he could have gone to, it was too late now; night had fallen and the spirits of Hwala and Skyn and Skoll, even the bond servant's spirit, would be roaming. He tried not to think of their unburied bodies, but every time he shut his eyes, he saw them. was the one people came to when they needed healing. Even if there had been somebody he could have gone to, it was too late now; night had fallen and the spirits of Hwala and Skyn and Skoll, even the bond servant's spirit, would be roaming. He tried not to think of their unburied bodies, but every time he shut his eyes, he saw them.

He stared into the cookfire, listening to it snap. Then, his voice low and quavering with fatigue and fear and grief, he began to chant the sorrow-filled lament Amma had sung when she polished the sword. As he chanted, he recalled the coolness of her hand on his forehead, the comforting sound of her voice singing him to sleep, the way she had when, as a child, he'd been hurt or ill.

Daylight decreed it; Wyrd agreed: Brother and son, uncle and nephew Lay slain in the swordplay.

That sad lady mourned in the morning Under gray skies where she had grasped gladness.

Now bitter breastcare hardened her heart.

Hoc's blameless daughter-her kinsmen were gone.

Rune's voice choked off. Before he looked down at Amma's chest again, he somehow already knew. It moved no more.

Amma, his Amma, who had mothered him for as long as he could remember, who had taken him in when he'd been cast out alone into the world, who had taught him and disciplined him and loved him-Amma was gone.

A ragged, wordless sob tore from his chest.

It took him the entire next day to prepare the graves. He worked mechanically, feeling light-headed. His vision was as blurry as his voice was raw from the prayers he'd chanted to Thor and Freyja, asking them to guide Amma's spirit on her trip to the next world. He'd kept his fingers wound in hers all night to keep her spirit from becoming fearful-or worse, angry-when it realized the body it had lived in could no longer house it.

When he woke, Amma's fingers were stiff and cold, and he had to use one hand to free the fingers of his other from hers.

He buried Hwala and his sons and Ula first, all of them together in one pit. It took him till midday to dig it. Skyn and Skoll had made his life miserable, but he would never have wished them such a fate. And certainly not Hwala, who, though he was a hard man, had allowed both Rune and Amma food and shelter without complaint. He couldn't find Skyn's dagger, so he gave him a scythe. Hwala would meet the G.o.ds with the farm's ax.

Dully, he wondered about Ula, who had kept to herself no matter how often he had asked her to tell her story. Amma would have known. Who had her people been? Would they ever hear what had happened to her? He doubted it. He found a ceramic jug, scorched by the flames but still serviceable, to bury with her. Because she had had so little joy in her life, he wished he could search for a brooch or a bracelet for her, but he was running out of time. Amma's body was still waiting.

His shoulders aching, his hands blistered, he hefted the last shovelful of dirt onto the grave and then made his way down to the stream to rest and drink, away from the smell of ashes and death. Weak suns.h.i.+ne filtered through the gold-touched leaves, and the water gurgled over the rocks, reflecting the light. Then a raven croaked. Rune looked up to see it swaying on a branch too narrow to bear its weight, staring at him. It unnerved him.

Stumbling with fatigue, he returned to the hut he and Amma had shared. Her grave would be here, under the ash tree.

He wished he could build a funeral pyre for her, or even an earthen barrow to mound high over her grave, but for a pyre, there wasn't enough dry wood-the dragon had burned it all. And a barrow would take more strength than the G.o.ds had given him.

After having buried the others, he wasn't sure he had the energy for Amma's grave. But he had no choice. Again, he started to dig.

As he worked, emotion came seeping back. If only he'd come home instead of going to the king, Amma might still be alive. Each jab of the shovel into the earth brought him a fresh thorn of anger and regret. How could he have been so stupid? If only he hadn't fallen asleep after the king questioned him, he could have been home in time; if only he hadn't run after Ollie; if only he hadn't climbed the crag in the first place but had stayed to deal with that slave. Of the thousand different things he could have done, he had chosen the very worst one. He would never forgive himself. If it hadn't been for him, the dragon would never have killed Amma.

The dragon. Leaning on the shovel shaft, he lifted his face from the grave to gaze toward the mountain where the creature made its home, its top lost in a haze of clouds. Hatred seethed in his chest, renewing his strength. For the first time, he truly understood the desire for vengeance that drove tribes to fight each other, that kept feuds alive for generations. He dug his shovel into the dirt again.

Finally, when the shadows stretched long and blue across the burned fields and he deemed the grave deep enough to keep out the wolves, he lined it with soft leaves he had gathered by the stream. Then he wrapped Amma tightly in her blanket and laid her in the ground, the round stone with the image of Freyja carved in it tucked into the crook of her arm-it would tell the G.o.ddess of her coming. Her metal bracelets adorned her wrists, and in one hand Rune placed her comb, the one he had carved for her from whalebone last winter. Two of the teeth had broken while he was making it, but he remembered how proud he'd felt when the cat decoration he'd added had turned out so well. Amma had hardly said a word about it, but Rune had seen the way she looked at it, the way she held it in her palm when she didn't think he was looking.

He swallowed hard. Then, kneeling, he put his fist to his chest and lowered his head. "I will avenge you," he said. "By Thor's hammer, I swear I will find the dragon and kill it. I promise."

He had thought laying Amma in the grave would be the hardest thing he'd ever done, but he was wrong. Showering earth down on her body was even harder. As the blanket in which he had wrapped her disappeared, his anger transformed to grief again and tears coursed down his face, mingling with his sweat.

Finally, the grave filled, he covered it with flat stones from the stream. He stood beside it, panting, wondering what to do next. No holly grew near here that he could burn on the graves. Nor was there a woman to sing the song of mourning.

A sound from the hut made him turn in alarm. He smiled through his tears. Ollie stood by the rain barrel, watching him. A patch of wool had been singed from her flank-the work of the dragon.

Rune went inside and fetched a handful of grain for her. When she came forward to get it, he wrapped his arm around her neck, giving the little goat a hug. She shook herself free and nosed at the grain.

Then, exhausted and s.h.i.+vering as a chill breeze blew over his sweat-soaked tunic, Rune returned to the hut, threw himself down on his pallet, and slept as if he, too, were dead.