The Coming of the Dragon (29 page)

“It’s not bad. Go!”

The bard went.

Pushing his cloak behind him, Rune leapt onto the dais for a better view. Ketil was fighting a man whose helmet covered his entire face. Near him, Ottar and Brokk faced off against two of Dayraven’s warriors, men from the last patrol to return. He caught his breath—there was a body on the ground. Who? He couldn’t tell.

The crowd crushed to the sides of the hall, women holding crying children, unarmed farmers standing between them and the fighting. He had to get them out of the hall. Where was the bard?

“Rune! Get down!” Wyn screamed from behind him.
He dropped as an arrow whizzed over him. “Back here!” Wyn said, and he rolled off the dais, almost landing on Wyn, Thora, and Gerd.

“You’re hurt!” one of them said, but he didn’t register who it was because he was looking at the bard peering through the side door, giving an all-clear signal.

“Listen to me,” Rune said, pushing Wyn’s hands away from his wounded arm. “We’ve got to get people out of the hall and keep Dayraven and his men inside.”

The three women watched him expectantly.

“Wyn, will you go out the side door and run around to the front? You can slip in and start leading people out.”

She met his eyes.

“Go carefully,” he said, and watched as she crept along the dais on her hands and knees. She waited for a moment, then scuttled to the door. As soon as she was through it, he turned to Thora. “You don’t have to do this,” he said. “But I need someone to lead the ones nearer this door back around the dais and out.”

“Of course,” she said.

“Keep to the walls,” he whispered, but she was already gone.

“What about me?” Gerd’s voice rose to a wail.

“Gerd,” Rune said, thinking. He needed her safe and out of the way. “Will you stay here and guide people to the side door? Some of them will need help.”

She nodded wordlessly, but he could see the fear in her face.

“Courage, Gerd,” he said, laying his hand on her arm. Then he peered over the dais. Just on the other side, Ketil staggered as his opponent raised his sword for a killing blow. Rune raced around the platform and dove at the man, knocking him down, then leapt to his feet again. Ketil regained his footing and gave Rune a nod of acknowledgment.

Rune kept going. Beside the fire, Gar circled a helmeted warrior, but he seemed to be in control of his fight. Where were the Shylfings?

A groan behind him made him turn in time to see Brokk pulling his sword from a man’s body. Rune winced and ran toward the crowd that pushed for the door.

“You’ll be safe outside,” he said, his voice strong. “Be calm—get the children out. Some of you can go to the side door. Look for Thora!”

A stooped woman clutched at his wounded arm, making the pain flare up. He hissed, sucking in his breath, but she didn’t notice. “My lord,” she said, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Help us!” Carefully, he detached her fingers from his arm and held her hand in his gloved one. When someone else took her by the arm, Rune turned back to the fight, looking to see who needed help. The Shylfings—where were they?

From the corner of his eye, he saw a bow being raised, an arrow nocked, as a man stepped out from behind a beam. Rune ran, shoving the archer hard, just in time to send the arrow flying harmlessly upward. Then he dealt the
archer’s unhelmeted head a heavy blow with his sword hilt as Surt ran up, Buri a step behind him.

“We’ve got him,” Surt said as he twisted the warrior’s arm behind him.

Rune met Surt’s eyes, then raced on, passing Brokk, who gave him a battle grin; passing Ketil, who was binding a man’s hands and feet; passing Gar, who still circled the same warrior beside the fire. He could see the orderly line of unarmed people heading for the side door, Thora directing them.

“Cursed whelp,” a voice snarled.

Rune whirled, sword in both hands, and dropped into a fighting stance.

Dayraven stood staring at him, his eyes full of contempt. He was an experienced fighter, his bare arms thick as oak branches. Rune’s sword was no match for his.

He took a step back, sword raised, wishing he’d taken off the cloak. Now it twined around his legs, threatening to trip him, but he didn’t trust himself to let go of the sword to yank it away. He had no shield, no helmet, no coat of mail to protect him. Even his tunic hung in rags, its seams ripped open. He couldn’t get his breath.

Dayraven’s mail clinked as he stepped forward. Behind his masked helmet, his eyes glittered. No cloak obstructed his movements. Lightning fast, he raised his sword and brought it whistling down toward Rune’s head.

Finn’s training came back to him and Rune parried. The impact jarred his teeth and sent a surge of pain through his
burned hand. He gripped the hilt more tightly. “Don’t lose your nerve,” he whispered to himself, Finn’s admonition steadying him. He took another step back, watching for Dayraven’s next move. He dared not attack and leave his body unprotected—Dayraven was too fast for that.

Keeping his eyes on his opponent, Rune shut out the rest of the hall. Sound diminished and all he could hear was his own breathing, ragged and labored.

Again, Dayraven’s blade flashed toward him. Again, he parried just in time, stepping back. His foot came down on something, and he tripped, falling backward onto one knee as something metal clinked.
Don’t lose your nerve
, he told himself again, lifting his sword, ignoring the fire in his shield arm, the pain in his sword hand.

He struggled to get up, but the cloak tangled around his legs, pinning him down. Dayraven advanced, sword over his head.

Rune swung at the warrior’s knees, but Dayraven danced backward, growling as he did.

Rune had no choice but to take one hand off his sword to loosen the cloak. He wasn’t fast enough—the folds were twisted too tightly. He grasped the hilt again.

Dayraven stepped forward, keeping just out of Rune’s sword reach. He readied his own weapon for another blow.

Rune held his sword with both hands, looking up at Dayraven’s blade, preparing to parry it, knowing he wouldn’t be able to if Dayraven brought it down with his full strength.

The polished steel came slicing down, and Rune blocked it with all his might. It wasn’t enough. Dayraven’s blade slid off Rune’s and down onto his shoulder. Rune turned his head to the side to avoid the blow, but there was no need. Dayraven’s blade bounced harmlessly off Amma’s brooch.

Enraged, Dayraven advanced again, and Rune scrambled back as fast as he could, sword in both hands, his wounded left arm shaking with the effort, sweat dripping into his eyes.

Something stopped him—the dais. It blocked his path, keeping him from backing away. There was no escape. He was trapped.

He looked up.

Dayraven stood above him, weapon held high.

Rune tensed for the final blow. Time seemed to slow, and his heartbeat thundered in his ears.

As he watched, eyes wide with horror, the blade began its awful descent.

Then Dayraven’s body jerked. Below his mask, his jaw dropped as if in surprise. As his sword came down, Rune parried it easily. Dayraven slumped sideways, falling to the ground.

Behind him, a long, narrow blade in her hand, stood Hild.

Rune dropped his sword, untangling the cloak and scrambling to his feet in time to catch her by the elbow as she swayed.

“There was a hole in his mail,” she whispered.

Rune could feel her body shaking—or maybe it was his. “My lady,” he said.

White-faced, she looked into his eyes. “I was supposed to weave peace.”

Rune looked down at Dayraven’s body.

Hild followed his gaze. “Is he dead?”

He nodded.

She looked as if she might be sick.

Gently, he took her arm and led her along the dais, away from the body. When they stopped, she dropped her head, then lifted it and looked at him, angry tears glinting in her eyes. “I’m sick of the killing.”

“Hild,” he said quietly. “You saved my life.”

She swallowed.

“Where are your guards?” he asked.

“Outside. Looking for me,” she said. Very faintly, she smiled at him.

Rune gazed at her dark eyes, at the way her lips quirked at the corners before they turned serious again. Suddenly, as if spring had come to a frozen river, he felt a melting in his stomach. She met his eyes, and for a long moment, it seemed to Rune as if he had found the home he’d been looking for all these years, the home he’d never known he lacked.

She looked away, her eyes drawn to something on the ground. She stooped to pick it up. The thing he had tripped over. The crown. She reached up and settled it onto
his head, pushing a lock of sweaty hair out of his eyes and tucking it behind his ear. The touch of her fingers sent a shiver tingling through him.

In the distance, somebody shouted his name, and Rune turned to see Ketil by the fire pit, waving his blade.

Suddenly, Rune remembered where he was. What was happening? Where was his sword? He lunged for it, taking in the situation in the hall in an instant. Two men bound, two others lying dead. Dayraven’s men. Where was the fifth, the archer?

In the back of the hall, he saw him tied to a beam, flanked by Buri and Surt. And the rest of his own warriors? He scanned the hall. Ottar and Gar guarded the two bound men while Brokk stood wiping the blood from his sword blade. Hemming—where was Hemming? There, with Fulla by his side. Wounded? If he was, he was still standing. Od stood by the fire, a dazed look on his face, and Thialfi and Wyn’s brothers were just coming in the door, escorting the Shylfings.

Rune looked back at Ketil. Why was he waving his sword? What was wrong?

Ketil flashed him a wide grin and waved his weapon again.

Relief flooding through him, Rune took a breath and grinned back.

Suddenly, the hall seemed full of people as the crowd surged back through the doors.

From the side door, the bard strode forward. He held
up a hand to command silence, and Rune stared at him, trying to comprehend.

“Wiglaf, son of Weohstan, King of the Geats!” the bard cried in a loud voice. Cheers rose and more people streamed through the doors and back into the hall. Someone began beating the drums, and the sound of glad voices grew deafening.

But Rune barely heard it. He was looking at Hild. As they stared into each other’s eyes, he felt his body trembling and he couldn’t seem to catch his breath.

Hild inclined her head without taking her eyes off his. “Your people,” she whispered. “They’re waiting for you.”

“They’ll be your people, too,” he whispered back. The crown slipped forward, over his eye.

She reached up to straighten it, the fleeting smile returning to her lips.

Then she took his hand, and together they turned to face the cheering crowd.

The last section of the Anglo-Saxon poem
Beowulf
takes place long after the hero’s more famous fights with Grendel and Grendel’s mother. After those exploits, Beowulf rules the Geats for over fifty years. Then comes the dragon.

When a slave steals a single cup from the dragon’s treasure hoard, the creature takes vengeance by fire-blasting Beowulf’s kingdom. The king vows revenge and picks eleven of his best warriors—his hearth companions—to accompany him to the dragon’s barrow. But during the fight, all of the king’s men flee in terror. All except one, that is: the young warrior Wiglaf. Wiglaf reminds the other men of their mead-hall boasts and exhorts them to help the king. None will—they are too afraid. So Wiglaf alone goes to his lord’s assistance. Together, the old man and the young one kill the dragon, but during the fight, Beowulf
receives his death wound. Before he dies, he names Wiglaf his heir.

In Anglo-Saxon literature—works composed in England between the years 600 and 1066—one of the worst things a man could do was abandon his leader in battle. Dying beside your lord was preferable to the shame of surviving him. Yet in
Beowulf
, ten of the king’s handpicked warriors flee to the woods when their lord needs them most. I have always wondered what it was about the dragon that made those men run away, and what it was about Wiglaf that allowed him to withstand the terror. In this book, I have tried to imagine the situation for myself and to answer those questions.

Doing so meant that I had to reshape the story to fit my own purposes, changing many details. Wiglaf’s heritage is one of those changes. In the poem, he is indeed a Wayamunding (or
Wægmunding)
, just as Beowulf is, and after he alone comes to the king’s aid in the dragon fight, Beowulf names Wiglaf, his only surviving kinsman, as his heir. In fact, almost everything that happens during the dragon fight and directly after it is taken straight from the poem. So is the dragon’s awakening—after a slave steals a single cup from its hoard—and the dragon’s attack on Beowulf’s kingdom. The rest I invented.

In the poem, Wiglaf was no orphan and he had no nickname. His father, Weohstan (who did kill Eanmund, son of Ohthere, although I changed the details), was one of Beowulf’s men, but he died before the dragon attack.
Amma is invented, as are Hild, Wyn, Ketil Flat-Nose, and most of the other characters. I borrowed names from
Beowulf
and other Anglo-Saxon and Old Norse stories. For example, Dayraven—
Dæghrefn
in Old English—is the name of a warrior Beowulf killed in hand-to-hand combat during a raid in Frisia long before he became king. The feud with the Shylfings, or
Scylfingas
, underlies much of the poem, and in the last lines, there is a sense of foreboding, a feeling that the Shylfings will attack the Geats now that their hero-king is dead. Those familiar with the poem may hear echoes from other sections of the poem within the novel as well, such as Rune’s words before the funeral pyre. They are the last lines of the poem:

    
he wære wyruldcyninga

mannum mildust ond monðwærust
,

leodum liðost ond lofgeornost

(of the kings of this world he was the most gentle,
the most gracious, the kindest to his people and
the most eager for fame)

    Although the poem was composed in England sometime between 700 and 1000, it recalls tales and events from the sixth century, a past long distant even then. The story takes place in Scandinavia, not England, in a time before Christianity came to those shores. Just as the poem does, I have combined details from Anglo-Saxon England with
those from medieval Scandinavia. The
Beowulf
poet doesn’t specify what gods and goddesses his characters worshiped, just that they were heathens, so I have drawn on what we know about Norse religion to invent cultural references for my characters. The result is no more historical than the poem
Beowulf
is.