"Finn," the crowd answered, and Rune shut his eyes to the image of the warrior dead on the mountainside.

"Brand," the bard said. Again the people answered, calling back the name of the king's hearth companion, committing him to the care of the G.o.ds.

Modi, Thorgrim, Beorc the Red. On and on rolled the litany of the people killed by the dragon. Rune stared into the fire, repeating each name along with the crowd. When the bard came to Amma, Rune formed the word with his lips, but no sound came out. Nor could he say the names that came after: Hwala, Skyn, Skoll, Ula.

Not until the bard had moved on to Wald and Thorgunna and their children did the constriction in his throat loosen, unlocking his voice.

The bard finally fell silent, and Thora stepped forward, a flagon in her hands. She stopped in front of the bonfire, and Rune could see her lips moving, saying some ritual words he didn't know. Then she poured a stream of golden mead into the fire.

"May the G.o.ds receive them all!" the king called out, and the crowd repeated his words, adding their own. Names floated into the black sky as voices called them out. A woman wailed, "Thorgunna!" Her mother, Rune thought, or maybe her sister.

He bowed his head. "Hwala," he said in a low voice. "Skyn. Skoll. Ula." He swallowed and took a shaky breath. "Amma." He looked up, staring into the flames. They blurred and he blinked, then spoke again. This time his voice was clear and strong. "Amma."

After a few moments, the king held up his hands again, asking for attention. "The dragon killed them. For that crime, with Thor's help, we will kill the dragon!"

Thundering erupted from behind the oak tree, and Rune looked toward it. He could just make out the shapes of men and boys drumming on hollow logs.

Now a path began to open in the crowd as people stepped backward. He watched, trying to understand what was happening. Then he saw Buri and Surt stepping into the light, each with a straw dragon arm on his shoulder-the effigy he had helped them build. People's tears turned to laughter as the dragon wove through the crowd, diving at a group of women and children, who screamed and ducked. As it came closer, Rune could see Brokk and Thialfi balancing the back legs on their shoulders and, behind them, Od holding up the tail.

Buri glanced his way and called out over the noise, "Rune, come help!" but Rune didn't move.

They veered away from him, the crowd parting before the dragon, Oski and Omi leaping up to touch its tail while Gerd ran after her cousins, trying to catch them and smiling at the laughing crowd as the little boys kept just out of her reach.

When the dragon neared the fire, the drumming intensified. The men carrying it held the effigy high in the air, twisting it like a dragon in flight. Then the drumming stopped and so did the dragon. The king raised his sword. Into the silence, he shouted, "You who battled the Midgard Serpent, help us slay the serpent who torments us. As it has burned our kingdom, so let it become ashes. The dragon will die!"

His sword flashed down, and as it did, the men threw the straw creature into the fire. Flames consumed it, sending sparks flying, and the drumming began again, the sound competing with the cheering of the crowd.

Rune's face felt too stiff to cheer. On the other side of the bonfire, he could see Wyn, standing by herself now, tears still glinting on her cheeks as she smiled and clapped. As he studied her, a memory came to him, a winter memory from the hall, where her father had been teaching spear-work. He remembered setting down his heavy linden spear and looking into a corner to see Amma, firelight illuminating her hands as she wove them through the air, the way she did when she told stories. He could almost hear her bracelets clinking as they danced up and down her wrists. Sitting before her, a group of girls and women nodded their heads appreciatively as she spoke. Nearby, leaning against a beam, Wyn stood transfixed, her eyes on Amma's face.

It wasn't the only time he'd seen them together, he realized now. Memories flickered through his mind like light through oak branches on a summer day: Amma and Wyn walking together, arms linked, talking; the two of them bending over a bowl, Amma explaining something about cooking or healing-Rune wasn't sure what.

Wyn turned in his direction, and he looked away, ashamed of the rudeness he'd shown her, embarra.s.sed to have thought she might have favored him.

The noise began to lessen, and he looked up to see the king holding his arm out to Thora. She advanced toward him slowly, the great, curved drinking horn in both hands. Its polished silver fittings gleamed, and Rune could see the honey-colored mead spilling over and running down the horn's sides.

The king spoke. "Tomorrow, the dragon dies. I will take with me ten warriors, the best of those here tonight. Thora!"

Thora held out the horn to the king. He took it from her, drank, and handed it back as people murmured their approval.

Then she walked toward Dayraven. As cold as the night air was, the warrior wore no cloak and his arm muscles bulged from his sleeveless tunic, exposing his gold armbands-all the rings he'd earned from the king for his prowess in battle. He accepted the horn and held it high. Rune could hear the sounds of approval from the crowd. Dayraven might have lost three fingers on his s.h.i.+eld hand, but it hadn't lessened the power of his sword arm. He was a proven warrior, the one people were saying the king would choose as his successor now that Finn was gone. Dayraven turned to the crowd. "The wild ox who gave us this horn tried his best to kill me." He brandished the horn like a weapon, and mead sloshed from its mouth. "But just as I slew the great aurochs, so will I kill the dragon!" He took a long quaff, then handed the horn back to Thora.

"Dayraven!" someone yelled, and people clapped and whistled as the warrior stepped forward to stand beside the king.

Silence fell again as Thora walked around the circle. She stopped in front of Gar and stretched up to give him the horn; he had to lean down to take it. After drinking, he glanced around the crowd and gave a sudden grim smile. "The Wendel tribesmen are missing a warrior because of my sword." He unsheathed it with a ringing sound and held it in the air, where it caught the light from the bonfire. "And because of my sword, the dragon will be missing his life." He sheathed it again. As he strode up to join the king, people in the crowd slapped his back and called his name.

Ketil was next. Rune watched his friend accept the horn. Ketil had always been good with spear and sword. His father had been a warrior; he'd grown up in the stronghold. n.o.body had been surprised when he'd been made one of the king's hearth companions. Rune could hear people murmuring words of favor as Ketil drank. He gave the horn back to Thora, his gray eyes wide in his solemn face. A movement made Rune turn just as Ketil began to speak his oath. It was Wyn, clasping her hands to her breast. He gazed at her s.h.i.+ning eyes, the look of eagerness on her face. When he turned back, Ketil was already standing beside the king, and Thora was moving toward the next man.

Ottar took the cup and drank. Rune squinted at him-the blond warrior's beard looked as if it were dripping with blood. He must have just dyed it in honor of Thor, Rune realized, and looked around to see if anyone else had done the same, but it was hard to tell in the wavering firelight. Ottar asked the G.o.d to stand with him in the fight, then shook his spear before he took his place. As he did, he wobbled and came so close to tripping that Ketil had to reach out to steady him; clearly, this wasn't the first mead Ottar had swallowed tonight. As he regained his balance and shook his spear again, the crowd cheered.

Brokk stepped forward next, firelight gleaming off his bald pate. He swung his cloak back to expose his armbands, but he didn't need to. Everyone knew Brokk was an obvious choice to fight beside the king. "You know what Thor did to the frost giants?" he called out.

"Hit 'em with his hammer!" somebody yelled.

"That's right-he cracked their skulls, just like I'll do with the dragon!" Brokk said, and people clapped and cried out, "Brokk!"

The cheers died down after Brokk joined the group of chosen warriors, and a muttering went through the crowd. Rune looked to see Thora heading toward Thialfi. "But his arm!" a woman near Rune whispered, and another hushed her, saying, "It's his warcraft the king wants." Scattered encouragement followed Thialfi as he joined the king, his sword arm hanging useless. Rune knew he wasn't the only one thinking about Finn and the five dead members of the king's hearth companions, or wondering when the border patrols would return home. Still, he could barely believe it when Thora approached Hemming. Age had robbed him of his strength-could his experience make up for it?

Hemming handed the horn back to Thora and cleared his throat. "The Wulfings," he started before he had to cough and clear his throat again. "The Wulfing raiders, they had us outnumbered," he said, and Rune heard someone near him groan lightly. Was Hemming going to tell the whole story, the way he did every chance he got?

Fulla laid her hand on her husband's arm and said something so quietly that only he could hear.

Hemming jerked his arm free and then looked back at Fulla. "My wife thinks I'll just talk the dragon to death," he said, and then glared at the crowd. "Maybe I will."

Dayraven roared with laughter, breaking the tension, and others joined in. Rune looked to see the king smiling at Hemming, who was now smiling himself.

"I'll tell it how we surprised the Wulfing raiders, how we came around from behind-"

Fulla gave him a push forward, and he turned back to her. "Old woman, you listen to how I'll kill that dragon."

She smiled. "Save your breath for the monster. Go join the king."

Hemming looked around at the crowd, gave a little shrug, and walked forward.

"Hemming!" someone yelled, and the crowd erupted into cheers.

When the noise finally settled, Thora offered the horn to Buri. He took a step back, his sunburned face reddening further, glanced at Surt, and then accepted it. Rune could see his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. "For Wald and Thorgunna," he said, and then quickly joined the king. Ketil reached out and clapped Buri on the arm as he got near, and Rune saw Buri ducking his head in embarra.s.sment.

Surt was even more abashed than Buri. Whatever vow he made was lost-he mumbled it so low that no one could hear, and he kept his head down as he went to stand beside Buri.

Warriors were scarce if Buri and Surt were needed to make up the ten. The two men did know the southern approach to the mountain, Rune thought, and they could wield an ax. They'd trained with spear and ax like everybody else, even if neither of them owned a sword. But they were farmers who just wanted to get back to their fields. He shook his head.

He counted the men standing by the king. Nine.

People s.h.i.+fted, looking around to see who was left. Behind him, Rune saw Od, who was younger than he was, shaking his mother's hand off his shoulder.

Then he turned. Thora was walking directly toward him, her face solemn, the drinking horn in her hands. His mouth went dry. What vow would he make?

He had no spear, no helmet, he realized. Maybe he could ask Wyn to let him borrow her uncle Brand's.

He could feel his heart pounding with nervousness and excitement as the horn got nearer and nearer, and now he could see the faces of the crowd reflected in its silver fittings.

He reached out his hands to take it.

Thora brushed past him, her eyes on someone else.

FIFTEEN.

"OD!" A WOMAN CRIED, BUT RUNE DIDN'T SEE THE BOY beyond him taking the horn. His pulse pounded in his ears, and his breath came fast and shallow. beyond him taking the horn. His pulse pounded in his ears, and his breath came fast and shallow.

He'd been on the mountain. He'd seen the dragon-twice. He'd even seen the spot on the dragon's chest. And he had to avenge Amma.

None of that mattered. He hadn't been chosen.

He looked back at the men standing by the king. Could there be a mistake? He counted them again. No, no mistake.

The king didn't want him. It was that simple. Of course he didn't-Rune had already told him exactly how he had fallen, trembling, to the ground when the dragon flew over. The king needed warriors, not boys afraid of their own shadows.

He stared straight ahead, unseeing, barely noticing as Od moved past him to join the king, not listening to the king's words to the men, their vows to him, the crowd's cheers.

The circle broke as people headed for food. As hungry as he had been, his appet.i.te was gone. He felt sick with shame-for thinking the horn had been coming to him, for thinking he had been worthy of it. For not being worthy.

To the king, Buri and Surt seemed like better warriors than he was. Od, too, even though he was at least a winter younger than Rune, maybe two. Hemming, whose sword hand wavered with age, and Thialfi, who couldn't even bear a sword. All of them were better to have beside you in a dragon fight than Rune.

People moved past, brus.h.i.+ng against him, but he stood rooted like a tree.

"You ought to get some of this-it's good," a voice said. He blinked and saw Ketil standing near him, chewing on a hunk of meat. Goat meat, from the buck that had been sacrificed to Thor. The heart went to the G.o.d, the liver to the king, and the choicest parts of the meat to his warriors. People like Rune got what was left.

"Thought you'd be going with us." Ketil shook his head ruefully as a dribble of juice made its way down his chin.

"What, someone who can't even hold on to his own sword?" Rune spat the words, then turned and walked out of the fire's light.

What a fool he'd been to think the king liked him, trusted him. Look at what he'd just found out-King Beowulf had loved Amma, whose son Rune's father had killed. He thought of the way the king had looked at him earlier, just before the messenger had called him away, his eyes conveying something that Rune hadn't recognized at the time. Contempt? For what his father had done?

He walked farther into the dark, stumbling over a clod of earth, and stood watching his breath condense into white clouds in the cold night. He wrapped Wyn's uncle's cloak tightly around him. Wyn. He couldn't even think about how stupid he'd been, how his unfortunate mouth had ruined everything when she was trying to be nice to him.

And Ketil. Of course Wyn would want a man like Ketil, a warrior, not a spineless rabbit like Rune. Had Ketil known anything about Rune's feelings for Wyn? Rune hoped not, even if Ketil would never have said anything about it.

Behind him, the sounds of the crowd wove together like a comforting blanket warming all those who stood inside the circle of firelight. He stepped farther into the cold shadows.

The bard plucked his harp and called out, signaling the start of a song. Rune recognized the opening words-it was the tale of King Beowulf fighting Grendel, defeating the horrifying monster bare-handed, without so much as a sword.

He looked back at the bonfire. The bard was a dark figure in front of it. Around him people cl.u.s.tered, eating and drinking as he chanted his lay. Then Rune saw someone walking through the crowd, stopping to talk with people, firelight catching his golden crown. The king leaned in close to speak to a woman, and when she turned her head, Rune saw that it was Var, Brand's widow. When the king stooped down to Var's little girl, she hid her face in her mother's skirts. The king didn't move, but before long, Var's daughter did, taking a tentative step toward the king while still holding on to her mother's protective skirt. He waited, unmoving, allowing the child to come to him. When she dropped the skirt and reached out, he folded her into his arms for a moment before she scurried back to her mother.

"Rune? Is that you?" a woman called, making him jump.

He turned to see Elli not far from him, reaching for a basket.

"Did you get anything to eat? Come, there's plenty."

Reluctantly, he walked toward her while she waited.

She held out the basket. "Carry this for me, will you?" When he took it, she turned back to the light, and Rune followed her to the fire, where she still had fish frying. A group of women and children bunched on a log near it moved over to make room for him. As Rune sat down and took the fish Elli handed him, a little boy he didn't know ambled over to him. Standing, the boy was just tall enough to look into Rune's face.

"You saw the dragon."

Rune nodded, chewing.

The boy watched him with wide eyes.

Rune took another bite. His hunger had returned with a vengeance, and he finished the fish, crunching the bones and licking the grease off his fingers.

"Were you scared?" the boy whispered.

Rune looked back at him, then nodded.

"Is he bothering you? Here, have some more," Elli said.

Rune took the fish and bread she offered, nodding his thanks. "It's all right; he's not bothering me." Turning his attention to the boy again, he said, "I've never been that afraid in my life."

The boy nodded solemnly and watched him finish his second helping. "I would have been scared, too," he said, then ran to join his mother. She was speaking quietly to someone beside her, and Rune wondered if she was one of the widows the dragon had made or if she was one of the lucky ones, whose husbands were still out on patrol.

His belly finally satisfied, he sat silently as quiet conversations ebbed and flowed around him, women talking about who had died, who had survived, when their men would return. Across the fire from him, a girl crooned a lullaby to a baby-Elli's, he thought-while toddlers, growing sleepy, leaned into their mothers' skirts.

When he turned his attention to the bonfire, he saw that the bard was still singing, now about Sigmund the dragon-slayer. Brief s.n.a.t.c.hes of the lay penetrated the women's talk. Rune watched the bard's expression as Sigmund crept past gray stone to enter the dragon's cave alone, courage his only companion. Beyond the poet, the flames leapt and danced fiercely, fearlessly.

It was no mere adventure the king and his warriors would be seeking in the morning when they rode out to find the dragon, Rune thought. They would be fighting to save these women and children, as well as the rest of the kingdom, with its farms and fields and families. The king needed men beside him he could count on, men who wouldn't be overcome by their cowardice.

He lowered his head, wis.h.i.+ng he were one of those men, knowing why he wasn't. The truth of it bit into him, galling him-he was no warrior.

The king had been right not to choose him.

SIXTEEN.

THE WARRIORS LEFT BEFORE DAWN.

It had been a short night. After the mead-drinking and tale-singing, the bonfire had finally died out and Rune had joined the long line of people making their way back to the stronghold, smoking torches lighting their way and fending off the spirits of the dead. He carried a basket for Elli in one hand and over his shoulder, a sleeping child, the boy who had spoken to him while he had eaten. He followed the boy's mother to a house, and as she held up a light for him, he laid the child in his bed.

Finally, bone-tired, he found himself a spot in the campsite where he didn't think he'd be trampled, took off his mail s.h.i.+rt and his sword, wrapped himself in his borrowed cloak, and-despite his bruised body and his wounded pride-fell into a deep sleep.

It seemed as if he'd barely lain down when the sounds of footsteps and hushed voices woke him. Groggily, he listened to a dog barking and the clink of chain mail being pulled over someone's head. It was already morning. As he roused himself, he could hear women farewelling their men while children whimpered at being up so early. Torches lit the dark, and Rune stood to watch, pulling the cloak around himself against the cold air as bond servants led horses from the stable and warriors mounted them.

One horseman kept himself away from the others, and with a shock of recognition, Rune realized it was the slave. Over the flickering light of a campfire, he looked straight at Rune and bared his sharp teeth in a mirthless grin.