Rune recoiled. The malevolence in the slave's expression struck him like a physical blow.

Then the slave pulled his horse's reins hard, making it whinny and wheel toward the king, who turned Silvertop just in time to avoid hitting the slave's horse.

With the slave in front beside the king, the warriors rode out of the stronghold, some singly, some in pairs, the sounds of hooves and jingling mail fading into the darkness. When they were out of earshot, the crowd dispersed, people returning to their huts and houses, leaving Rune alone in the open.

He lay back down, knowing he'd never be able to go back to sleep. Burrowing under the cloak, trying to ignore the cold, he regarded the lopsided moon hanging in the western sky. It looked no bigger than a s.h.i.+eld.

There was no point in his staying in the stronghold, he decided. He wasn't needed here. When it got light enough, he might as well go back to the farm to harvest the single remaining field and to see what he could salvage. He tried not to think of the men going to find the dragon, of not being one of them. Shame wove together with regret in a pattern that lulled him into uneasy dreams.

He woke suddenly. The sound of a hundred heartbeats filled his ears, and he sat upright, blinking in confusion before a wave of dizziness. .h.i.t him, making him roll to his side, holding his head against the sudden throbbing in his temples. Everything went black.

"Survivor of war," a voice said. Amma's voice.

Rune caught his breath.

The slave's face looked directly into his own, eyes glinting with malice. Then it disappeared and Rune saw a misty cliff. What was it? It didn't make sense.

Amma's voice sounded inside his head again. "He leads men astray." The words triggered something in him, some knowledge, but exactly what floated just beyond his grasp.

He stared at the cliff, trying to understand. A third time came the voice: "You know where to go." Where? What did she mean?

"Now! Go!" The voice was harsh, startling him to attention.

"Amma?" he said, but the vision was gone.

Rune blinked. He felt as if he'd been taken far away, to another place and time, but here he was, still on the ground in the stronghold, his head feeling like it would split apart with pain, his heart pounding, his breath coming in gasps. He blinked again and swallowed the bile in his throat, steadying himself against the dizziness that still made him feel as if he weren't entirely solid.

Carefully, he looked around him, at the sun's rays just starting to filter through the birch trees, at the smoking remains of campfires the warriors had left behind them, at the mist that lay thick on the ground. As he gulped in the cold morning air and tried to understand what he'd seen, the answer came rus.h.i.+ng into his head. The cliff-it was the place where he'd almost gone over the edge when he'd hunted the dragon. And the stranger. Rune didn't know who he was, but he was sure of one thing: the man was no slave. Was he even human? Whoever-whatever-he was, he would be taking the king and his men to the dragon by now.

No, not to the dragon. He'd be leading them astray-over the cliff?

He remembered the look in the slave's eyes and sucked in his breath.

The king-he had to warn the king!

Adrenaline rushed through his veins. He threw off his cloak and grabbed at his mail s.h.i.+rt, pulling it over his head and cinching it as fast as he could; then he strapped on his sword, fingers fumbling in his hurry. He raced for the stable, calling out, "Hairy-Hoof!" as he ran. She whinnied and pranced in her stall, excited by his mood. Once her saddle was on, he swung himself onto her back, whispered, "May the Hammerer give you strength," into her ear, and kicked his heels into her sides.

Like a warhorse, she thundered out of the stable and past a servant, who scrambled to get out of the way. As they rode out of the stronghold and into the morning light, Rune looked toward the mountain, hoping to see riders in the distance. But no, he realized, too much time had pa.s.sed-they would be far ahead of him.

His tailbone ached, his swordbelt bit into his bruises, his head pounded, but he ignored the pain. None of that mattered now. The only thing that mattered was finding the king in time.

Down the path that led to the Feasting Field he rode, and through the stand of birch trees, green and red-gold leaves flas.h.i.+ng past, chittering sparrows rising from the branches, disturbed by the noise. As he left the trees, the mountain came into view and Hairy-Hoof broke into a gallop. Rune leaned forward to ease his aching body and closed his eyes against rising nausea from the pain in his head. "Just hold on," he told himself, "just hold on."

They rode through shadowy fir trees, then emerged into the light again. As they pa.s.sed the marshes, the dank smell of rotting vegetation reached Rune's nostrils. Up one rise and then another, through thickets of ash and elm, branches grabbing at them like claws and making Hairy-Hoof shy. Always, the mountain drew them forward. But it was still so far-they would never make it in time.

Hours seemed to pa.s.s, or maybe it was only minutes; he couldn't tell. They seemed no closer at all until they emerged from a stand of trees and Rune looked up to see the mountain's steep sides. As they approached, a whinny told them other horses were nearby. Hairy-Hoof tossed her head, and Rune let her have her way-she wanted to join them.

The horses greeted each other as Rune slid from Hairy-Hoof's back.

He leaned his head against her flank for a last moment of warmth, then straightened his sword and looked up at the crag path. No footprints disturbed the dirt. Where were they?

Hurrying past the horses, he scanned the ground and the mountainside, following the trail of disturbed earth. Just past the place where he'd come down the mountain when he'd found Finn's body, footprints led upward. He hesitated. He didn't know the way to the cliff from here, and if he tried to follow the footprints, he might lose them on the rocks.

Besides, he thought, maybe he'd been wrong. Maybe he'd misunderstood the vision.

A sound made him look back, past the horses, to the bottom of the crag. A white goat stood there. He watched as it eyed him, then bounded up the path to the crag.

Swallowing hard, he broke into a run. The horses, seeing him coming, whinnied and scattered out of his way. But at the bottom of the crag path, he stopped, overwhelmed by indecision. He looked at the trail of footprints the king and his men had left, then back at the crag path. What if the other way was a shortcut?

Go. Now. Amma's voice pounded at the insides of his skull, making him blink at the pain. He started climbing.

Twice he slipped in the loose dirt; twice he fell to his knees. There was nothing to do but haul himself back up and keep going. His sword slapped against his leg, threatening to trip him as he bent double to climb the steep path. Wind whipped his hair into his eyes.

Finally, he made it to the top of the crag and stood breathing heavily, looking at the path he'd taken before, the one that had led him to the sheer drop-off, the hidden cliff edge. "Don't let me be too late. Oh, G.o.ds, please, don't let me be too late," he whispered, wis.h.i.+ng he'd taken the time to dedicate something on Thor's altar in the Feasting Field. He started forward again, scrambling up the rocky slope, keeping his body low and grabbing at bushes to pull himself along.

At first, he kept his eye out for signs to remind himself of the path he'd taken when he'd come this way before, but soon he realized he had no need to. Without understanding how, he knew exactly where to go. If only he could get there faster. He needed Freyja's falcon-skin cloak to fly high and fast above these rocks and trees. He needed Thor's goat-drawn chariot that flew through the air.

He slipped on loose pebbles, hitting his knee on a rock and righting himself before the pain had time to reach his brain. Up and up, around a boulder, over a gra.s.sy dip, past a stand of fir trees, his breath coming in sharp gasps.

When his foot crunched on the same skeleton he'd seen before, he stopped to get his bearings, straining his ears for the sounds of the troop. Instead, he heard the whistling wind and, far away, the shriek of an eagle.

An eagle! He'd seen one below him before, when he'd almost fallen over the hidden cliff edge. It shrieked again, a fierce hunting cry, and Rune looked up to see a line of fir trees. Directly beyond it was the cliff. He raced forward, pus.h.i.+ng through p.r.i.c.kly fir branches, emerging into the light again.

n.o.body was there.

He was too late.

SEVENTEEN.

HE SLUMPED TO HIS KNEES, SICK WITH DESPAIR. IF ONLY he'd been faster, if only he hadn't fallen asleep again after the warriors had left. How much time had he wasted at the bottom of the mountain, trying to decide which way to go? The other way must have been faster; he should have taken it. he'd been faster, if only he hadn't fallen asleep again after the warriors had left. How much time had he wasted at the bottom of the mountain, trying to decide which way to go? The other way must have been faster; he should have taken it.

He crouched in the dirt, letting the cold wind batter him, not bothering to pull his cloak around his shoulders. Nothing mattered now.

Another gust of air brought with it a sound. A voice.

He stiffened, listening.

Again, a voice. The slave?

Rune stood. Moving stealthily, he stepped into the fir trees. Did the slave have an accomplice? Was he a Shylfing spy, preparing for an attack on the kingdom?

Rune stood silent as snow, listening. Now he heard feet and the jingling of armor.

"This way," the slave said.

"You're sure?" someone asked.

Rune gasped with relief. It was the king's voice. He wasn't too late after all.

Through the branches, the slave emerged into view, the king less than a step behind him, his boar-crested helmet covering his forehead and cheeks. Crowding close came another warrior, chain mail hanging from his helmet, obscuring his face. Dayraven, Rune realized when the wind blew back his cloak, revealing his s.h.i.+ning armbands. Behind him, two more helmeted warriors stepped heavily, their mail clinking.

"Of course I'm sure. Hurry-it's that way." The slave pointed toward the cliff, and Rune saw him hesitate a moment, letting the king get ahead of him. From that angle, the king wouldn't realize it was a cliff until he was already over it. No wonder the slave had chosen a different route.

"My lord!" Rune called, stepping out from behind the trees. "King Beowulf, stop!"

Two steps away from falling, the king turned to look at Rune. As he did, a sudden movement caught Rune's eye. The slave rushed forward, shoving the king.

Rune screamed a warning and lunged at the two men as Dayraven and the other warriors surged forward, not realizing their peril, pus.h.i.+ng the king closer to the cliff. In the tussle of bodies and helmets, Rune grabbed an arm. Somebody backed into him, stepping on his foot. An iron helmet smacked against his cheek. Where was the king?

A flash of gold, the king's golden torque, fell forward, and he grabbed again, closing his arms around someone's chest, the two of them falling together. A scream rent the air, a long trailing cry that turned into a shriek like a falcon's.

Someone had gone over the cliff.

In the sudden stillness, Rune felt the heartbeat of the man under him and the wool of a cloak pressing against his cheek.

Cold iron jabbed into the back of his neck.

"Unhand the king," a harsh voice said.

Below him on the ground, encircled in Rune's arms, King Beowulf twisted his head to look up through the eyeholes in his helmet's mask.

"He could unhand me more easily if you weren't skewering him with your spear," the king said mildly.

The iron came away from his neck and Rune sat up. The king reached out a hand, and Rune pulled him up as they both stood.

"Who went over?" the king asked, looking from one warrior to another.

"The slave, my lord," someone said. Gar.

The king nodded. "Dayraven, lower your weapon."

Rune s.h.i.+fted his eyes to the right and saw the warrior's spear pointed directly at him. The other men crowded close, circling as if to keep Rune from escaping.

"But, my lord-" Dayraven said.

The king raised a hand, palm up, to stop him. "The slave was our enemy, not Rune." He adjusted the gleaming torque at his neck and shook his chain mail into place, brus.h.i.+ng dirt from his cloak. Then he looked at Rune and spoke in a low voice. "How did you know?"

Rune opened his mouth and then closed it. How could he explain? The king watched him, waiting. He swallowed and met the king's eyes. "Amma," he said.

"A vision?" He looked toward the cliff, not waiting for an answer. "Did she tell you who he was?"

Rune licked his dry lips. "I don't think he was a slave."

The king looked back at him. "Go on."

"His clothes were...In the visions, he was wearing rich clothes." He searched his memory for details. "There was, well, a wolf, standing right beside him. His cloak was like feathers. And he had a sword." He looked down at his own sword hilt, careful not to touch it while Dayraven's spear still hovered, ready to strike.

King Beowulf followed his gaze. "You've seen all this? Visions from Amma?"

Rune nodded.

The king watched him with a thoughtful expression.

"My lord," Gar said. "There could be others-the slave might have had accomplices."

"I think not," the king said, turning to his troop. "But you're right-we should be wary. And we should get away from this cliff."

As they began moving back the way they had come, Rune heard angry whispering. Buri and Surt, looking less like warriors in their borrowed helmets than they would have with no helmets at all, were arguing in muted tones. Buri carried the king's iron s.h.i.+eld for him, holding it as if it weighed no more than a stalk of oats. "You have have to tell the king," he said loudly enough that the others fell silent. The two men looked around to see everyone else staring at them. to tell the king," he said loudly enough that the others fell silent. The two men looked around to see everyone else staring at them.

"Tell me what?" the king asked, his voice light.

Surt gave Buri an angry look, then whipped his helmet off and stepped forward. "It was nothing, I'm sure."

"What was nothing?"

"My lord, I can barely see out of this thing." Surt held up the helmet.

"Then, Surt, I'll keep that in mind when you tell me what you may or may not have seen."

Surt looked back at the other farmer, who whispered, "Go on, tell him."

"Oh, all right. When that slave went over the cliff," Surt said, and looked at the ground. "He fell a long way, and then, it was like-" He stopped and looked at the king. "My lord, I couldn't see with this helmet on."

"I understand," the king said.

Surt turned his face back at the ground and breathed out heavily. "It was like he was falling and then he wasn't even there, but there was a bird-it looked like a falcon-flying away." He shook his head helplessly. "But this helmet, I can't even see."

"Thank you, Surt," the king said, and touched him on the shoulder.

Surt stepped back beside Buri, giving him an angry glance.

The men looked at each other, but no one spoke.

Finally, the king said, "Only the G.o.ds can s.h.i.+ft their shapes." He glanced around. "Let's go."

With a jingling of mail, the men began walking back down the path they had come up.

Rune joined them. What did the king mean, only the G.o.ds can s.h.i.+ft their shapes only the G.o.ds can s.h.i.+ft their shapes? he wondered as he walked, trying to keep his headache at bay. He remembered the image from Amma's wall hanging, of the G.o.ddess Freyja holding her falcon-skin cloak out to Loki, the Sly One, who used it to fly from world to world.

He wished he could put it all together, but his head hurt too much.