"It went behind the rocks," Thialfi said.

"No, it didn't; Gar's right," Brokk said. "That goat disappeared. The Hammerer!" He clutched at his Thor's hammer amulet.

So did Ketil, and Rune heard several men muttering quick prayers to Thor.

The procession started up again. Rune's head throbbed and his hand was on fire. Exhaustion spread over him like a blanket, and he stumbled on a rock.

Ketil was beside him instantly, catching his arm.

"I'm all right," Rune said.

Trying not to think about what he had just seen, one more unreal thing in a day full of unreality, he followed the king's body down the mountain.

TWENTY-TWO.

LIGHT SLID UNDER HIS LASHES AS RUNE OPENED HIS EYES a fraction. He didn't know where he was. He lay still, listening. Somewhere nearby, a man and a woman were speaking quietly, and he could smell porridge cooking. His stomach grumbled, and he looked down to see a fine woolen blanket covering him. He raised his head a little and blinked at the wooden horse heads at the foot of the bed. a fraction. He didn't know where he was. He lay still, listening. Somewhere nearby, a man and a woman were speaking quietly, and he could smell porridge cooking. His stomach grumbled, and he looked down to see a fine woolen blanket covering him. He raised his head a little and blinked at the wooden horse heads at the foot of the bed.

He'd never slept in a bed before in his life, not that he could remember, anyway. Where was he? His head ached, and he laid it back on the pillow. He'd never had a pillow before, either. It was astonis.h.i.+ngly soft and smelled of herbs.

His sword hand throbbed, but bearably. When he lifted it, he saw that it had been neatly bandaged. Suddenly, memory and grief came cras.h.i.+ng down on him.

The king was dead.

When he could catch his breath again, he opened his eyes and gazed at the tidy thatch of the roof, the wooden walls, the light seeping through the cracks. On one wall there was an altar to Odin, two ravens etched into metal. A cup sat below them-mead for the G.o.d, he supposed. He looked to the other wall and saw a second altar, this one to Thor, with a carved figure of the G.o.d riding in his goat-drawn cart.

The goat-had Thor sent it? Had it really vanished?

He shut his eyes, remembering the goat and the way Hemming had met them halfway down the mountain, his sword held hilt-up, his head bowed in King Beowulf's honor. He had seen them coming, bearing the king's body, and as they drew close to him, he fell into step beside them without speaking.

When they finally reached the bottom, Rune told Surt and Buri to go home to their farms. "Your wife needs you," he remembered saying to Buri, adding, "and the kingdom needs your grain." Or at least he thought he remembered. Maybe he had dreamed it.

The ride back had pa.s.sed in a haze of sorrow and pain. He had wanted to leave the others and go to the hut on Hwala's farm.

Ketil had stopped him. "Not yet," he'd said. "First we have to take the king home."

They had tied his body to Silvertop, his white stallion, who had pranced and neighed nervously before settling into a stately pace. Four warriors, spears raised, had taken their places as the king's honor guard. Rune hadn't been one of them-it had taken everything he had to keep from falling off Hairy-Hoof as they rode through the evening and into the night.

After that, his memory failed.

A breeze wafted the scent of porridge past his nose, and his stomach growled violently. He pushed the covers away and sat up. Immediately, he regretted it. He had to lean his head to his knees to stave off the pain and dizziness that threatened to overtake him.

When he looked up again, Thora stood in the doorway, a bowl in her hands. "Get back under the covers," she said.

Obediently, he did. She reached to plump a pillow behind his back, helping him to sit up, and handed him the bowl.

He thanked her and plunged the spoon into the porridge. It was thick with b.u.t.ter and honey and so smooth that not a single piece of grit crunched between his teeth. He didn't think he'd ever tasted anything so good.

Thora stood watching him, her arms folded across her chest. When he finished, she took the bowl from him. "No more just yet," she said. "Let's make sure this stays down." Then she slipped out of the house.

Rune leaned back on the headboard. He must have fallen asleep again, because when he opened his eyes, Thora was back, a cup in her hands, and the bard was standing beside her, holding a leather bag. Both of them were watching him.

"Here," Thora said, stepping forward with the cup.

He took it and drank, welcoming the cool feel of the ale on his throat.

The bard pulled up a stool and sat beside the bed. He c.o.c.ked his head at an angle and narrowed his single eye as if he were judging Rune and finding him wanting. Finally, he spoke, his voice sharp. "Wiglaf, son of Weohstan."

Rune flinched and looked away. The last thing he wanted was to be reminded of what the king had said.

"A sword-age awaits us if the Shylfings attack, a wolf-age. And attack they will if we lack a strong leader. We may not survive."

"What about Dayraven?" Rune asked.

The bard shook his head. "He hasn't been seen since..." His voice trailed off.

Dayraven was still gone? Rune remembered running to the king's aid, Dayraven just behind him-and after that, the terrible fight with the dragon. At the time, he hadn't spared a thought for the warrior. Other men had run from the creature, but they'd returned. He'll come back He'll come back, Rune thought, and so will the men out guarding the kingdom against the Shylfings and so will the men out guarding the kingdom against the Shylfings. Surely one of them would make a good leader-Wyn's brother Wulf, perhaps. He looked back at the bard.

The single eye pierced his, holding him in its gaze. "The men will follow you."

"No," Rune said.

From beside the bed, Thora spoke. "They already have."

Rune looked at her, his eyes pleading. She hadn't been there; she didn't know what had happened. The others hadn't followed him. Once the king had fallen, every man had worked together to bring their leader down the mountain.

Another thought occurred to him. "What about the men out on patrol? They would never accept me," he said.

"Who are any of us to refuse our king's final command?" the bard said, his voice harsh. He pulled the king's golden torque from the bag, the neck ring King Beowulf had given to Rune before he died. "This is yours."

Tears filled Rune's eyes, and he blinked furiously, rejecting them. "I don't want it," he whispered.

"It's not your choice," Thora said.

"Rune," the bard said, and this time his voice was gentle. He laid his hand on Rune's arm. "I will help you. So will Thora." He glanced over his shoulder and she nodded.

"I think Amma knew your fate," the bard added. "Everything she taught you, every decision she made-it was all for this."

Rune stared at him dully.

"She was a far-minded woman, one who saw beyond herself. The things she did in life didn't always make sense to me, but now they do. Finn was the king's heir"-he bowed his head briefly toward Thora, who gave him a sharp nod in return-"yet somehow she knew you would be needed."

"She could see the war clouds on the horizon, the Shylfings waiting for our king to die before they attacked, just like the rest of us could," Thora said.

"She saw that, yes. But also much more. More than any of us could have seen." The bard turned back to Rune. "She raised you to be king."

The room fell silent, the only sounds the scritch of the bard stroking his close-cropped beard and a twig snapping on the fire.

Then he stood. "The funeral pyre is being prepared at the Feasting Field for tonight." He walked to a chest, opened it, and pulled something out. His harp. Rune realized he must be in the bard's house. Of course. Who else sacrificed both to Odin, who had drunk the mead of poetry, and to Thor? "You should sleep now," the bard said. "We'll wake you in time." He gave Rune a last look, then walked through the door.

Thora watched him for a moment before coming to sit on the bed. She reached out to smooth the hair from his forehead, making a sharp noise with her tongue as she peered at the bruise under his eye. "How do you feel?" she asked.

"I'm all right," he said. He wished she would leave.

"More porridge?"

He shook his head.

"Try to sleep." She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek, then got up and left the room.

Rune lay back down, knowing he would never be able to sleep now, no matter how much his body hurt, no matter how tired he still felt. The idea that Amma had taught him anything about kings.h.i.+p was laughable. She hadn't even wanted him to learn how to use a sword. He knew nothing about how to be a king. He didn't want want to be a king. to be a king.

Bitter tears slid down his cheeks, wetting the pillow.

The sound of the door creaking woke him. His eyes were crusted from sleep and dried tears. He reached up to rub them until he could see.

Ketil stood in the dim light. Someone moved behind him.

Wyn stepped forward, a bowl in her hands. "Are you hungry?" she asked.

Rune blinked, befuddled from the nightmare images that still ghosted through his mind. He sat up and took the bowl from her. It was some kind of meat stew. He took a bite.

"It's good," he said, taking another and then another, trying unsuccessfully to slow down. His stomach still felt empty.

She smiled at him. Hadn't she been angry at him? He dimly recalled that she had, but he was too tired to remember why. Whatever the reason, she seemed to have forgiven him.

When he finished, she took the bowl from him and backed up to stand beside Ketil. She gazed up at him, and he leaned down to kiss the top of her head.

Another thing Rune had forgotten-Wyn and Ketil. Framed in the low doorway, they looked as if the G.o.ds had made them for each other. He should have known about the two of them long ago. He thought he should be happy for them, but at the moment, he couldn't feel anything at all. Eating had wearied him again. He laid his head back on the pillow and shut his eyes. As he did, he heard someone leave the room.

After a moment, Ketil spoke, waking him again. "My mother sent clothes for you."

Clothes to wear to the king's funeral pyre. Nothing had changed. The king was still dead.

"How's your hand?" Ketil asked.

Rune held it up for his friend to see.

"You didn't like my my bandage, then?" Ketil said in mock distress. bandage, then?" Ketil said in mock distress.

Rune made a noise through his nose that might have sounded like a laugh. Then, gathering his strength, he swung his legs out of the bed, groaning at the stiffness in his muscles. When he looked down, he was surprised to see how clean he was. Somebody must have wiped away the blood and dirt before they put him in the bard's bed. The bard had probably insisted on it.

Ketil handed him a tunic and a pair of breeches-not Rune's, but they fit well enough. He concentrated on putting them on, then sat on the mattress to pull on his shoes. With an effort, he looked up and said, "I could get used to sleeping in a bed like this."

Ketil smiled. "You probably will."

It took Rune a moment to understand.

"Here," Ketil said, reaching behind him for Rune's mail s.h.i.+rt. It, too, had been cleaned. Next, he pa.s.sed him his swordbelt. Rune buckled it on and looked up to see Ketil holding his sword out. As Rune took it, Ketil gave him a slight bow.

He knew Ketil wasn't trying to irritate him, but he was annoyed all the same. Using his s.h.i.+eld hand, he slammed the sword into its hilt.

Ketil didn't seem to notice. "You're not going to like this, but the bard says you have to wear it." He pulled the golden torque from its leather bag.

Rune stared at it and scowled. Ketil was right-he didn't like it. The torque belonged to the king, not to him. He had no right to wear such a thing.

"The bard will have my head if you don't put it on," Ketil said. "So will Thora." He raised an eyebrow, and Rune realized what he meant: Thora, his future mother-in-law.

He gave in, giving Ketil a wry smile. "Can't have her angry with you, I suppose."

"Not yet, anyway." Ketil moved behind him to fasten the torque around Rune's neck.

The metal was cold against his skin, and the catch pulled at his hair. Awkwardly, his bandaged hand slowing him, Rune retied the thong that held it back. Twist his neck as he would, he couldn't make the torque feel more comfortable.

"It's time," Ketil said. He walked to the door and held it open, looking back at Rune.

Rune stared through the open doorway. How could he possibly walk through it? It seemed to him that before the pyre was lit, Beowulf was still king. But once his body was gone, turned to ashes...

With his left hand, he took hold of the pendant hanging below the torque, running his fingers over the runic inscription: Wiglaf Wiglaf, it read. "Amma," he pleaded silently. He didn't know what he was asking for-except for nothing to be the way it was now, for the dragon never to have woken.

A sudden flash of warmth flooded his gut, and he shut his eyes to see an image of Amma looking into his face. "Amma," he whispered again, this time in thanks, not supplication.

He took a deep breath and straightened his spine. Then, throwing his cloak over his shoulders, he crossed the threshold.

TWENTY-THREE.

THE PYRE HAD ALREADY BEEN BUILT BY THE TIME RUNE and Ketil rode up to the Feasting Field. Hung with s.h.i.+elds and helmets, drinking cups and bowls that Gar had collected from the dragon's h.o.a.rd, the wooden bier stood just far enough from Thor's Oak that the flames wouldn't ignite the tree branches or threaten the Thor effigy with its red-painted beard. Oil-soaked logs wound round with holly crisscrossed the bottom. On top lay the king's body, richly dressed, his hands on the hilt of his broken sword, his wooden s.h.i.+eld at his feet. and Ketil rode up to the Feasting Field. Hung with s.h.i.+elds and helmets, drinking cups and bowls that Gar had collected from the dragon's h.o.a.rd, the wooden bier stood just far enough from Thor's Oak that the flames wouldn't ignite the tree branches or threaten the Thor effigy with its red-painted beard. Oil-soaked logs wound round with holly crisscrossed the bottom. On top lay the king's body, richly dressed, his hands on the hilt of his broken sword, his wooden s.h.i.+eld at his feet.

People milled around the pyre. Some wept openly, some stared despairingly at the king's body. Somewhere a woman wailed, her cry resounding in the twilight. A baby joined her wailing, and then another baby began to scream, as if giving voice to the Geatish nation.

Rune and Ketil dismounted and handed their reins to Ottar's son Oski, who bowed to them both, his eyes wide with admiration. When Rune thanked him, the boy blushed, unable to speak.

The bard raised a hand from the far side of the crowd, signaling Rune to the pyre.