Read Online The Coming of the Dragon by Rebecca Barnhouse - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Rebecca Barnhouse
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tapestry she’d made long ago, stories of the gods woven into it in sinuous patterns, stories she had insisted heknow—Freyja and her falcon-skin cloak, Loki and his son, the wolf Fenrir. Why had he resisted her so much lately, every time she tried to teach him some new tale? The more insistent she’d been, the less willing he’d been to learn. Shame bit at him and he closed his eyes.
When he opened them, he stared across the fire pit to where Amma’s pallet lay empty, bits of straw poking from a mattress seam, the goat-hair blanket gone, and felt the same emptiness filling him. He shuddered, remembering wrapping her charred body in the blanket, lowering her into the grave.
Finally, he tore himself from his thoughts and rose from his own pallet. Shoulders stooped, he looked through the hut for something to eat. It was only this season that he’d grown too tall to stand to his full height inside. He opened the door to let in light and tied his hair back with a leather cord. A chunk of oat bread sat on the board, and in the dairy crock, he found some salted butter and the remains of Amma’s last batch of skyr. They tasted like soot. Still hungry, he ate the cold porridge that had congealed in the pot, grimacing at its lumpy texture and smiling a little as he bit down on a pebble. This porridge was definitely Amma’s handiwork. He washed it down with the water in the bottom of the bucket, ignoring the layer of ash on its surface. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he turned to the west wall of the hut and stared at the space Amma had covered with goat hide. He found it hard to think, hard to know what to do.
Except that he knew exactly what he had to do.
Rune crossed the room in three paces and whipped the covering away. The wooden shield stared at him, its metal boss like the pupil in a great round eye, mocking him, asking what a spineless boy like Rune could do against a dragon.
He looked back at the empty pallet and ground his molars. The dragon had killed Amma. He had to avenge her. And for that, he needed weapons. They were his, after all. And they had been his father’s. Or at least he assumed they had. Why else would they have been in the boat? Over the years, he’d heard many versions of the story. Fulla, an old woman who lived in the stronghold, had told him the one he liked best, even though it probably wasn’t true—after all, what would a woman like her know about weapons and armor? Still, he liked what she said about how when the boat came rushing in over the waves, the shield had been at his head, the sword at his feet, the mail shirt along his shield-hand side, while Amma stood on the strand waiting for him.
He thought it was a good story, but he would have preferred to know the truth instead. The only things he really knew about the weapons were that Amma didn’t like him touching them and that she only let him use the sword in the winter because the king said she had to. And that she had known more about the weapons—and about
him
—than she had revealed.
He reached for the mail shirt, examining its closelylinked rings. In the hall, he’d watched warriors to see how they put them on, how they cinched them to keep their sword arms free. He’d even tried on Ketil’s mail once. But he’d never worn his own.
He took a deep breath and pulled it over his head. As the cold metal settled over his shoulders and fell to his thighs, it felt strange and heavy, not at all how he’d expected. He took a step back and heard the clinking sound of Amma’s metal bracelets. He whirled and the mail shirt whirled with him, its rings hitting together with a metallic sound. Amma wasn’t there; of course she wasn’t. It was the mail shirt that made the music of her bangles—a hundred times over.
He steadied himself and turned back to the hide covering. The sword lay in its wood and leather sheath, crisscrossed with leather bands—and wound around with Amma’s disapproval. The very first time Rune had
When he opened them, he stared across the fire pit to where Amma’s pallet lay empty, bits of straw poking from a mattress seam, the goat-hair blanket gone, and felt the same emptiness filling him. He shuddered, remembering wrapping her charred body in the blanket, lowering her into the grave.
Finally, he tore himself from his thoughts and rose from his own pallet. Shoulders stooped, he looked through the hut for something to eat. It was only this season that he’d grown too tall to stand to his full height inside. He opened the door to let in light and tied his hair back with a leather cord. A chunk of oat bread sat on the board, and in the dairy crock, he found some salted butter and the remains of Amma’s last batch of skyr. They tasted like soot. Still hungry, he ate the cold porridge that had congealed in the pot, grimacing at its lumpy texture and smiling a little as he bit down on a pebble. This porridge was definitely Amma’s handiwork. He washed it down with the water in the bottom of the bucket, ignoring the layer of ash on its surface. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he turned to the west wall of the hut and stared at the space Amma had covered with goat hide. He found it hard to think, hard to know what to do.
Except that he knew exactly what he had to do.
Rune crossed the room in three paces and whipped the covering away. The wooden shield stared at him, its metal boss like the pupil in a great round eye, mocking him, asking what a spineless boy like Rune could do against a dragon.
He looked back at the empty pallet and ground his molars. The dragon had killed Amma. He had to avenge her. And for that, he needed weapons. They were his, after all. And they had been his father’s. Or at least he assumed they had. Why else would they have been in the boat? Over the years, he’d heard many versions of the story. Fulla, an old woman who lived in the stronghold, had told him the one he liked best, even though it probably wasn’t true—after all, what would a woman like her know about weapons and armor? Still, he liked what she said about how when the boat came rushing in over the waves, the shield had been at his head, the sword at his feet, the mail shirt along his shield-hand side, while Amma stood on the strand waiting for him.
He thought it was a good story, but he would have preferred to know the truth instead. The only things he really knew about the weapons were that Amma didn’t like him touching them and that she only let him use the sword in the winter because the king said she had to. And that she had known more about the weapons—and about
him
—than she had revealed.
He reached for the mail shirt, examining its closelylinked rings. In the hall, he’d watched warriors to see how they put them on, how they cinched them to keep their sword arms free. He’d even tried on Ketil’s mail once. But he’d never worn his own.
He took a deep breath and pulled it over his head. As the cold metal settled over his shoulders and fell to his thighs, it felt strange and heavy, not at all how he’d expected. He took a step back and heard the clinking sound of Amma’s metal bracelets. He whirled and the mail shirt whirled with him, its rings hitting together with a metallic sound. Amma wasn’t there; of course she wasn’t. It was the mail shirt that made the music of her bangles—a hundred times over.
He steadied himself and turned back to the hide covering. The sword lay in its wood and leather sheath, crisscrossed with leather bands—and wound around with Amma’s disapproval. The very first time Rune had
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