by Resa Nelson
“A merchant told us they grow wild just a day’s ride south of here. She left three days ago. She should have come back by now.”
Skallagrim once heard a similar story about wild carrots.
Maybe she’s telling the truth.
He still had a peculiar feeling about the woman—as if merely being in her presence wasn’t quite safe.
Still, he didn’t have the heart to leave a woman stranded if he could do something to help.
His thoughts must have shown on his face, because the mysterious woman said, “I’ve made arrangements at the stable for you to take two horses. Tell the stable boy you’re picking up the horses reserved by Fiera.”
Before Skallagrim could respond, she slipped away so quickly into the night that she might as well as have evaporated like smoke from a dying fire.
CHAPTER 9
Later that same night, Frandulane walked into the port city of Gott with two of his Scalding cousins. They traversed the empty boardwalk and passed by the few ships left at the dock.
Although a cold night wind blew hard enough to chill most people to the bone, Frandulane didn’t mind. The winds on Tower Island had acclimated his bones and blood to the bite of icy air at this time of year. He didn’t worry about the cold. He didn’t consider that Sven and Snip Scalding might be concerned that Frandulane—their one son who shared their blood—had left the island without telling anyone.
All Frandulane cared about was hunting down his so-called brother Skallagrim and showing him up.
Since the day Skallagrim left Tower Island many years ago, Frandulane’s life had fallen apart. He never forgave his mother and father for choosing Skallagrim for dragonslayer training, because being a dragonslayer led to fame and fortune. A dragonslayer could have a girl in every village. He could get anything he wanted, because the lives of the villagers he protected rested in his hands.
From what Frandulane had learned, most dragonslayers were fools. They bent over backwards to help villagers instead of making demands of them. Most dragonslayers settled for payment of weapons, food, and shelter when they could have insisted on so much more. Granted, every dragonslayer’s sword was worth a fortune due to the expense of iron and the talent required to forge such a weapon. But a dragonslayer’s sword was a necessity, not something one could trade for luxuries.
Frandulane hungered for luxuries. He’d spent his life on an island dominated by a tower covered in gold. The wealth of the Scaldings made it easy for them to hire farmers to grow crops and tend livestock so the Scaldings could relax and enjoy their lives. Only his silly mother insisted on growing her own vegetable garden. Frandulane considered her hobby demeaning, not only to her but the entire family. She embarrassed him.
To redeem himself, Frandulane considered the options most likely to earn respect. Two occupations were honored everywhere: blacksmiths and thatchers, because everyone had constant need of them. Frandulane first tried blacksmithing, but he couldn’t get the hang of building fires or working the iron at the right temperature.
Next, he attempted an apprenticeship with Tower Island’s thatcher. But the weaving of thatch-work befuddled Frandulane. He couldn’t make sense of how to piece it together so the thatching would hold and work as expected. Once again, he gave up.
That left nothing for Frandulane to do on Tower Island. If he didn’t have the patience or talent to become a blacksmith or thatcher, the only work left to do was farming—and no Scalding lowered himself to that form of labor. Instead of working, he idled his days away brewing his resentment of Skallagrim.
Fortunately, Frandulane found solace spending time with his cousins, who bore the same resentment. One day, they overheard an uncle make a peculiar reference by asking if they knew how the Scaldings came by the family name.
The boys assumed the uncle to be too old and infirm, so they ridiculed him.
The uncle spat back that he’d like to pour scalding water on the boys just as his elders had done to anyone who tried to harm the family.
His response captured the boys’ attention, and they goaded him into revealing a family history they’d never heard before. The uncle claimed all Scaldings of his generation had taken a vow to never discuss the past—but he no longer cared about vows. The uncle recalled stories of past exploits by the Scaldings before they acquired Tower Island. Stories about acquiring wealth by taking it from others too weak to hold onto it. Stories about using Northlander ships to sail the rivers so they could attack and be gone in a short time. Stories about pillaging villages and setting up a fortress to pour boiling water on anyone who dared to attack. Stories about murder and mayhem. Those stories enraptured the boys, and they began to wonder if the family life of luxury came at too high a price.
Frandulane imagined following in his ancestors’ footsteps. He fantasized about wealth and power and glory. He daydreamed about the thrill of killing, even though he’d never done anything more heinous than wring a chicken’s neck.
It had been easy to persuade his cousins to take one of the small family ships from the Tower Island dock and slip away. After all, one never knew when extra muscle might come in handy.
Cousin Einarr pointed at a building at the end of the boardwalk. “What do you think that is?”
“One way to find out,” Frandulane said.
The young men marched toward a tavern and entered to find it bustling with boisterous men and women. Until now, their travels had taken them on rarely-used roads and through abandoned villages. Being a family compound, Tower Island had no taverns, and the boys had never encountered one before.
Frandulane thought about the rings and bracelets of silver Uncle had advised them all to wear.
He said it’s how you get things you need when off island.
Cousin Tungu pointed at a few old men leaving a corner table. The young men claimed it and stared in wonder at all that surrounded them.
“Should we attack them now?” Cousin Einarr said. He rested one hand on the pommel of his sheathed sword.
A middle-aged woman funneled her way through the crowd and placed three mugs of mead on the table. “Except for water, mead’s all we’ve got.” She looked at the silver each young man wore on his hands and arms. “For food, we’ve got a few lamb shanks left and a bit of winter-root stew. The cook’s done for the day, so those are the only options.”
Cousin Tungu sat back with a proud air, as if he owned the place. “Your cook ought to cook special for dragonslayers.”
The woman laughed. “He does. But all the dragonslayers save one have left on the winter route.”
“One dragonslayer?” Cousin Tungu gestured toward his cohorts. “Don’t you know how to count?”
Cousin Einarr moved as if to draw his sword, but the woman put a knife to his throat.
“I count one dragonslayer upstairs in his bed,” the woman said. “I count three strangers who don’t know that all dragonslayers are well known in these parts. Not to mention the fact that we all know how to recognize a dragonslayer’s sword. Your short swords don’t begin to compare to the kind of sword a dragonslayer carries.”
Cousin Einarr’s eyes blazed with anger.
“Enough,” Frandulane said.
This woman has value. She can tell me what I need to know.
With a warm smile, Frandulane removed a couple of silver rings and placed them on the tabletop. “Our apologies,” he said to the woman. “Some people say our sense of humor is hard to detect.”
The woman met his gaze with no trust in her eyes. “Sense of humor? Trying to pass as dragonslayers can get you killed.”
Frandulane pushed the silver rings across the table toward her. He knew their value could keep a small family fed for a month. “I beg your pardon and forgiveness.”
The woman’s gaze dropped to the silver rings but then met Frandulane again. She studied him for a minute and then released her knife from where it rested against Cousin Einarr’s neck.
However, when she pulled the knife away, its blade n
icked his skin. Moments later, droplets of blood beaded in a straight line.
“Ow!” Cousin Einarr said. He touched his neck and almost fainted when he saw the blood that came away on his fingers.
The woman smiled and spoke sweetly. “I’m so sorry. What a terrible accident.”
Cousin Tungu became riled. “That’s no accident!” He looked at Frandulane. “I say we take the place now!”
Frandulane laughed. “What a jest!”
His laughter silenced Cousin Tungu.
The woman gave a stern look. “This is no place to stir up trouble. Our cook may be done making food for the night, but he’ll be happy to toss you out.”
“No trouble.” Frandulane removed a silver bracelet that had ten times the value of the rings not yet accepted. He placed the bracelet on the tabletop next to the rings. “Although we’d be grateful for some information.”
Cousin Tungu grumbled. “And some lamb shanks would be nice.”
The woman crossed her arms. “What do you want to know?”
“The dragonslayer,” Frandulane said. “By any chance, might it be Skallagrim? He’s our cousin, and we’ve traveled a long way to bid him a good journey for the winter.”
The woman picked up the silver rings and bracelet. After examining them, she placed them in the pouch hanging from her belt. “It’s him. He leaves first thing in the morning for the Southlands.”
“Then we’ve caught him just in time.” Frandulane grinned. “It’s been years since we’ve seen him, and we want to surprise him. Where can we find him?”
The woman paused and glared at the young men with such dark suspicion in her eyes that Frandulane thought she’d call the cook over to throw them out on the street.
She fingered the pouch on her belt as if making sure the silver inside was still there. “Upstairs,” she said, nodding toward a set of stairs at the back of the main room. “He’s in the last room at the end of the hallway.” Before walking away, she said, “I’ll bring out the lamb shanks in a minute.”
When his cousins began to stand, Frandulane signaled them to stay seated. He watched the woman until she walked into a back room, out of sight. “Now,” he said.
Frandulane led his cousins up the stairs and then down a narrow hallway. They passed a handful of rooms before reaching the one at the end. Gesturing for his cousins to stay silent, Frandulane found the door unlocked and eased it open.
A shaft of light from the dimly-lit hallway fell into the room. Frandulane made out a small satchel left open on the floor. Light glinted off the blade of a small ax. He’d heard somewhere that dragonslayers kept a variety of weapons in case their sword became damaged. That way, a dragonslayer could continue his business while waiting for a blacksmith to repair his sword.
Beyond the satchel, Frandulane made out the figure of a man asleep in a narrow bed.
What now?
In that moment, Frandulane realized he’d spent years imagining the moment he’d confront Skallagrim but hadn’t decided exactly what to say when that time actually arrived. He stood still, not knowing what to do.
Cousin Einarr nudged him.
All the rage and disappointment Frandulane had been nurturing came to a head and drove him into action.
Frandulane withdrew the sword sheathed at his side, strode into the room, and drove the sword into the figure on the bed.
The sword impaled the figure as if it were made of butter.
The sensation caught Frandulane off guard. He’d been expecting to meet the resistance of bone and muscle and sinew.
Why didn’t Skallagrim cry out in pain?
Frandulane first pulled his sword free and then ripped back the covers. Realizing his own body blocked the dim light spilling through the doorway, he stepped aside.
No blood sullied the bed because it held no mortal body. Instead, the covers had been drawn over crumpled sheets and pillows that he’d mistaken for the shape of a body.
Frandulane’s heart pounded at the thought that he would have murdered his own cousin had Skallagrim been in this bed.
What have I done?
His cousins entered the room with steps as timid as mice.
“He’s not there,” Cousin Tungu said. His breath sounded thin and wispy, as if he felt the same fright. “Nobody’s there.”
His cousin’s fright transformed Frandulane’s feelings into exhilaration. He felt proud of the way he’d rushed forward and stabbed the bed.
Next time, he’d make sure he found the right target.
“Here you are.”
Frandulane turned to see the woman standing in the doorway.
She stared at the sword in his hand until he put it back in the sheath. “I came to say we’re out of lamb shanks. The winter-root stew will have to do. I’ll have it at your table shortly.” She turned and walked away.
Frandulane smiled, realizing he’d worked up an unexpected appetite.
CHAPTER 10
Skallagrim rode throughout the night, grateful for the bright starlight but wishing he had the help of the absent moon as well. He rode one horse and led the other on the beach wherever he could find sand. When he encountered beaches full of sharp rocks, Skallagrim traveled through the marsh grasses beyond those rocks, mindful to stay away from bogs where the horses could become stuck in the muck.
By the break of dawn, he reached a wide and flat beach of soft, white sand. But when he tried to lead the horses onto it, they protested with snorts and whinnies.
Skallagrim remembered one of his earliest lessons in dragonslaying.
Be mindful of any animal in your presence that acts scared. It probably has good reason. A frightened animal can be your best first indication of a dragon lying in wait.
No trees grew this close to the ocean. Surrounded by sand dunes and beach grass, Skallagrim saw nothing to which he could tie the horses’ reins. He didn’t dare let go of them. “Easy,” he told the horses. “I won’t let anything harm you.”
The horses jerked their heads and took several steps back, dragging Skallagrim with them.
A sharp wind whipped in from the sea, and it lifted an empty dress of flowing red silk up from behind a dune jutting into the water. The dress floated through the air like a damselfly and then dropped onto the highest part of the beach, far away and safe from the incoming tide.
Startled, the horses wrenched their reins free from Skallagrim’s grip.
Before he could lunge toward them, he heard a woman scream.
Fiera’s sister!
Skallagrim turned toward the scream but saw no one.
Behind him, the horses bolted back toward Gott.
A dragon climbed from behind the dune jutting into the ocean. It stood on top of the dune and hissed as if marking its territory.
Where is the woman? Is she still alive? Can I find her?
Skallagrim ran toward the dune, which towered high above his head. He kept one hand on the pommel of the dragonslayer sword sheathed across his back, ready to draw it in an instant.
He’d never seen a dragon run on or through sand before. Its long, curved claws would give it all the purchase it needed. Skallagrim knew he had no advantage on this terrain.
But with another hiss, the dragon turned its back and disappeared over the crest of the dune, presumably running down its southern slope.
As soon as Skallagrim reached the dune, he slowed his pace to a careful walk.
The incoming tide crept near his feet, sliding over mortal footprints left in the wet sand.
Bare feet. The woman was here.
Skallagrim thought better of calling out. He didn’t want the dragon to know his position.
The sand displayed only the single set of mortal footprints and none that would have been made by the dragon.
Maybe she’s hiding. Maybe she’s still alive.
Skallagrim took out his sword and held it with both hands. He kept it pointed directly in front of his body, ready to deliver a blow if needed. He stole around the side of the dune,
looking for signs of the woman or the dragon.
He felt the dragon strike him before he saw it. A wicked blow to his chest knocked the wind out of his lungs and the sword from his hands.
Gasping for breath, Skallagrim looked up to see the dragon’s tail swinging toward his head moments before it knocked him unconscious.
CHAPTER 11
“Are you alright?” a woman’s voice said. “Please tell me you’re alright.”
When Skallagrim cracked his eyes open, the first thing he noticed was the height of the sun directly overhead. He squinted in the harsh light. “It’s late,” he said. “It’s mid-day already.”
Finding his body splayed upon the beach where the dragon had felled him like a tree, Skallagrim felt the fine, soft sand beneath his hands. Tilting his head back, he saw the dune. Dragon claw marks covered its surface.
“Drink some water,” the woman said.
Still squinting, Skallagrim saw little more than a blurry figure kneeling next to him. He started at the touch of a skin full of water at his lips but then drank greedily.
A warm and gentle hand pulled it away. “Be careful. Too much too soon could make you ill.”
Skallagrim’s vision came into focus, and he gaped at the beauty of the woman kneeling by his side. Her black hair cascaded over her shoulders like curls of smoke. Her pale skin glowed with a pink flush as if she were sitting close to a hot fire. Her eyes appeared to have a delicate slant that reminded him of Mistress Po. Skallagrim realized that this woman spoke with the same kind of accent as Mistress Po. “You’re from the Far East,” he said.
The woman became very still. “Is that a problem?” Her voice carried a slight ache, and the sound of it pierced Skallagrim’s heart.
Worried that he’d offended her, Skallagrim protested. “No! Not at all. I have a good friend from the Far East.”
The woman tilted her head as if not quite sure if she could believe him.
