No one answered him. Of course not. Islands and mountains were not alive, nor capable of speech. Right. And men could not become dragons at will. He began to remove his clothes. Even in full summer the wind off the North Atlantic was icy, but today it was barely blowing.
He folded his sweater and pants and tucked them and his shoes and socks in his rucksack, and set the pack above the high-water mark. He hoped he would need them again. Turning took only a few seconds. He had been shifting since his teens, practicing and drilling with his cousins and brothers until he could turn almost instantaneously.
He knew he was formidable in dragon. He was powerful. His eyes capable of seeing for miles. His wings strong enough to fly through the worst gale the North Atlantic could produce. His talons, horns and venomous tail dart were mighty weapons in their own right. And of course he had dragon breath. One burst of fire could incinerate most things. But now was not the time to fight. It was time to fly.
Darius soared out over the waves. The Kittiwake bobbed gently in the bay. Even out to sea, the water was relatively calm. The sky was cloudless. The wind practically dead. He wheeled and rose in careful circles, spying out the land and seeing where there was an entrance to the volcano. He could not resist bugling his love song as he flew.
He sang of his longing for his mate. Of her plump beauty and gentle kindness. Of her wisdom and skill. But sadly no one replied to him. He had chosen. His Freya was no dragoness. She would never join him in a duet. Never share the joys of flying with him. With one last clarion bellow, he dove down toward the opening he had discovered.
The air that blew from the crevasse was warm and slightly damp. Somewhere there was water. Could he have located the hot springs so quickly? Probably not. But he knew that if Snorre had broken Foreseti’s sword and cast it into the waters beneath Bradur, there had to be some easily accessible place for a dragon or a man. For his ancestor had been both a pirate and a dragon shifter.
He doubted whether this was the entrance that Snorre had used. It was too narrow for him to fly into. Too narrow for him to stand up even as a man. He would go aloft again, and see if he could find a better way. If not, he would have to take human and travel underground as a man. A naked man. A lousy plan.
The mountain wore its snowcap year-round. Probably had in Snorre’s day too. He was looking for a cavern that was below the ice line. Possibly concealed by the short trees and bushes that grew in unruly profusion everywhere on the mountain. Good thing his eyes were eagle-sharp. He glided in a spiraling circle around the mountain. Again, and again.
But it was not his dragon eyesight that found the opening, but a boar as large as a cow, with tusks of gold and bristles of silver. It charged into a cave and showed him the way. By Odin’s mighty spear, he had been granted an animal companion like the heroes of old. Or he was about to be attacked by a wild pig.
He would be cautious. On the one hand, boars were sacred to Freya, so the sight of one was a good omen. On the other, boars were notoriously ill-tempered and vicious. And this one was huge. So huge in fact, that it almost had to be magical. If real swine lived on the island, it would not be lush and green. They would have rooted up every scrap of greenery and eaten it.
He followed the giant boar underground.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Freya~
After their meal, she returned to her chair. She was bone tired. These days she was always tired. Tired and swollen and sad and cross. Freya the fair-tempered had disappeared and been replaced by a grumpy, pregnant sow. What she needed, and never seemed to get, was a deep and restful sleep.
She felt like weeping. Again. Brand and Valdar had told her what they had given her dragon to do. She would never see him again. Never see Darius Einerson ever again. Brand and Valdar had set him tasks no mortal, not even a dragon, could complete.
And sending him below Bradur was as good as slaughter. He would be killed by the cruel mountain. Scalded alive or squeezed in jaws of stone. If she had been unable in a thousand years to retrieve her father’s sword, how could Darius succeed?
She must have dozed, for the merry sound of triumphant music woke her. She heard again the rich notes of the hunting horn, echoing in her mind. It had been a long time since she had watched warriors ride out on the hunt, blowing their horns to summon the hounds. Blowing them when they returned laden with the game they had caught. This music stirred her heart with love for Darius and eased her sorrow.
She untied his bag and looked at her gifts a second time. The mirror assured her that her hair was tidy enough. Anyway, she had no energy to spare today to unbraid it and comb it out. Holding her spell seemed more difficult than she had ever found such things before her pregnancy.
But her comb was a beautiful thing. Warm in the hand, and pretty as the night sky. It would make her hair as smooth as silk. The jeweled mirror would be a treasure to share with her children. The sons of Darius Einerson, wielder of the celfone.
Hot drops fell on the bright surface and it wavered before her eyes. Even after she blotted her eyes with her apron, the mirror continued to blur. It swirled and boiled like the Pool of Loki. And like the Pool of Loki, it cleared and showed her visions.
Her dragon was underground. Flying along a twisting corridor of stone. He scarcely had room to flap his enormous blue wings, but they beat slowly as he moved forward. He was following a boar with golden tusks like Hildisvini the Battle Swine of the goddess Freya. A boar? There were none on the island. Surely this must be one of her brothers gone to help her lover? Or lead him to his doom?
If it was Brand, he might help, or he might not. As his mood took him. But Valdar still simmered with bitterness against dragons in general and Darius in particular. He would gladly do her lover a bad turn if he could do so without violating a direct order from her. Those were terrible odds. Darius really didn’t stand a chance. But she couldn’t tear her eyes from the scenes unfolding before them.
The boar scampered along, charged at the solid rock face and disappeared like a rabbit down a hole. But the dragon did not hesitate. He angled his wide leathery wings until they were almost vertical and slipped through a crack that had been invisible until he flew at it. Invisible to her, he clearly had seen it. It was about as wide as the hog, but jagged. She thought the dragon’s paler belly scraped against the hole before he too vanished.
Was that all this scrying mirror would permit her to see? This tech-nol-o-gy was powerful. But she didn’t know its secrets. However, the visions in the mountain pool often disappeared before reforming with new sights. She would be patient. Another tear rolled down her face, and then another fell on the mirror. It clouded. A new vision formed in its crystal depths.
The dragon was flying in an enormous cavern. For all that he was a shiny, bright blue, he was hard to see in the dim reddish light of the glowing rocks. Steam or smoke rose in billows from a black lake. It could have been water, or it could have been molten pitch. If that was where Ravensblade had been thrown, it had long since melted down and mixed with that sticky liquid.
The dragon circled overhead, a magnificent creature that did not know it was doomed. Its enormous mouth opened and closed revealing teeth as long as her arm. Was it calling? Or merely having trouble breathing, as one did in thick smoke? There was no way for her to tell. Of the boar there was no sign. She might have imagined it. The dragon kept circling the lake and then plunged beneath the black surface and was gone.
But the mirror showed him swimming in the murky liquid. His eyes were wide open and he swam in patient circles as if he were seeking the sword. After what seemed agonizingly long he surfaced to breathe and then dived back down and resumed his search. He used his wings like paddles or ducks’ feet to help his powerful limbs propel him through the water.
For it must be water. Even cool, pitch was thicker than honey, and if it got hot enough to melt, it was only a little thinner. And it blocked all light as it did water. Without pitch, the clinker-built ships would not be waterproofed. Without pitch,
no one could bind an ax head to its handle. But to swim in it was impossible. Her lover was doomed.
And then the lake burst upward like a monstrous whale breaching and throwing water high enough to wet the fishing ospreys and scavenging gulls. As if that waterspout had disturbed the mirror, Darius and the cavern melted. All she saw were her own terrified eyes fringed with black lashes as spiky as wet fur.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Darius~
The hot spring erupted into a geyser, stirring the black water into bubbles. What had been difficult to see through, became impossible. Even for him, with his immunity to heat, the water was barely tolerable. And the sulfurous air of the cavern had driven away his companion the boar, although it presented no problem to one born to breathe brimstone and fire.
The waterspout made him feel discouraged enough to contemplate abandoning his hunt. It was futile. He was looking for something that was not there, in an inky, acidic lake that would have dissolved the sword if it were there. But he thought of his one true love, his Freya, and of her lovely green eyes that for all their wisdom were still the youthful eyes of a girl.
Freya, he chanted silently to himself as he dived lower and searched again for Ravensblade. Freya.
And there it was, or at least the hilt of a sword lay on the bottom of the lake. No leather or rope remained on the long grip, but the pommel was still as bright as when it had left the armory. Whatever this sword was made of, in ten centuries it had not perished nor turned to flakes of rust. He bore it to the air, suddenly worried lest after centuries of being wet, being dry might damage it.
But nothing happened. The runes etched on the pommel were as crisp as the day the smith had engraved them. The sword had been broken clean across at the grip. Now he knew he was looking for the blade alone. Unless it had been shattered before being disposed of.
Buck up, Lindorm, your luck has turned. He had found part of the sword. Perhaps the Lindorm luck was with him at last? Or perhaps his love’s name was the charm? Freya would bring him luck. He would locate the rest of the sword and win his bride. He returned to the lake, and began his search from the spot where he had pulled the hilt. The rock was black everywhere but where the hilt had laid. There the rock was almost white.
He wished he could breathe underwater as his cousin Lars was able to do*. But that was not his gift. A spot of underwater illumination would pick out the bright metal of the sword – if it was here. But dogged persistence would have to replace light. And persistence was in his gift. Or at least was part of his nature.
Several hours later he had three pieces that together made up the blade of the lost sword. He was exhausted and hungry. To say nothing of thirsty. But the water of the acidic lake did not seem safe to drink. And there was nothing to eat, unless he roasted his friend the boar. And he was inclined to believe that swine was one of Freya’s brothers. Normally, his nose would have detected such a deception, but the fumes from the volcano blocked his ability to smell.
Gripping the pieces of the sword in his talons he made his laborious way back outside. He was surprised to see the sun was high in the sky. Had finding Ravensblade taken so little time? Or had he been underground overnight? Reforging the sword was a job for an expert. He would take the pieces with him when he went to get the rest of the bride price. In Europe there was surely a blacksmith who could take on the task.
He would return to the Kittiwake where he had food and water. After he had returned to human and refreshed himself, and slept, he would leave to complete the rest of his tasks. He had shown Valdar and Brand his sailboat, but they wanted one big enough to go a-viking in. Not a problem. All modern yachts had motors. And radios. And more technology than you could shake a stick at. Probably enough to enthrall a couple of Vikings until he could introduce them to the twenty-first century.
But when he landed on the rocky beach where the Kittiwake was moored, the boar burst out of the brush and glared at him with red-hot eyes. Hooves as sharp as axes pawed the glassy black obsidian of the beach. Darius threw down the pieces of the sword, and decided to gamble.
He performed a lightning shift and calmly began to dress himself. “Son of Foreseti, I have found Ravensblade,” he said. “I must go where I can forge it anew.”
The boar vanished and was replaced by Brand.
“I thank you, brother,” Darius continued, “For your help.”
“The sword does not leave the island,” Brand said fiercely.
“Have you a forge and the tools of a swordsmith here on Balder?” Darius asked courteously. He remembered the driftwood fires. He knew, even if Brand did not, that wood alone could not make a fire hot enough to smelt iron. For that you needed charcoal or coal. Or a dragon.
Brand shook his head. “Can you not use your celfone and tech-nol-o-gy to remake it?” he asked in surprise.
“Nope. To make it anew, we need hammers to beat it with, tongs to grasp the metal, and most importantly a white-hot fire to heat it.”
Valdar showed himself too. “Are you not a dragon, Darius son of Einer? Can you not breathe fire?”
Darius shrugged. “Not while I’m a man. And I cannot hammer while I am a dragon.”
Baffled, the brothers exchanged glances. Valdar picked up the pieces of the sword from the rocks. He looked at them reverently. “It is in truth the sword of our father and grandfather,” he said. “Although it took you long enough to find it. Three days by my count.”
No wonder he was starving and tired!
“Do you remember Father letting us lift it when we were boys?” Valdar asked.
“I remember it being too heavy to lift alone.” Brand’s smile was sad.
“I do not want this dragon to take our father’s sword away,” Valdar declared. “How do we know that he will return with it?”
“We don’t.” Brand traced the vines on the hilt with a forefinger as thick as two of Darius’.
“I have to come back,” Darius said. “This is where your sister is.”
“Fair words, fairly spoken,” admitted Valdar. “But I trust you not, Dragon.”
Shift. What now?
Brand sighed. “We will help you,” he said. “If you provide the fire, we will provide the hammer and tongs.”
“It’s a deal,” said Darius. “But first I must eat and sleep.”
*Dragon’s Possession
CHAPTER TWENTY
Freya~
For days she had not dared to look into the scrying mirror. When she had asked how Darius had fared, Brand and Valdar had huffed and puffed and told her to mind her weaving. But she had been a coward long enough. She took the mirror out of its bag and polished it with her sleeve.
Her face looked back at her, tired and puffy. The babe or babes kicked her all night and all day. One of them used her bladder for a punching bag. The winter solstice had never seemed so far away. Would she regain her looks? Or would her face be as altered by her pregnancy as her body was? It was a small sacrifice for a child, but right now being ugly seemed like the last straw.
The mirror reflected her wan face and the warm room, the brooches at her shoulders. And then the silvery surface shimmered and a new vision appeared. In a cave, two men stripped to the waist, sweated over an anvil which they beat with heavy hammers. Was this a memory of long ago when Balder rung with the sounds of smithing?
No. For surely that was Brand and the other man Valdar. What were they doing? Beside them, blazing like a furnace, stood her dragon. Every now and then, one of the twins would seize long tongs and drop the metal they were working into Darius’s open mouth. He would belch fire at the rock wall and open his mouth so they could remove the glowing metal.
Then back to work they would go, hammering the metal. Before her eyes the sword of her grandfather and her father took shape. The runes she had remembered on the blade had vanished in the maw of the dragon, but gradually the full length of the sword emerged from the steam and smoke of the makeshift smithy.
They must be underground, for over a
nd over, one of the twins would plunge part of the sword into the steam which ran through the cave, quenching the glowing metal. Then back it would go into the dragon’s mouth to emerge white hot. What did it mean that her brothers were willing to work like this with her lover? Did it presage good will towards him, or was it part of some cunning trick?
She was rigid with mingled hope and dread when Valdar held the sword aloft. All it lacked was the pommel which lay at their feet as bright as the new forged sword was dull. It glowed red, but without any splendor. Then Brand used the tongs to lay it once more on the anvil and Darius raised his right forepaw.
With one great talon he inscribed the runes it had borne before. Valdar turned it over with another set of tongs. Darius breathed on it and heated it some more. Then he etched runes on that side, reawakening the magic that had made Foreseti invincible until his guest stole his sword.
The mirror clouded then, and she was back in her own house. She wondered if she had seen the future or the present. Were her brothers and her lover tightly bonded, as men who work together bond? Or had she seen both more and less than she thought?
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Darius~
It took almost as long to whet the edge of the sword and polish it to mirror brightness as it had taken to reforge it. He had faithfully reproduced the original runes, but he suspected his good faith might have sealed his doom. He remembered too well Valdar’s gleeful description of lulling enemies in order to slit their throats.
By replicating the runes, he had reactivated the magic that made the sword a dragon-killer. Doubtless Snorre knew it had been used for that purpose, which was why he had disposed of it. If Valdar chose to use it against him, Darius would have to kill Freya’s brother or die himself. An awkward choice from which no victory could emerge.
Yet he sat quietly beside Brand working a long strip of thin red goatskin with grease. They were softening the leather so that it would be pliable when they wound it around the cord-wrapped hilt. Valdar had done that job himself, patiently winding the narrow cord around and around to pad the grip. A coat of sticky pine resin had sealed the larch-root rope. The hilt was ready for its leather covering.
Dragon Bewitched_A Viking Dragon Fantasy Romance Page 8
