by Resa Nelson
Lenore studied Astrid’s face and then sank her fingers through her cropped hair until Astrid noticed her sharp fingernails scratch her scalp. “Promise me.”
Astrid felt startled by Lenore’s insistent touch. For the past several months, Astrid had embraced the life of a hermit while she followed DiStephan’s spirit through the Northlands, tracing the established route of the dragonslayer. She’d introduced herself to each village as his successor. Welcomed everywhere she went, she’d been touched and delighted by the invitations to feasts where people told their stories about DiStephan and what he’d done for them.
And yet such respect meant people rarely touched her, usually nothing more than a brief hand on her arm. However much she loved DiStephan in her travels, she missed his physical presence. Now she realized the solace brought by the simple touch of a friend. “Of course.” Astrid smiled, looking straight into Lenore’s eyes to make sure she saw her intent. “I promise. I’ll spend the winter in Guell.”
Casting one last worried glance at Astrid’s short hair, Lenore nodded her understanding, pulled her hands back to herself, and wrung them for a moment.
“There you are!” A booming voice called out from the throng surrounding the slain lizard. A hefty man stepped toward them, his long free-flowing hair the color of a rusty setting sun. His broad face sported a bushy beard lighter in shade, and his small blue eyes were as piercing as the truth. He smelled of old sweat and dust.
Astrid recognized the scent immediately. It stank with the tang of someone who had traveled for weeks or months without the chance to bathe. A merchant from the Lower Northlands who traveled throughout the Southlands, Sigurthor brought unusual dried meats and fruits as well as sweet onions to trade at the end of every dragon season.
Sigurthor clapped a hearty hand on Donel’s back while the boy butchered the lizard. “Don’t you go and bother saving any of that for me. Your father always tried, but I’ll have none of that ghastly stuff. But where is the dragonslayer? You said you’d be bringing him back with you.”
His forehead creased with concern, Donel glanced at Astrid. “That’s our new dragonslayer.”
Sigurthor followed his gaze. “A boy?” Sigurthor bellowed in disbelief. “You’ve hired a boy?”
Astrid realized Sigurthor meant her. “A boy?” she said with equal disbelief.
“It’s your hair,” Lenore whispered. “At first glance, I thought you were a boy, too.”
Anger flared inside Astrid at the insult. “I’m not a boy!” she said. “I’m a woman!”
Sigurthor squinted as if that might help him see better. He stepped toward Astrid slowly, looking her up and down. “I’m looking for the dragonslayer who calls Guell home. The successor who fills the shoes of DiStephan and his father before him.”
“You know me,” Astrid said patiently. He’d never paid much attention to her in the past, but surely Sigurthor remembered her. “I’m Astrid.”
Sigurthor stopped suddenly, his face slack with dismay. Then his pale skin flushed with anger. “Law breaker!” he shouted, pointing at Astrid. “Pay the price for your crime!”
CHAPTER 8
“Law breaker?” Astrid replied in disbelief. “When has slaying lizards become a crime?”
“Any woman who pretends to be a man insults all men.” Sigurthor’s color continued to rise while he glared at her. “It is a crime to dress like a man. It is a crime to wear your hair like a boy. And it should be a crime to pretend to do a man’s job.” Sigurthor paused, seeming to make a mental note. “I’ll take that up with my chieftain. We need a new law for that.”
DiStephan had told Astrid and everyone else in Guell how the Northlands had been changing over the years. Not only had villages begun to dig ditches on their outskirts to discourage attacks from brigands, but villages had chosen chieftains to be their lawmakers in regions throughout the Northlands outside of Scalding territory. Chieftains memorized all laws and settled disputes, keeping the peace among villages. And if someone committed a crime, making amends typically boiled down to paying for the crime with an acceptable offer to the offended party.
Like most men, Sigurthor wore his wealth on his body in the form of silver armbands and rings. Wealth took many forms in addition to silver: land, livestock, butter, cheese, and homespun cloth. Sigurthor typically came to Guell each year with goods from the southern part of the Northlands and the Southlands and then left with a cart loaded with cloth and cheese.
But now he eyed the sword at Astrid’s side.
Because of the value of iron and the amount required—not to mention the craftsmanship—one sword had the kind of value that could feed and clothe and house a man for years. Other than a chest full of silver or a vast stretch of farmland, Astrid knew of nothing more valuable than a dragonslayer’s sword.
“You’re in Guell,” Astrid said, standing her ground. “We have no such laws.”
Sigurthor paused, and then scoffed. He turned his attention from Astrid, ignoring her. To Randim and Trep, Sigurthor said, “Surely you don’t condone women making a mockery of men. Everything about her ridicules us.”
Randim ignored him.
Astrid spoke louder. “Guell is part of Scalding territory. Your laws have no meaning here.”
Paying no attention to her, Sigurthor’s eyes widened at Randim’s refusal to speak. “Are you a woman? Is Guell nothing but a village full of women?”
Astrid became aware of a stillness that surrounded them all. Randim and Trep stood nearby, each suddenly tense.
At the butchering table, Donel stopped his work, his face taut and grim.
The dozens of villagers in Guell had gathered to take their share of lizard meat, but now they all stared at Sigurthor and Astrid.
One of the blacksmiths clenched his fists and his teeth. His wife held him back with a gentle touch on his shoulder.
“I’m a dragonslayer and a blacksmith,” Astrid said. “I belong in Guell. I have nothing to do with you or your laws.”
Sigurthor’s face darkened. “DiStephan was my friend. Each year we traveled together from Guell, and he killed every dragon that crossed our path.” He cast a bitter look at Astrid. “If any ill befalls me, my blood is on your hands.”
A sense of unease seeped into Astrid’s bones. She watched Sigurthor blend back in among the villagers who watched Donel butcher the lizard. Guell meant safety, surrounded by her friends and neighbors. But something in her bones told her to be careful.
She sensed danger as surely as she had the ability to detect the scent of lizards in the air.
CHAPTER 9
That evening, with bellies full of bread and roasted lizard meat, Astrid and Donel strolled down the narrow spit of land that separated the village of Guell from her smithery. A sea breeze chilled her face and filled her nose with the tang of salt. In the distance, waves boomed against Dragon’s Head Point, the rocky outcrop near Astrid’s cottage. Donel carried a torch even though the full moon hovered near the horizon, filling their path with light. Astrid smiled. “How do you like being rich and successful and prominent now that you’re a blacksmith?”
Donel snorted. “In a village full of blacksmiths with years more experience than me? You might as well ask how I like being poor and struggling.” He paused and grinned. “But it’s a far cry better than being elbow-deep in guts and blood all day.” Donel looked over his shoulder to make sure no one could overhear. “I don’t mind cutting up a dragon, but I’m happy the blacksmiths’ women do their own butchering when it comes to pigs and cattle.”
“Are people settling in? Getting along?”
“You mean with the blacksmiths and their families? It seems fine.” Donel shrugged. “It’s odd with the village being smaller and with more people blacksmithing than farming, but that’s likely to turn around soon enough.”
Astrid nodded. She’d met the blacksmiths at a time that they’d worked mostly for Drageen, shoring up Tower Island by surrounding it with a fence of iron to keep dragons out. Like mos
t villages, Guell survived by farming, which required most of its people to tend crops and livestock. A village would typically have one blacksmith—like Astrid—to forge and mend iron for farming tools. In exchange for helping Astrid buy the survivors of Guell out of slavery, the blacksmiths had accepted her offer to share ownership of its land, even though it meant working the land themselves.
“Will it bother you?” Astrid said. “Spending more time farming than blacksmithing?”
“I’d spend every minute of the day at the anvil if I could,” Donel said wistfully. “But we all must spend our fair share of time in the fields. And after all my years of knocking at your door and begging to be your apprentice, I’m happy something’s finally come of it!”
Astrid laughed. “Is it anything like you imagined?”
Donel sighed in content, gazing at the bright moon ahead of them. “Who in his right mind wouldn’t prefer creating something useful and beautiful out of a raw piece of iron to killing?” He stopped suddenly, his eyes wide with horror. “I’m sorry, Mistress Dragonslayer! I didn’t mean—”
“I feel the same, Donel,” Astrid said quietly. “I don’t like killing any more than you.” She draped her arm across the boy’s shoulders and hugged him briefly. “I’m looking forward to a long winter working in my smithery. I miss the fire and the heat.”
When they approached her cottage, he led her into the smithery, lit by his torch. “I’ve tried to keep it exactly as you left it,” Donel said, brushing a stray bit of slag off the top of the anvil.
Astrid breathed in the scent of iron and lingering smoke. She gazed at the long forging table and the neat row of blacksmithing tools: hammers and fire rakes and tongs, all forged by her own hand or by Temple, the blacksmith who had bought her from the childseller and made her his apprentice many years ago. The smithery appeared alien and familiar at the same time, like a long lost friend from childhood.
“Here’s a place for your weapons,” Donel said, beaming with pride. “I figured since DiStephan always took his with him when he went to the Southlands each winter, yours should have a safe place by your side.” He gestured to a corner of the smithery that had once stood empty.
Several elaborate bars with double hooks had been forged and nailed to the wall. A spare ax and a few daggers hung neatly on either side of the largest hooked bar in the center. The design reminded Astrid of the ironwork of the Girly Cart they’d made for hauling dead lizards back to Guell: thin threads of iron wove in and out and among other tendrils of iron, curling and twisting together while forming the shape of a dragon. The hook on each end looked like a crooked leg. The image of a large star rose at the center of the dragon’s back, rays of light attaching it to the animal.
“Starlight,” Astrid whispered.
“Yes, Ma’am,” Donel said, clearly pleased with himself as he stood straighter, throwing his shoulders back and resting his hands on his waist. He looked expectantly from Astrid to the hook he’d made for her dragonslaying sword—the first sword she’d ever made and the sword DiStephan had kept by his side since the day of its creation.
Astrid hesitated. During the past months, she’d grown used to Starlight’s weight at her side with every step she took. At night, she slept with her arms around the sheathed sword. Leaving it alone in the smithery seemed like a cold and heartless thing to do.
But Donel had spoken the truth. All her weapons had been forged in the smithery. Keeping them in the smithery meant they’d remain in her sight and at her side throughout the winter. She untied the sheath from her belt and eased Starlight’s crossguard into the hooks, the blade centered between them. The sword’s grip hid the star, but its rays streamed behind it, and the dragon seemed to be resting upon the crossguard. The effect dazzled Astrid. “It’s beautiful.”
“Oh,” Donel said, excitement rising in his voice. “I also made this for you.” He removed a dagger from a hooked bar next to Starlight and handed it to her. Grinning, he said, “I figured our Mistress Dragonslayer can never have too many daggers.”
Astrid wrapped her fingers around the leather grip, studying the dagger’s blade. Donel’s torchlight illuminated the patterned design, like tiny dragon scales running down the blade’s center. Those scales looked faintly blue next to the edges, polished mirror bright. “You made it like Starlight,” Astrid said in wonder. Her eyes gleamed as brightly as its edges and she smiled at Donel. “You made this dagger the same way we make dragonslayer swords!”
“I remember DiStephan always needed new daggers because his bent or broke, so I thought, why not make a dagger like a sword? Why not twist different pieces of iron together to make it stronger?” Bubbling with excitement, Donel pointed at the blade. “And see how pretty the patterns came out? Trep and Randim made it, but I helped. It was my idea, and I took the blooms of iron and forged them into those long rods—”
“The billets,” Astrid said, enjoying Donel’s enthusiasm.
“Right. The billets. I made a couple of billets, and then we cut them short, into dagger-size billets. Then we hammered them thinner than usual because we didn’t want you to end up with a blade as wide as a sword.” Donel paused, breathless from talking. “It’s Starlight’s little sister.”
The name came to Astrid immediately, and she remembered the same had happened to DiStephan when he’d seen Starlight for the first time. She raised the dagger above her head and brought it down in a slashing motion. “Falling Star,” she said.
Delighted, Donel clapped his hands together. “That’s a very threatening name! You can say, ‘Beware or my star shall fall upon you!’”
Astrid laughed. “I may do just that.” Carefully, she returned Falling Star back to its hooks. “But for now I’m ready to sleep in my own bed.”
“Right,” Donel said, casting one last look around the smithery before they left.
Astrid recognized that look. It’s what every blacksmith did to make sure everything was in its place, tidy and neat.
“You’ve been sleeping on the ground for months, haven’t you?” Donel said. “I’ve kept your cottage the way you like, and mine’s been built in Guell, so I’m just a holler away if you need anything.”
“Good night, Donel. Thank you for taking care of everything while I was gone.”
Donel nodded his head, unsuccessful at his attempt to hide his smile. “And all those years you told me you didn’t want an apprentice. ‘I don’t want one. Never have, never will.’ That’s what you always said.” He waved, walking back toward Guell. “Like I said, you couldn’t resist me.”
Laughing, Astrid walked into her cottage, dimly lit by a smoldering fire in its central hearth. Like her smithery, it felt strangely familiar and alien at the same time, but she found comfort in sitting by the fire, adding wood, and tending it until it blazed. Fire had been her friend since childhood, and she basked in its company. Finally, she crawled into bed and slept the deep sleep of gratitude at having come home at last.
* * *
Astrid cried out the next morning, sitting up in bed with a start. It took her several moments to wake up and get her bearings: she’d returned to Guell and spent the night in her own home. But her heart raced and sweat beaded her forehead.
Had she heard brigands in her sleep? Could Guell be under attack?
Astrid bolted out of her cottage, straining her eyes as she looked across the spit of land that separated her cottage and smithery from the village. In the distance, steady columns of smoke rose from cottages, and cows lowed contentedly. She heard the murmur of conversation and women’s laughter.
The ocean wind slammed the cottage door shut behind her. Astrid turned to look, and dust swirled to form the faint outline of a man pointing at her smithery.
“DiStephan,” she said.
Astrid burst into her smithery, her heart pounding harder. She saw the problem at once, racing to the wall and slamming her hands against the empty spot below the waiting hooks.
Starlight had disappeared.
CHAPTE
R 10
Astrid stared in disbelief at the hooked bar on which she had hung the dragonslayer’s sword just last night. All her other weapons surrounded the empty space: the ax and daggers—and Falling Star, the dagger forged in the same manner as her swords.
But why had Starlight vanished? Who could have taken it? Why would anyone who lived in Guell—?
Astrid clenched her teeth, realizing what must have happened. Sigurthor had stolen it, angry that she’d refused to escort him back to his home like DiStephan had done every year.
When Astrid left her smithery, her wall of weapons held nothing but empty hooks.
* * *
“Sigurthor!” Astrid shouted, storming into Guell. She’d tucked each dagger under her belt, and she carried the ax in hand.
The dirt streets looked empty, even though thin streams of smoke drifted through the center of every thatched roof in the village. Astrid paused, spinning slowly while she tried to gain her bearings. It had been months since she’d last been in Guell, and her neighbors had built several new cottages, changing the look of the village. She remembered where Sigurthor had planned to sleep last night, but she couldn’t find the right cottage. “Randim!” Astrid shouted. “Lenore!”
“They’ve gone to the fields.”
Astrid noticed the wife of a blacksmith sitting in the doorway of a cottage. She’d wrapped a strip of cloth, dyed blue with woad, around her head but her curly red hair flowed freely through its open end and down her back. “Who?” Astrid said.
“Everyone.” The blacksmith’s wife had draped a long length of the same blue cloth across her lap and placed her baby in its center. Now, the woman methodically wrapped the cloth around the infant. “Today could be the last good day we get for harvesting.”
The sun warmed Astrid’s face when she gazed up, but the autumn chill pierced the air with a warning that winter would soon be upon them.
A little girl crept slowly from the shadows inside the cottage with her hands raised menacingly above her head. She jumped forward, wrapping her pudgy arms around the woman’s neck while she shouted, “Boo!”
