Dragon Bewitched

by Isadora Montrose

  It resembled nothing so much as the treasure rooms beneath the Guild Headquarters in France. The dungeons of the Chateau de la Ghilde had been converted to store rooms. These days, under the control of his Uncle Thorvald, who held the post of Treasurer of the Council of the Guild of Dragons, they also held nothing of real value. But they were a muddle. A dusty, cobwebby muddle.*

  There were no spiders in the Reiki archives. But no sense of order either. It would take more than one sword bearer to make sense of this mess. But he could at least sort things as he went along and make a list of what he found. Darius went to find paper and pen before he began this daunting task.

  A week later, he had arrived at three conclusions. The first was that dragons were world class hoarders. The second that Gunther’s ancestors had been more concerned with recording their acquisitions, ill-gotten or not, than writing down their history. And the third, that the Lords of Reiki had been weak on the distinction between chronicles and loot. None of his discoveries was any revelation.

  The archives were crammed with odd and ends of treasure that had never been put into any of the vaults or store rooms. After a while, Darius got tired of calling for a detail to haul away an iron-bound chest containing gems or gold. Or informing his Lord that he was in possession of a fine ninth century Irish reliquary. He saved his reports for the end of the day.

  As for his own search, he had found nothing about Balder. The genealogies that he read had a certain lack of accuracy that was dismaying. Gunther apparently had seventeen great-grandmothers, which was not just improbable, but impossible. He had had a moment when he thought he had hit pay dirt.

  He had uncovered a heavy leather-bound volume with a massive silver lock and a gilt dragon glaring from the cover. That had to be the family history. Sadly, it was an illuminated tenth century bible, stolen like the reliquary from some hapless Irish monastery. Possibly on the same raid.

  It was discouraging. Anxiety rode on his shoulders, driving him on. But the task felt hopeless. There was nothing in this vast, echoing room but the records of expeditions of plunder. And the plunder itself. He sighed and laid an ivory handled dagger by the door, next to the broken pearl earring he had found earlier. They would have to be inventoried later.

  All things considered, he had made very little progress. On the other hand, the longer he looked, the more he uncovered. Just not what he was hoping for. Apparently his lord and his lord’s forebears had not run to skalds, as the Norse poets were termed. There was nothing resembling the Icelandic sagas in this room. At least he had not yet found anything like that.

  He tugged a crate away from a heavy wooden sideboard. The crate itself was filled with dozens of rolls of paper. Each one would require patient examination. He had a dragon’s gift for languages, and he had been taught Latin at school – mostly so he could indulge in the traditional Swedish pastime of learning the species names of the flora and fauna of his country.

  Latin came in handy now to translate ancient rent rolls and court proceedings. Icelandic ones were of course written in Old Norse in which he was less fluent. But he managed. It was interesting, but told him nothing of Balder.

  Weeks ago he had brought a table into the archives and placed it under a lamp. He carried the crate over to it and began to go methodically through each roll, handling the fragile parchment with gloved hands and spreading it out carefully. More rent rolls. A court document recording that the Althingi had sentenced one of Gunther’s relatives to exile for murdering his slave. A record of a visit to a great estate. Almost he rolled it back up, but a name caught his eye.

  He read how Snorre and his men had taken wing and led their boats up the fjords to the fat farmland of Foreseti the Wise. Foreseti and his brothers had met them at the dock with battle axes and swords, but Snorre’s forces far outnumbered those of Foreseti. So Foreseti sued for peace.

  At the banquet that followed, Snorre and his brothers had spied the fairest maidens that ever walked the earth. The daughters of Foreseti the Wise. They had offered gold for the girls. Foreseti had agreed. Snorre and his brothers had drawn lots for the maidens. Snorre had won the fairest of them. A green-eyed, fat-breasted maiden, with hair that blazed like the sunset, and limbs as slender as a doe’s.

  Only this had led to a quarrel between the brothers, for Snorre’s maiden had run away and refused to come back. Snorre had tried to claim Rab’s girl. But Rab had refused him. Snorre had taken vengeance by killing Foreseti and all his kin, before he razed the homestead and set the pastures alight. Then he had flown away, cursing his flown bed-slave.

  Was this the story of Balder? He had told Freya the story he knew of Snorre the Thief who had been slain by his own ancestor Bujold the One-Eyed. Could this be the self-same Snorre? Freya was a descendant of Foreseti the Wise. At least her brothers had said, we are the sons of Foreseti the Wise. Had they meant it quite literally? It might go some way to explain why her brothers disliked dragons.

  He read on. Lajos, Rab, and Olaf, the brothers of Snorre, had brought their captured women home. Their first wives had not been happy. But these bed-slaves were not merely beautiful and accomplished weavers and spinners, they were powerful sorceresses. Eventually the wives had tired of fighting with Elsa, Gerta and Hilde and the brothers had built their concubines a longhouse where they lived together with their many sons, who grew up to perform many deeds of valor.

  The sons of the concubines had inherited their fathers’ lands and wealth. Their half-brothers, the sons of the wives of Rab, Lajos, and Olaf, had conveniently died or been exiled. The grandsons of the sorceresses were equally ferocious. The lords of Reiki were their descendants. No surprises there. But Lord Gunther would have to be told. This history was his, and he should be informed.

  Except this was not actually history. You had to read between the lines of these self-serving accounts. It seemed unlikely that Foreseti the Wise, a powerful sorcerer, and a rich landowner, had sold his daughters to be concubines.

  Far more likely, Snorre and his brothers had returned treachery for hospitality, and stolen Foreseti the Wise’s daughters. Except for the one who looked like the maiden in Darius’ fevered dreams.

  Dragons had no lock on magic. His own cousin Theo was married to an elven princess who was at least as old as Snorre.** A man who could transform at will into a dragon had no room to insist that the improbable was impossible. Could his Freya be Snorre’s runaway bed-slave?

  He kept reading, but there were no other scrolls that continued the story. Or explained the nature of Snorre’s curse. And nothing he read assuaged his desire for Freya. He had no choice but to return to Balder and claim his bride. If she would have him, or even permit him back on the island.

  *Dragon’s Pleasure

  **Dragon’s Christmas Captive

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Balder Island, July

  Freya~

  “What are you waiting and watching for, sister?” Brand spoke from behind her. His hands grasped her shoulders when surprise would have made her tumble from the rock where she was sitting.

  “A white sail and a golden-haired boy,” she murmured vaguely. When Brand had stolen up on her, she had been drowsing in the summer sun. Daydreaming. Or just dreaming?

  “With your eyes wide open?” he asked in disbelief.

  She blinked. “I must have been half-asleep. What did you say?”

  “I asked what you were watching for. As if I didn’t know. You are waiting for that dragon to return.”

  Freya nodded. “He might.” Memories of their night together could heat her cheeks, even now when she was growing larger every hour. But perhaps for him it had been only commonplace. Perhaps she should not have sent him away so quickly. But she could not regret her babes.

  “Why would a man buy a cow when he has had the milk for free?” Brand asked.

  “Brother! Who taught you such crudeness?”

  “Our mother used to say that,” he replied. “Do you not remember?”

  “I do n
ot.” She sighed. “It was probably true a thousand years ago, and even likelier it is still true. Do you never dream of a bride, Brand?”

  “Sometimes I dream of a blue-eyed maiden, like the girls who used to dance at the harvest feasts.” His powerful jaw clenched and unclenched. “But what is the use of dreaming of the impossible? This is not such a bad life. This island of ours is a place of rare beauty. Whatever the years bring elsewhere, we have a warm hearth and a full plate.”

  “True. In our care, Balder has flourished. But the days and the years roll on unchanged, and I miss our sisters.”

  But today her loneliness was not for her three sisters. Fool that she was, she yearned for the strong arms of the stranger to enfold her once again. This was most likely Loki’s punishment for her ill-judged wish. Loki the prankster could be cruel.

  “It is the curse of immortality to outlive what you love,” Brand reminded her. “There are times, sister, when I wish I could leave this place and live a single lifetime with a wife and children followed by grandchildren. And then end my days under the grass.” He too sighed. “But what’s the use of wishes? If wishes were horses...”

  “Beggars would ride,” she finished for him.

  He smiled gravely. “You are worn out with watching, sister. And you have not eaten since dawn. Come home with me.” He held out his hands and she placed hers in them and was pulled to her swollen feet. “It is too far for you to walk, little sister. You must ride on me.”

  In the blink of an eye, Brand transformed himself into his avatar. Freya waved a hand. In that instant the great cat was bridled and saddled. He crouched and she mounted astride and gripped the reins. He set off for the house with a swift and easy glide that barely jostled her or her babies.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Balder Island

  Darius~

  The island was exactly where the charts said it should be. A good omen, if Lord Gunther was to be believed. Even though it was July, snow and ice still gleamed from the peaks of Bradur. But he had not come to climb. He had come to seek Freya. If she was a real woman and not a mere figment of his imagination.

  He anchored the repaired and refitted Kittiwake in the bay he remembered and clambered ashore with his rucksack on his shoulders. The sky was a clear blue and the sun had turned the obsidian beach into a glittering black frill embroidered with green. Even below the tide line, tough grass grew in the cracks and crevices of the volcanic stones, every blade as sharp as a knife.

  He climbed up to the where the trees began. They were no higher than his shoulders, but dense and impenetrable. He could see no path. This landing point seemed to lead nowhere but to the cliff he did not want to climb. He might have to try for another anchorage. Where was the longhouse of Freya the long-haired?

  He was on the point of returning to the Kittiwake when with a rattle of pebbles Valdar appeared before him. He was still dressed in green homespun, but today he wore a jerkin of chain mail over it. A glittering steel helmet with a long nose guard covered his hair. In one powerful hand he brandished a double-headed battle ax, in the other, he held a round shield with a massive pointed boss.

  “Halt, stranger,” he cried.

  “How’s it going, Valdar?” asked Darius, hoping a genial greeting would appease the cat shifter.

  Valdar glared at him through slitted green eyes. He did not appear to be appeased. He looked even taller and bigger than Darius recalled. More like an oak than not. “I challenge you, Skyworm, to battle!” He twirled the battle ax over his head so that the blades sang.

  Darius’ felt a chill. The absurdity of Valdar’s appearance did not mean that death did not loom. “I have no quarrel with you, Valdar,” he said mildly. “Why do you wish to fight?”

  Valdar set his ax blade between his massive boots. “You have dishonored my sister,” he boomed.

  Darius nodded amiably. “It must seem so to you. Yet it would be a greater wrong and a woeful grief to the Lady Freya were I to kill her brother.”

  “You would not,” swore Valdar. “No man can beat me with the ax or sword.”

  “But I am not a man,” replied Darius. “I am a dragon.” He paused, wondering if he should shift and put a little real fear into Freya’s brother, or if it was time for an overture of friendship. “Let us not fight, Valdar. I would be friends with my bride’s brothers.”

  “Your bride?” Valdar spat. “You wish to wed a wrinkled crone with white hair?”

  “You must not describe your sister so unkindly, Valdar. The Lady Freya has won my heart.” Darius laid his right hand over that organ. “Will you refuse my suit?”

  “My sister is no man’s – or dragon’s – for the asking. She must be wooed if she is to be won. What gifts have you brought for a bride price, Dragon?”

  He had brought gifts for Freya. A ring of course. A jeweled comb and a silver mirror. Trifles. It had never crossed his mind that if he wished to woo Viking style he would have to buy his bride. He swallowed hard. Should he tell the truth? Or would a courtly evasion work better?

  “Where in the wide world would I find a gift to balance the worth of your sister?” he asked. “There is not gold enough under the sun to equal her value.”

  Valdar laughed. He spread his arms wide exposing his mail-clad chest to the sun. “Then let the blood flow until the sun goes down.”

  Shift. “I didn’t mean that I am empty-handed,” Darius said hastily. “Let me show you your sister’s gifts.”

  “I would rather fight,” Valdar said simply. “I has been many years since I slew a dragon.”

  “But I have no sword or ax,” Darius pointed out. “Would you attack an unarmed man and one who has been your guest?”

  “No.” Valdar brandished the ax again. As the double-blades spun through the air they whistled even louder.

  Then Darius felt the heavy weight of helmet, ax, and mail jerkin for the first time in his life. The wooden shield was almost as heavy as the rest combined.

  Shift. Valdar had outfitted him in Viking battle gear. He was used to training in full armor and with a fifty-kilo pack, but Kevlar was light compared to steel. And the ax weighed as much as a two-man rocket launcher and was far less well balanced.

  “Not like that,” Valdar growled impatiently. “Hold your shield up, dragon. Keep your ax steady. Who taught you to fight?”

  Darius danced backward. “I am not your match, cat, with an ax, and I will not fight you unless you force me to. Let us not grieve the Lady Freya.”

  Lightning flew through the air. An enormous forest cat interposed his body between the two men. Brand. Saved by the cat.

  “Get out of my way, brother,” hissed Valdar.

  The cat snarled and faced his twin. Valdar lowered both shield and ax. “Let me split him open and avenge our sister,” he cried.

  Brand appeared fully clothed in green homespun. A nice trick that. If Darius took dragon without undressing, he destroyed his clothes, and when he turned back into a man he was always naked. He couldn’t feel his rucksack with its treasures. Had Valdar made them vanish when he dressed Darius for this interrupted battle?

  “There is to be no fight, Valdar,” Brand said sternly. “At least not with weapons. This dragon is still under our sister’s protection. Dragon,” he turned to Darius, “Tell us your name – if you know it.”

  “I am Darius Lindorm,” he bowed low. “Son of Einer and of Hedda.”

  Brand smiled coldly. “Fair enough, Darius Einerson.” He waved a big hand. Darius’ armor and weaponry vanished. Brand turned to Valdar. “Brother, there is to be no fight.”

  Valdar wasn’t happy, but his chain mail, shield and ax disappeared. “He has no bride price,” he grumbled. “And we cannot allow our sister to wed a coward.”

  Brand frowned at Darius. “Do you wish to marry our sister?”

  “If she will have me.”

  “And yet you brought no gifts?” Brand said scornfully. “I thought dragons were rich.”

  Darius cleared his throat. “T
he House of Lindorm is wealthy beyond imagining,” he told the brothers. “But I am only the least of the Lord Lindorm’s nephews. And buying wives has gone out of fashion. But I brought my bride such gifts as I could.” He pulled the rucksack off his back and unfastened the clasps.

  Valdar reached for the rucksack. It looked ridiculously small dangling from his huge hand. “It doesn’t weigh much,” he scoffed.

  Darius took it back. “No. It doesn’t. It is however woven from steel silk.” It was made of Kevlar, but he thought that might be too difficult a concept for these warriors. Steel silk was close enough to the truth.

  “No such thing.” But for the first time Valdar looked impressed.

  “It can turn a blade,” Darius assured him. “And it stays dry even in the ocean.”

  “Hmph.”

  Darius produced his little bag of treasures and spilled them out on his hand. “They are women’s baubles,” he said warningly.

  Brand picked up the ring. “A good color,” he said. “Freya likes green. But the stone is a bit small.” It was an emerald as big as his thumbnail.

  Valdar snatched it. He held it up to the sun. “See how it catches the light?” He ran his thumb over the facets. “Pretty. It looks like an emerald,” he muttered, “But I have never seen one cut and polished like this. It’s nothing but glass.”

  Darius coughed. “It’s a new thing,” he said. As in, since the Renaissance. “Jewelers have learned to cut emeralds and rubies and even diamonds so that they shine more brightly.”

  “Pretty thing,” Valdar conceded. “Even if it’s glass.”

  “If Freya wants a bigger jewel than this one, she may have one,” Darius assured them. He could obtain cabochon emeralds, as the rounded jewels were called. The Lindorm Hoard was ancient and held many such rings.

  Personally he thought a rock the size of a hazelnut large enough for any woman’s hand. But the Lindorm Hoard also had many emerald pendants. In fact, he had access to the sort of barbaric finery this pair would appreciate. On that thought, he pulled out his cell phone and found some photographs of himself dressed for the declaration of his Mate Hunt.