The Dragonslayer's Heart

by Resa Nelson

  “It’s murdering people that causes the change,” Brigga said. “Not killing animals.”

  “People,” Lumara said in a soft voice. “Not dragons.” She looked up in surprise.

  Her expression caught Skallagrim off guard.

  She seems to think dragons count the same as people.

  “It’s no problem for now,” Brigga said. She’d brought mugs of mead and platters of food and gestured for Skallagrim and Lumara to eat. “I saw what your cousins did. Afterwards, they tried to laugh it off and claim they meant it as a jest.” Brigga’s eyes gleamed. “I believed none of it, so I told them you must have bumped up your plans and already set sail for the Midlands or the Southlands. I sent them to a cloth merchant’s ship leaving the next morning.” Brigga laughed. “The jest is on them!”

  Skallagrim took heart, hoping he understood what she meant. “They’re gone?”

  “To the Midlands and then on to the Southlands where they’re bound to waste the entire winter searching for you.” Brigga giggled. “I said you’d been paid by a merchant to travel a special route instead of doing the normal things you dragonslayers do. They’ll be looking everywhere for you and won’t think anything’s wrong when people tell them they haven’t seen you.”

  At ease for the first time since their conversation began, Skallagrim grinned at Brigga. “Thank you.”

  “We take care of our dragonslayers,” Brigga said. “You know that.” She turned her attention to Lumara. “What about this one?”

  “I’m here because I was foolish,” Lumara said. She spoke with warmth and humility. “I planned to leave with my sister for the Midlands days ago but went on a silly errand and missed the departure.” She gazed at Skallagrim and smiled. “But I had great fortune in meeting your fine dragonslayer.”

  Skallagrim chewed a chunk of meat and then spoke. “We faced a dragon south of the city. I’m not convinced the beast has left the country. With the seas getting rough, it might have stayed here in the Northlands, which means a city like this could draw its attention.”

  “Its attention?” Lumara said. “How?”

  “We’re food for dragons,” Skallagrim said. “The merchants and dragonslayers and tourists may have left for now, but there are plenty of people living in Gott. That’s plenty of food to help a dragon survive the winter. Maybe missing my ship is for the best. I’ll start investigating the caves on the north side of the city. The dragon could make its den there.”

  “Consider your room and board here as payment,” Brigga said. “But I can’t make the same offer for her.”

  Lumara appeared unconcerned. “Is there a way for me to earn my keep?” She smiled. “I get cold easily, so I’d be happy to work around fire. Would you let me help cook food here?”

  “I’ve already got too many cooks for winter,” Brigga said. “But one of the blacksmiths lost his apprentice to the Southlands for dragonslayer training. Do you know how to start a fire and keep it going at the proper heat?”

  Lumara beamed. “I would be happy to learn. That sounds like a wonderful way to spend the winter.”

  “Wait,” Skallagrim said. “Tending fires? That’s not the kind of thing a woman should do.”

  Lumara and Brigga faced him with stern expressions.

  “I’m surprised at you,” Brigga said. “You should know better. I’ve met that woman dragonslayer friend of yours. If dragonslaying is a proper thing for a woman to do, why not tending fires for a blacksmith?”

  Flummoxed, Skallagrim stuttered but failed to string together any words that made sense.

  “I would be honored to work for a blacksmith,” Lumara said. “Why do you fail to see the honor in such a task?”

  Skallagrim didn’t know how to explain that the desire to protect Lumara overwhelmed him. He finally offered a weak protest. “Blacksmith fires are big and open and dangerous. What if you get too close to a fire and it sets your clothing ablaze? I’ve heard that happens sometimes to blacksmiths.”

  Brigga moaned in agony while Lumara laughed.

  “I promise to be careful,” Lumara said. “But I would like you to trust that I am a grown woman with a sensible head on my shoulders. I would like you to understand there is no need to be afraid for me or to think I can’t take care of myself.”

  Chagrined, Skallagrim knew Lumara spoke the truth. “You’re right. I apologize.”

  Brigga clapped an approving hand on his shoulder. To Lumara, she said, “I’ll speak to the blacksmith at once. I expect you’ll have your own place to sleep and food to eat before the day is done.”

  Skallagrim squeezed Brigga’s hand in appreciation. “And if I can borrow a horse, I’ll ride out to the caves today and start looking for that dragon.”

  He wondered why Lumara appeared amused by his words and hoped her peculiar expression didn’t mean she harbored offense at the words he’d misspoken moments ago.

  CHAPTER 17

  True to Brigga’s word, the blacksmith welcomed Lumara into his smithery. Although he stood at a medium height and appeared to be better suited to farming, the blacksmith’s experience served him well. He understood every shade of heated iron, from brown to cherry red to sparking white. He understood every nuance of color and worked with speed and efficiency. He taught Lumara how to build a fire, keep it going, and keep the smithery in proper order.

  He also allowed her to sleep in his home, surrounded by his pack of young daughters.

  This morning—like every morning—Lumara arranged kindling for the smithery fire and then lit it. She used the bellows to force air through the fire. Next, Lumara smothered the fire by shoveling coal onto its flames. When she pumped the bellows again, brown smoke streamed out of the coals.

  While Lumara kept pumping, the brown smoke turned white as fog. Among the smoldering coals, a small spot caught fire. Yellow flames, tinged with blue, shot up between some coals. Tiny sparks floated up and stung Lumara’s skin. She kept pumping until all the coals caught fire.

  For the rest of the day, Lumara would fetch water to keep the quenching barrels full, as well as follow whatever orders the blacksmith gave. At the end of each day, she swept the anvil clean of slag, the gray flakes that emerged from the iron when hammered.

  But for now, Lumara took great pleasure in preparing the fire before the blacksmith’s arrival. Like her sister Fiera, she found joy in the flames.

  For hundreds of years, Lumara had been a young dragon that found delight in simple things, like chasing crickets. Not long ago, Fiera had convinced Lumara to help her with a plan that—if successful—could convince the Northlander gods to let mortals live.

  The idea had confused Lumara, because any time Fiera had talked about mortals in the past, it was to complain about them. Lumara decided to pay closer attention and soon realized Fiera had a soft spot for the mortals who worshipped her and all other dragon gods and goddesses.

  As the sister of a goddess, Lumara didn’t understand at first how she could help. And when Fiera explained that she needed Lumara to enter the mortal realm and take mortal shape to seduce a dragonslayer, the thought baffled her.

  But now Lumara understood. She hadn’t expected the emotions that would overwhelm her when she took mortal shape, but her desire for a man had been a pleasant surprise.

  What surprised her even more was the sense of caring and friendship she felt for Skallagrim. Following her sister’s advice, Lumara took small steps in building her comradery with the dragonslayer. She knew it wouldn’t be enough to simply lure him into her bed.

  Lumara needed Skallagrim to let her walk into his heart.

  At the same time, she realized she’d already allowed him to walk into hers.

  Lumara smiled at that thought. She found her life in the mortal realm to be far more interesting than her years as a young dragon.

  At the same time, she appreciated the delicacy of the situation. How would a dragonslayer respond to being seduced by a dragon? Would Skallagrim kill Lumara once he learned her secret? Or could he
come to care enough for her to accept it?

  Lumara didn’t know, and that uncertainty made her life in mortal form even more exciting.

  The blacksmith entered the smithery and shouted, “Good morning.” He brought a handful of griddle bread and gave it to Lumara.

  She squealed with happiness and devoured the bread.

  The blacksmith grinned. “I’ll tell my wife you like her cooking.”

  “Always,” Lumara said. “You know I like everything she makes.” Without thinking, she added, “The food you mortals eat is delicious.”

  The blacksmith gave her a sharp look. “That isn’t the first time you’ve talked about mortals as if you’re not one of us.”

  Chewing the griddle bread, Lumara caught his gaze but didn’t dare speak.

  The blacksmith’s voice took a lighter tone. “Someone would talk that way if she was new to this world. A goddess, maybe.” He put on his smithing apron and gloves as if going about a normal day. “It’s impossible, of course. Or, at best, unlikely.” He laughed and pored over his neat display of tools before selecting a hammer. “What kind of goddess would want to spend the winter here?”

  Lumara swallowed.

  I’m not a goddess. I’m a dragon. I happen to have a sister who’s a goddess, that’s all.

  Instead of answering the blacksmith, she put the last bite of griddle bread in her mouth. She studied the blacksmith as if he were a lively and tasty cricket.

  The blacksmith gripped the hammer but then placed the fist that held it against his hip. “I come from one of those Northlander families that still worships the gods. I know about them all. And I’m fairly certain I’d recognize a Northlander goddess if I met one.” He paused and stood tall under Lumara’s intense gaze. “But I don’t know much about the gods from other countries. Can’t say that I’d be able to recognize one, even if a foreign goddess came into my smithery.”

  Disturbed by her failure to make the blacksmith crumble beneath her stare, Lumara stuttered. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t worry. I don’t think you’re a goddess.” The blacksmith’s eyes gleamed. “You see, most folk don’t like working in the smithery. Even in the winter, the heat’s too much for them. I’ve never seen anyone take to this work like you. All day long, you’re happy to be here.” He paused as if taking his next words into careful consideration before speaking them. “You’re like a lizard seeking a hot rock to lie on in the sun.”

  His words startled Lumara, especially because one of her favorite pastimes in her own realm was stretching out on a warmed stone and drinking up sunshine.

  The blacksmith winked at her. “Anyone willing to work as hard as you is always welcome in my smithery, especially when you don’t mind my ramblings.” Once again, he took a considered pause. “Mind you, the only place I ramble is inside this smithery. No need for anyone outside it to hear what I think. Of course, if you were to be a goddess, I’d be mighty grateful for you to watch over my family while you’re here. You never know what kind of fate is coming around the corner, and all I care about is keeping them safe.”

  Lumara felt her face vivify like a fire regaining its strength and rising from its ashes. Now she understood why Fiera had such a soft spot for mortals. “I’m not a goddess,” she said. “But if I had any other kind of special power, I’d be happy to watch over you and your family.” She grinned. “After all, who would make griddle bread for me if anything unfortunate happened to your wife?”

  The blacksmith laughed. “I’m glad to hear that. There’s a busy day ahead of us.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Months later, Frandulane grew weary of searching for Skallagrim. Weeks had passed since his lavender-eyed Scalding cousins had given up on the task. They’d stayed in the Southlands with the goal of finding a tavern in which they could pass the rest of the winter. Passage across the sea separating the Midlands from the Northlands wouldn’t be safe until spring.

  Skallagrim has to be somewhere here in the Midlands. That tavern maid swore on it.

  Over the years, the stories of Skallagrim’s success as a dragonslayer increased with every merchant’s visit to Tower Island. Frandulane avoided them, but sooner or later he overheard his folks discussing the merchants’ stories. As Skallagrim’s success grew, so did Frandulane’s envy of him.

  It should have been me. I should have been the one to become a dragonslayer.

  Walking by himself through a pasture of lush grass, Frandulane decided the time had come to rest. He sank into the cool, soft grass as if it were a bed. Cows lowed nearby.

  The one saving grace had to be the temperate climate of the Midlands, especially this close to the even warmer Southlands. Frandulane hated winter, and this type of weather suited him better.

  Maybe I should stay here.

  As much as that thought surprised Frandulane, he didn’t dismiss it. He covered this territory several weeks ago and used the local dairy farm as his home base. He’d dallied with an orphan girl his age who worked for room and board as a milkmaid. Up until recently, Frandulane had been busy traveling a new circuit throughout the Midlands when he heard a rumor about Skallagrim’s whereabouts. Failing to find his brother, Frandulane returned to the dairy farm, ready to dally some more with the milkmaid. But she’d refused, claiming he’d made her pregnant and that she needed to find a husband before her condition became obvious. The milkmaid dismissed Frandulane, leaving his feelings hurt.

  I could marry the girl. I could be a father. The dairy farm could hire me. How difficult can it be to learn to milk cows?

  But the thought of Skallagrim coming upon the dairy farm in his dragonslayer travels and finding Frandulane milking cows turned his stomach sour.

  Until a new thought dawned on Frandulane.

  If I live here in the Midlands, Skallagrim is bound to come to these parts sooner or later. And once he does, it’ll be easier to kill him. Skallagrim will never see it coming.

  Of course, Frandulane would have to carry out the deed in such a manner that no one would ever find out, much less suspect him of killing his own brother.

  It could be done.

  The more Frandulane thought about the idea, the more he liked it. With renewed energy, he picked himself up and headed toward the dairy farm. Once there, he walked into the barn, where he followed the rhythmic splash of milk against bucket and soon found his maid at work.

  She glanced up, recognized Frandulane, and returned her full attention to her work.

  Frandulane spoke up to make himself heard above the noise of the splashing milk. “I’ve come to ask you to marry me.”

  The milkmaid shook her head. “I’m going to marry the miller.”

  “Miller?” Frandulane frowned, perplexed. “You said nothing about a miller the other day when you told me you’re with child. Has he asked you to marry him?”

  The milkmaid hesitated to answer, but she kept a steady rhythm with her hands. “Not exactly.”

  Frandulane sauntered toward the cow and placed a steady hand on its back. “Then how can you marry him?”

  The milkmaid kept her gaze on the bucket, refusing to look at Frandulane again. “Once he gets to know me, I’m sure he’ll want me as his wife. I’ll make a good wife. Everyone says so.”

  Frandulane noticed the strain on her face. “I already know you. What does the miller have that I don’t?”

  “Steady work. A good home. Food on the table.”

  “I can give you a fine roof over your head and a bounty of food.”

  The milkmaid deigned to glare at him. “How? By wandering the country without aim or purpose?”

  “I told you I’m looking for my brother.” The darkness that Frandulane heard in his own voice startled him. He softened his tone, not wanting to give the milkmaid any reason to fear him. “But I don’t have to wander any more. I can settle down here and find work.”

  The milkmaid groaned in disbelief. “Who will hire you? No one knows you. No one has reason to trust you.
” She sniffed. “People in these parts hire their own. Not strangers like you.”

  A new thought crept into Frandulane’s head.

  Skallagrim is bound to visit our folks sooner or later. Can’t I just as easily wait for him there instead of here?

  “What if I took you to my home? What if we lived on Tower Island?”

  The milkmaid guffawed, and the cow mooed and shuffled its feet in alarm. Releasing the cow, she sat up straight on her wooden stool and met Frandulane’s gaze. “Tower Island? You expect me to believe that fairy tale?”

  Frandulane kept his hand on the back of the uneasy cow and gave it a reassuring pat. “It’s no fairy tale. I grew up there.”

  “On Tower Island.” The milkmaid looked at him as if he’d gone mad.

  Frandulane stroked the cow’s back until it settled down. “My father saw it come up out of the sea with his own eyes before I was born. It has a tower covered in gold. And the farmers and butchers who work for my family provide all the food we need. I lived on the island my whole life. Didn’t I tell you I’m a Scalding?”

  “You did.” The milkmaid pulled the bucket of milk out from under the cow and put it aside. “But lots of men claim to be of the Scalding clan.”

  “What? When?”

  “All the time.” The milkmaid stood to face him and crossed her arms. “If you think it impresses me, think again.”

  Flummoxed, Frandulane pulled up the wooden milking stool and sat down on it. “I know when my kin leave the island, and it doesn’t happen that often. Do you mean strangers who have nothing to do with the Scaldings claim to belong to our clan? To impress women?”

  “That’s right. And I’ve got no reason to believe you’re a true Scalding.”

  “What about my sword?” Frandulane pointed at the scabbard hanging from his belt. “How many men do you know who can afford a sword? I’ll bet the miller doesn’t own a sword.”

  “I imagine you stole it.”

  “I did not! I inherited it.” He gestured wide with his hands to make his point and smacked the cow without meaning to do so.