Anya and the Dragon
Page 14
“I don’t kn—wait, he?”
“He or she or whatever,” Anya said.
Ivan pulled at his collar. “I don’t know. I can ask Papa for advice. So—”
“If your papa and Dobrynya find out about the dragon, they’ll take him to the tsar,” Anya said. “And if they take him to the tsar, he’s going to die.”
Ivan’s face went slack as they neared the barn. “Die?”
“Yes,” Anya said, stopping outside the barn doors. “So this is very serious. If I told you the dragon was absolutely, completely kind and good, what would you do?”
Ivan inhaled like he was going to speak, but then he let the air out slowly. Once he had finished exhaling, he sucked in a short breath and whispered, “My parents taught us that a fool’s true duty isn’t to the tsar. It’s to the people of Kievan Rus’. The tsar wants the dragon brought to him, but you’re telling me the dragon is good. And I think I would be a bad fool to ignore what one of the people says, even if it’s not what the tsar says.”
A spark of hope warmed Anya’s chest. “So you wouldn’t tell anyone where the dragon is?”
“No,” Ivan said. “I wouldn’t even tell Papa. He says we serve the people first, but I’ve never seen him do that. And even if he did, Dobrynya is loyal to the tsar. Did you know he’s the tsar’s uncle?”
Anya did not. There was a lot about the tsar she didn’t know. She’d never needed to know about him. As the local wisdom went: God is far up high, and the tsar is far away.
“I think you’re a good fool, Ivan,” Anya said, and she pushed the barn door open.
A red, dragony face met her, eyes bright and happy.
“I think he’s a good fool too!” Håkon said.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“Håkon!” Anya hissed. She shoved the dragon’s face backwards, then grabbed Ivan by the arm and pulled him into the barn behind her. She slammed the doors shut, heart pounding. Had anyone seen him?
Ivan stayed pressed against the door, eyes enormous as he watched Håkon coil on the floor before him. Anya put her hand on Ivan’s arm, and he startled away from her.
“Oh, it really is here,” Ivan said.
“His name is Håkon,” Anya said.
Håkon stretched forward and extended a clawed foot. “It’s nice to meet you!”
Ivan nodded and brought a trembling hand forward to shake Håkon’s foot. “N-nice. Yes. Nice. Too.”
Håkon pulled his foot back from Ivan after their handshake, and then he turned to Anya. “Surprise!”
“No kidding,” Anya said, ushering the two of them away from the door and toward some hay piles that could hide Håkon if anyone came in. As they rounded the piles, the domovoi appeared as a cat, strolling by her leg without looking at her.
“Good job protecting the barn,” Anya said.
The domovoi slapped his tail against Anya’s leg as he continued past. He went by Ivan in the same manner, and the fool startled.
“Whuh . . . cat?” he asked, pointing.
The domovoi continued past to Håkon and rubbed against his side before vanishing into smoke. Ivan’s face went slack.
“I guess my domovoi likes you both now,” Anya said.
Håkon grinned. “We talked.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I got bored,” Håkon said. “How’s your arm?” He snaked his head closer to her.
“Fine.” She unrolled the bandage and held out her arm as Ivan stood stock-straight next to a hay pile, looking dazed. “My babushka put a salve on it. It’s almost all the way healed.”
Håkon hummed as he inspected the pink slashes. “That’s good magic.”
“It’s not magic,” Anya said. “Babulya is an herbalist.”
“A magic herbalist,” the dragon insisted. He sniffed her arm. “I can smell the magic in it.”
“You can smell magic?”
Håkon nodded. “Smell it. Feel it.”
“Well, she does use magic in her potions,” Anya said. “But she starts with a good potion. The magic just helps it work faster, or something.”
“She sounds interesting.” Håkon whipped his tail back and forth. “I’d like to meet her.”
Anya’s chest tightened. “Would you?”
“Very much.”
“Maybe you can someday,” Anya said. “But first I need to talk to you.”
Håkon stuck out his tongue and dramatically turned toward the cellar door.
“I’m serious!” Anya grabbed one of his spines, surprised at how smooth it was. He stopped and turned his head back to her. “It’s important. It’s about the Varangian.”
“Sigurd,” Håkon said darkly.
“Yes,” Anya said. “And the bogatyr, and . . .” She had wanted to discuss the fools as well, but with Ivan there, it seemed rude.
Håkon glanced at Ivan. Too late, Anya realized she had looked at the fool while she thought about them. “And him?”
“No,” Anya said. “I mean, yes. Kind of. His father.”
“My father?” Ivan squeaked.
“Because of what we talked about,” Anya said. “What he’d do to Håkon.”
“Oh,” Ivan said. “That’s right.”
Håkon looked between Anya and Ivan. “Are you friends?”
“I think so,” Ivan said at the same time Anya said, “Maybe.”
“Am I your friend?” Håkon asked Anya.
His question punched the air out of her and left her feeling hollow. Was he her friend? What did that mean, anyway? Anya hadn’t ever really had a friend before. Zvezda was her friend as much as a goat and a human could be friends. There were a few other children in the village, but Anya didn’t spend time with any of them. She was too busy, and her day of rest was different from theirs.
“Do dragons go to church?” Anya asked.
“What?”
“Church,” Anya said. “I mean, I don’t know what dragons believe about anything. Your faith.”
“Oh,” Håkon said. “Um, I don’t go to church. I don’t see what that has to do with being my friend.”
“There are other children here, but they all go to church, and I don’t,” Anya said. “My Sabbath is different from theirs. So I don’t play with them, ever. None of them are my friends.”
Ivan said, “Really?”
“Yes.” His pitying look was making Anya defensive.
“No friends?” Håkon tilted his head forward. “That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Oh, shut up,” Anya said. “Do you have any friends? Ivan and I don’t count.”
“Of course I do,” Håkon said, and he lifted his head toward the open hayloft window. When he opened his mouth, he didn’t speak or make a sound Anya expected from a dragon. He tweeted, and twittered, and warbled.
In the span of a breath, birds arrived, pouring through the window, jostling one another for a chance to get inside. Bright songbirds, drab little sparrows, huge black ravens, and a handful of hawks and eagles swooped in, landing on any available surface. The chickens stood around Håkon like a royal guard.
A hawk alit upon the hayloft railing and was unseated unceremoniously when a raven landed nearly on top of it. The hawk screeched, and the raven clacked an impatient beak at it. The hawk found a new perch.
Anya gaped at the horde of chirruping birds all around her, and she whispered to Håkon, “These are your friends?”
“Yep,” Håkon said.
“The book was right,” Anya said. “Can you talk to anything else?”
“Just birds,” Håkon said. “And people.”
“Did you tell my chickens to wait outside the house?”
“Well, yes,” Håkon said. “I wanted to talk to you. I thought you’d follow them.”
“What else can dragons do?” Ivan asked, awed.
Håkon shrugged. “Lots.”
“I guess,” Anya mumbled. “Sigurd said something to Dobrynya when they were fighting. He said, ‘I’ll show you what dragon blo
od can do.’ What was he talking about?”
Most of the birds directed their attention at the dragon, who shifted uncomfortably.
“My father told me about Sigurd,” Håkon said. “He’s known as Sigurd Dragedreper: ‘Dragonslayer.’ He killed a great dragon a long time ago. And when he did, he ate the dragon’s heart. He got some of the dragon’s blood in him, and it gave him powers.”
Anya swallowed. “What kind of powers?”
“He can talk to birds,” Håkon said. “He can see spirits, like I can. And he’s stronger. Braver.”
“Wow,” Ivan said. “So if I drank your blood, I could talk to birds?”
The gathering of birds—every last one of them—turned their heads toward Ivan, watching him with unblinking eyes.
He put his hands up. “I wouldn’t! I was just wondering.”
The barn door rattled, then slammed open. The birds erupted into a feathery whirlwind, cawing and chirping as they fled toward all exits. Anya spun, knowing it was Sigurd coming through those doors with his battle-hardened, bloodthirsty sword ready to cut all three of them down. She found herself in a panic, hoping he left the chickens alone. Her eyes darted between the numerous pieces of farming equipment around the barn, but none of it would make a dent in the Varangian.
Most of the smaller birds went out the window in the loft, but the others streamed out the doorway around the stone-still silhouette, just as Anya realized the person was too short to be Sigurd. Kin limped into the barn, letting the door fall shut behind him, acting as though a thousand birds rushing past was a normal occurrence. He stopped just inside, his eyes wide as he stared at Håkon.
“Kin,” Anya breathed.
He ignored her. The dragon and the blacksmith stared at each other for a heavy moment, and then Håkon tried to run. He went for the hayloft, but a pitchfork ripped away from its spot on the wall and flew at Håkon. He skidded to a halt in time; the pitchfork stuck in the ground just before him.
Ivan and Anya huddled together, gaping at the possessed pitchfork wobbling before the loft ladder.
The domovoi leaped to the ground in front of Kin and transformed into a huge black dog, all the shaggy hair of his hackles up as his shoulders bunched. Kin’s eyes dropped to him, widening as the domovoi snarled and snapped his teeth.
Kin pointed a finger upward, slowly, eyes never straying from the furious domovoi. The metal farm instruments hanging on the walls quaked. Then he hooked his finger and yanked it down, and all the tools ripped off the walls and shot straight for the house spirit. The domovoi yelped and vanished as metal hoes, shovels, and picks hit the ground where he had been.
Håkon spun and went for where he’d escaped the first time. But Kin whipped a hand up. The pitchfork tore off the floor. It raced at Håkon, and Anya screamed as it hit him.
The pitchfork’s tines bent and stretched like claws, grasping Håkon around the neck and yanking him to a stop. He struggled against the trap, scratching at it with his claws. The chickens squawked and flapped around the barn, Håkon’s distress sending them into a tizzy.
“Kin!” Anya yelled. “Stop!”
She ran at Kin, intending to shove him or otherwise distract him so Håkon could escape. Ivan ran with her, a step behind. A scythe that leaned against the wall stirred, then skidded across the floor at Anya and Ivan. Ivan shrieked at its charge and tried to dodge it, as did Anya, but it was smart. It followed them as they ducked this way and that, standing guard to keep them at bay.
Anya met Ivan’s eyes and pointed at him, then pointed behind him. He nodded. Anya ran one way, and Ivan ran the other.
Something warm and solid grabbed Anya by the ankle, and she tripped. She hit the ground when Ivan did, and they both looked back to see what had snared them. The scythe was no longer a scythe: it had stretched into ribbons of iron, anchored to the ground with the handle the scythe had once been fastened to.
Anya couldn’t get away from the metal pinning her ankle. “Kin!” she yelled.
He ignored her again, focused on Håkon. He walked toward the dragon, favoring his right leg, slowly and carefully.
She tried again. “He’s nice, Kin!”
Kin didn’t pause. He continued on his way to Håkon, who was still trying to dislodge the pitchfork from around his neck.
Kin’s other hand went up, and the leftover horseshoes from the tack room flew out. They each wrapped around Håkon’s legs, and one around his tail, and they held him in place, like he’d been mounted in midair. He couldn’t thrash anymore, but Anya could still see him bucking against the restraints.
The blacksmith made a loop with his finger, then tied an invisible bow in the air. He let his arms down, and Håkon remained, his struggles growing weaker.
Kin leaned in close to the dragon, face pulled into a furious scowl, and he muttered two words: “Yer grounded.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Kin lowered Håkon to the ground gently, setting him on his belly. The metal still bound him, and Kin lifted a trembling, chastising finger at the dragon.
“Yer lucky if I ever let ye in the river again,” Kin said.
Håkon stared at Kin, then nodded slowly.
Anya and Ivan looked at each other, then to Kin and Håkon, then back at each other. “Kin!” Anya yelled.
Kin opened his fingers, and the metal dropped off Håkon. It untied itself from Anya and Ivan as well, and the scythe reformed into its proper shape. The pitchfork tines straightened, and all the instruments returned to their original places. The domovoi jetted to the cellar door and hid inside.
Kin stood in the center of the barn, Anya and Ivan gaping at him, and Håkon standing next to him with his head lowered.
“I bet ye think I owe ye an explanation,” Kin grumped.
“An explanation would be nice,” Ivan said.
“Well, tough!” Kin barked.
Håkon sighed. “Da.”
Kin rounded on him. “Hmm? What was that? Da, what?”
“‘Da’?” Anya crept closer. “Kin, you’re Jernhånd?”
Kin glared even harder at the dragon on the floor and, through gritted teeth, said, “I suppose I am.”
“But . . .” Anya searched for just one question and finally picked the one she thought would explain the most: “How?”
“None of yer business,” Kin growled. He headed toward the door. “Come on, son.”
Håkon hesitated and softly said, “But Da, I think we can trust—”
“I doubt that very much!” Kin yelled, spinning at Håkon. “I doubt ye think at all! I keep ye hidden for nearly thirteen years, and then ye decide to go play with the locals, and my hard work goes straight in the garbage!”
“It didn’t, though!” Anya said. “We won’t tell anyone about Håkon. Honest! Right, Ivan?”
Ivan nodded enthusiastically.
“No,” Kin said. “We’ve got to get away from here before those heroes get wise. Or that Varangian.”
Anya gasped as a sudden memory surfaced. “Sigurd’s people kidnapped you!”
“It wasn’t his people,” Kin muttered, and then said, “It was, but not his specifically. Different village. Doesn’t matter.”
“How do you know him, then?” Anya asked. “Is that where you brought Håkon from? No, wait. He said you brought him from the south.”
“Yes,” Kin said, turning an irritated face to Håkon. The dragon sank down to the floor. “The south.”
“What were you doing in the south?” Anya asked.
“It’s a long story,” Kin said. “And it’s none of yer business.”
Anya furrowed her brow, but before she could snap at the blacksmith, Ivan said, “Gospodin, I think it is our business. Håkon’s our friend now. We care about him.”
The three of them looked at Ivan, surprised. A chicken clucked from the hayloft.
Kin heaved a sigh. “Ye really care about him?”
“We do,” Ivan said. “He saved our lives. He’s a good person—er, creature. Dragon.
He’s a good dragon.”
Kin said, “Well, if I’m going to tell ye my long story, we might as well be comfortable. Is there anywhere to sit?”
There was. Minutes later they were in the hayloft, with Håkon blocked from the door by some hay bales stacked three high. The domovoi appeared on the railing, plucking at his long beard as he listened.
Kin settled onto his bale with a groan. “I’ll catch young Ivan up to what ye know, Anya. I was taken from my people when I was a child. Taken by Northmen from across the sea. I told ye I was young when I was taken, much younger than this band usually took. But they knew I had something they could use.”
He lifted his fingers up, and the tools shuddered on the walls.
“Magic,” Kin said. “Metal magic, specifically. They stole me to do work for them. Mend their weapons. Craft tools. A magical blacksmith at their service. I hated them at first, and especially the man I called Master. He did this to me.” Kin patted his knee with a gentle hand. “Broke me the first few days I was with him. Wanted to make sure I couldn’t run.”
Anya frowned. “That’s awful.”
“It was my life,” Kin said. “But then I got free from that master. The others in the town became my friends. I made a name for myself. I was a great blacksmith. And that’s how I met Sigurd.”
Anya’s eyes widened. “You made his sword?”
“No,” Kin said. “He already had it. It was broken. He said a god broke it.” Kin snorted. “But it’s a magic sword, and only magic can repair magic. So he wanted me to fix it.”
Ivan leaned closer. “Did you?”
“I did not.”
“Why?” Anya asked.
“I could smell the evil on him,” Kin said softly. “A man like that shouldn’t have a sword at all, let alone a magic one. So I said no. Sent him away.”
“Then what happened?” Ivan said.
Kin shrugged. “He got angry. Wanted to fight. But it’s easy for a metal sorcerer to fight someone who wears metal armor. He was smart enough to leave when I gave him the chance.”
“Fighting Sigurd,” Anya mumbled. “That must have been scary.”