Breathing hard, she scanned the mountains of gold for the girl. She located her in the far corner, near the corridor that led to Cyng Aella’s burial chamber. The girl slept on her side with her knees curled to her chest. She wore a torn and dirty gown made from rough blue wool. Her hair was a mess of tangled red curls. A flickering torch stood in a gold vase behind her.
Fenn rushed toward her, moving faster and more confidently now that she could see the dragon was not waiting to devour her.
“Hello?” she called into the gloom. “Quick, wake up! We have to get you out of here before it comes back.”
The girl shifted and rolled over. Fenn extended her free hand toward her, as she would to a frightened horse. The girl blinked at her. She had wide, clear blue eyes framed by a multitude of long, black lashes. Her skin was alabaster white and smooth as fresh cream. She was round and lavish, with a full belly and gentle curves.
Fenn swallowed hard. It was no wonder the dragon had kept her. Despite her tattered clothing, the girl was undoubtedly the most beautiful person Fenn had ever seen. She looked like one of the angels the Christians painted in the new church they had built at the edge of her village. The dragon would never have accepted Fenn, with her limp blonde hair and sallow complexion, as a substitute.
The girl stared at Fenn with her hypnotic eyes. Her rosebud lips curled into a faint smile and she sat up. Fenn took another step toward her. But then she noticed how the light around the girl had shifted. The torch illuminated a shadow on the wall behind her.
The shadow was as large as a barn, with folded wings and great horns that stretched to the ceiling.
Fenn’s instincts screamed at her to turn around, to face the beast that had crept up behind her and meet her gods as a warrior. But she hesitated, and the girl raised her hands. Her fingers were tipped in fire as yellow as molten gold. A demon, hidden in the form of this beautiful girl.
Fenn could picture how so many warriors had spent their last seconds: turning to face the dragon that wasn’t there, exposing their backs to the monster with an angel’s eyes. If she turned around, she was sure she would die.
Hands shaking with fear, Fenn dropped her sword and backed away, deeper into the tomb.
* * *
In a few strides, Fenn reached the back of the tomb. She searched frantically for somewhere to hide, but Cyng Aella’s burial chamber was hardly wide enough for her to squeeze around his coffin. She felt along the back of the damp wall for any loose stones or hidden exits, but there was nothing.
She remembered what Ecberth had told her, about the wall of fire he’d met when he tried to save his friends. If she remained in the open, the dragon girl would incinerate her where she stood. She swallowed down a wave of nausea and moved to Cyng Aella’s stone coffin.
The lid was so heavy and firmly sealed by time that Fenn had to brace her legs against the wall and push with her back to shift it. When she peered over the edge into the coffin, she expected to stare into the hollowed eye sockets of the dead king. Instead, she found a flight of narrow slate stone steps that led down into the dark.
Fenn didn’t hesitate. She swung her legs over the edge of the coffin and dropped onto the first step. She pulled the lid back as far as she could, but, from her angle, it was impossible for her to fully seal the coffin. A narrow strip of light illuminated the steps around her.
Fenn descended, taking the stairs two and three at a time. The stone was cold and slick under her bare feet. She had no idea where the passage might lead. The bards who visited the Mead Hall at Lindeshelm, who told stories of the kings and the sacred field, had never described a hidden stairwell like this.
She wondered if the builders had created a secret entrance because they planned to rob the tomb after Cyng Aella was laid to rest. It was a violation of the gods, and those who stole from the burial mounds could never enter the great hall of Heofonsetl to feast for eternity. But not everyone shared those beliefs anymore and robberies had become more common in the past few years. She prayed that Cwaltt, the hag goddess who nurtured the dead, would not hold a grudge against her for opening the king’s coffin.
At the bottom of the stairs, she found herself in a large room with a carved, vaulted stone ceiling. It was ornately furnished with rich carpets, unfaded despite the passage of a hundred years, chairs carved from red oak, an assortment of golden dishes and jewels. On a low bed in the corner, Cyng Aella slept. His body had wilted with time, and what remained was a mess of exposed brown bone and saggy, leathered skin. A few locks of gray hair still clung to the skull.
Fenn sank down against the wall opposite the dead king. She was still trapped, but at least for now she had a stone floor to separate her from the fire-breathing creature above. If the dragon did not follow her, she could wait here for hours, days if need be, and then try to sneak past the beast again. It had not heard her until she called out. If she could wait until it fell asleep again, she might escape to safety.
But if she waited too long, Ecberth might come back with more men, as he had promised. Then their deaths would be on her hands. She cursed herself for her foolishness. Why had she rushed into the cave? Why had she believed she could do what so many men could not? They had been seasoned warriors, and she was just a silly girl with too many dreams.
Ecberth had seen something in her, and it had been enough to make him contradict the word of her aeldorman. She had failed him. She could have waited and earned glory alongside Ecberth as the dragon emerged. Now, she was probably going to die here, alone, under the earth.
She wasn’t even sure that anyone would mourn her. Pa might rejoice that he had escaped the predicament of a difficult daughter who wouldn’t marry and settle. Anselm would finally be free of her shadow, never to be compared to her again.
Cedric would take a wife who would be meek, gentle, and never embarrass him in front of everyone in the Mead Hall.
Ma might miss her a little.
Fenn curled her knees up to her chest, buried her face, and began to cry.
* * *
Fenn waited in the dim chamber for what seemed like hours. Unable to see the sun, she passed the time by whispering stories to Cyng Aella’s corpse. She was thirsty; exhaustion made her bones ache and her eyelids droop.
The sweet smells of roasting meat and dripping fat wafted down the stairs into the chamber, cutting through the musty scents of decay and wet earth. Despite her hunger, it made Fenn feel sick. The dragon girl was probably roasting one of her victims. She imagined a charred human corpse slowly turning on a spit.
Then she heard soft footsteps padding across the floor of the chamber above. She froze. The low grind of moving stone sent shivers coursing down her back. The smell of meat grew stronger, and Fenn’s stomach roiled. She felt around for her sword, before remembering that she had dropped it in her retreat from the beast. Cyng Aella’s corpse held no sword or axe. He had been a peaceful king, a ruler who presided over a time of trade and plenty, and his burial reflected that life.
Fenn shut her eyes and pleaded again with Cwaltt not to curse her. If the temperamental goddess looked unfavorably on what she was about to do, Fenn would be condemned to wander the earth as a shade for all time. She crawled across the floor to Cyng Aella’s body. Grimacing, she ripped the king’s brittle shin bone from his knee socket. The sound of cracking bone echoed in the chamber.
The footsteps drew nearer, careful and slow. Tears of fear welled in Fenn’s eyes.
“Stay back!” she shouted. “I have a crossbow.”
Her voice trembled with the lie. It was the most dangerous weapon she could think of, and yet, what was a crossbow to a dragon? Even if she had one, she didn’t know how to fire it. The bolt would probably miss altogether or graze the creature’s hide. That would make it angrier.
“Don’t turn your back on me,” a soft voice called. “Please.”
Fenn positioned herself in the corn
er of the chamber with her back to the wall. She sank into a fighting crouch the way she had practiced with Cedric and raised the bone. It had splintered with a jagged edge, and she hoped that made it look more intimidating. Her knees shook, and her chest was so tight she couldn’t breathe.
The dragon girl appeared in the doorway. Her bright blue eyes surveyed the room. Her gaze flickered from the king’s body to Fenn’s face. She clutched a golden plate, laden with what appeared to be a chicken thigh and an assortment of berries. In the dim light, her alabaster skin had an emerald green hue that reminded Fenn of scales. From her biceps down to her slender wrists, she wore a collection of golden armbands. Some were plain and unadorned; others were accented with twists and stones; some snug enough to fit her, others were so large they jingled as she moved.
Fenn jabbed the bone in the monster’s direction. She was not going to be swayed so easily. Who knew what game the beast was playing? The dragon girl could be trying to lure Fenn into the chamber above. Perhaps she could not breathe fire in her human form and needed more space to transform into the winged creature Fenn had seen in her shadow.
The girl gracefully folded her legs beneath her and sat in the doorway. She rested the plate on her knee and popped a strawberry into her mouth. A line of red juice dribbled down her chin. Fenn stared, and her grip on the bone slackened.
“I’m Bryne,” the monster chirped. She pushed the plate across the floor to Fenn. A few of the berries rolled off the plate and under Cyng Aella’s bed.
Fenn scrambled out of the way, half-expecting the plate to burst into flames.
“Don’t,” the creature—Bryne—ground out in a gravelly voice that reminded Fenn of a crackling fire, “turn your back to me.”
For a heartbeat, Fenn was tempted to do exactly that. If she went to her end bravely, the warrior god Cempa might put in a word for her with the hag that would cancel out her defiling of Cyng Aella’s body and tomb. She could throw the bone like a dagger, then turn around, squeeze her eyes shut and wait for the flames to engulf her. In such a small space, so close to the monster, it might not take very long. It might be over before she could process the pain of it.
The girl held up a steady hand, and Fenn saw real fear in her eyes. A long, winged shadow extended up the stairs behind her. “Please.”
“Why?” Fenn demanded. Her voice trembled with the question, and she was ashamed. She widened her fighting stance but did not throw the bone.
Bryne exhaled sharply, and a small puff of smoke curled from her lips. “Because if you do, I’ll transform. And I won’t be able to stop myself from killing you.”
* * *
The bone slid from Fenn’s hand. When she had first seen Bryne’s shadow, all her fighter’s training had told her to turn, to face the monster head on, rather than let it devour her from behind. Had she not noticed the slight flicker of the flames dancing in Bryne’s hands, Fenn would have turned to fight, and she’d have died. She had done nothing, not yet, that was worthy of resurrection in the halls of Heofonsetl. If she had died, it would have been final.
Fenn sank to the floor. Without taking her eyes off the girl, she pulled the plate of food toward herself with her bare toe.
“I found your boots,” Bryne said, as if the status of her footwear was Fenn’s greatest concern. “I left them at the top of the stairs. If you want them, I can get them.”
Fenn nodded, but only to see if the dragon girl would really leave at her request. Bryne’s graceful, timid movements reminded her of their family’s barn cat. Fenn had watched him hunt on many occasions. He would lie down in a patch of sun, stretched and relaxed, eyes blinking slowly, while the mouse he was stalking got comfortable. Then, as the little rodent lifted a morsel of grain to its chubby cheeks, the cat would strike in a fury of orange fur and claws.
Fenn was not going to be the mouse. She would remain wary.
Bryne rose and trotted back up the stairs.
As soon as the other girl was out of sight, Fenn seized a handful of the berries and stuffed them into her mouth. They were juicy, sweet and cool, and they soothed some of the dryness in her throat. She lifted the chicken next and sniffed it, just to be sure it smelled familiar.
A few moments later, Bryne returned with Fenn’s brown leather boots. She moved so silently that Fenn hadn’t even heard her descending the stairs again. The thought alarmed her.
Bryne made to cross the room, holding the boots out in front of her. But as the girl stepped over the threshold of the door, Fenn dove for the bone again. Bryne sighed and sank into a kneeling position by the door.
The dragon girl, her expression serene and patient, watched Fenn eat. She positioned the boots beside Cyng Aella’s bed and began braiding her auburn hair, utterly unconcerned by Fenn or her shinbone weapon. And although Fenn knew she should stay vigilant, should stay afraid, she found herself calming too.
When Fenn had eaten most of the berries and stripped the chicken thigh down to the bone, Bryne spoke. “You’re the first to see me for what I am.”
“A monster?” Fenn gave a mocking laugh. “How fortunate for me.”
Bryne scowled. “That is certainly what most of them came looking for.”
Fenn nodded. She, too, had come looking for a monster and, now that she had seen the reality of what Bryne was, she still wasn’t entirely sure what she’d found. Certainly, Bryne was powerful, but she also wasn’t the great, devilish creature that Fenn had been expecting. If Ecberth came crashing in now and slew Bryne where she sat, Fenn wasn’t sure how she would feel.
“What did they do? The men, when they saw you?” Fenn asked, her tone gentler.
“They would storm in and hiss or shout, ‘Girl, where is the beast?’ And I would reply, ‘The beast?’”
A faint smile tugged at Byrne lips. Then she tilted her head, and mimicked an angry, deep voice. “That foul creature! The dragon who haunts these sacred mounds!’ I would reply that there was only me and this my hoard. And they would push me and laugh or scoop up handfuls of what is mine before they noticed the shadow.”
Fenn swallowed the last morsel of chicken and put down her plate. She could imagine the men of her village, even Cedric, saying such things. Once, she would never have believed it of him, but she knew better now. She met Bryne’s eyes. “Most of them never really see me either.”
Bryne slowly unfurled her legs and rose to her feet. Fenn stiffened but didn’t reach for the bone beside her. The dragon girl walked until she stood opposite Fenn. She bit her lip and hesitated before sinking to her knees. Her gaze was steady on Fenn’s face, and, for some inexplicable reason, Fenn’s cheeks started to heat. Flecks of gold like little sparks danced in Bryne’s blue eyes. Fenn felt the dragon girl was looking directly into her, that her dreams, ambitions, and most private thoughts were laid open.
“If you want to leave, you can,” Bryne said. She scooted so that her back was up against the wall; her shoulder lightly brushed against Fenn’s own. “I won’t stop you.”
Fenn knew she should run. No one else had made it out of the mound alive, and if she returned unscathed, Ecberth would tell everyone of her bravery. She would be famous. Aeldorman Wulfgar would have no choice but to give her an armband.
But afterward, what then? After the gleam of her fame had worn off, what would become of her? Would Wulfgar give her a farm? No one in her village would accept such a wife. She would have to make it on her own. Sure, maybe the visiting bards would write a song about her, but she couldn’t eat their songs or drink their praise.
Fenn had never considered what might come after she proved herself because she had never thought she would truly get the chance.
The dragon girl cupped her hands, and a tiny, fragile flame blossomed in them, illuminating the dark tomb. Her auburn hair glowed fierce red in the light. “Or you could stay here. For as long as you like.”
Fenn gave Bryne the smalles
t nod.
Bryne rose and extended a hand to Fenn. “Let me help you up.”
Fenn stared at the girl’s fingers and at the yellow flames that licked the air between them. She hesitated and imagined the raw, blistered skin she had seen on Ecberth’s shoulder. But if Bryne was trying to trick her, Fenn was probably dead anyway. She was trapped without a real weapon in a tomb with a dead king who had never been a useful warrior even alive. If she befriended this monster, the fallen men from her village might curse her. But they had ignored her all her life, and she had no real reason to think they were paying attention to what she did now.
She took Bryne’s hand.
As cold as the ocean waves, the fire lapped against her fingers.
* * *
“Were you born this way?” Fenn asked. They sat together in the tomb’s great upper chamber, on a bed of gold and gems. “As a dragon?”
Bryne shrugged. She picked up an emerald goblet, squinted at it, and then tossed it across the chamber. “You could say that. My family was cursed because our ancestor stole from the goddess Frytthe while her back was turned. I thought it was just a story my mother told me to keep me in line as a child. My father was a Christian and he said her beliefs were nonsense. But then a I stole a necklace from a trader’s cart, and, the next thing I knew, people around me were screaming.”
“So, the curse was activated when you stole?” The story made sense to Fenn, as she had been raised in the old beliefs. Stories of monsters and curses had been as much a part of her childhood as Ma’s beef stew. The gods had a wry sense of humor. Dragons were known to be thieves, creatures who lusted for gold. Frytthe had turned her back on Bryne’s ancestor, and now no one could ever make that mistake again.
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