Dragon Bewitched

by Isadora Montrose

  As was traditional for the men of his House, he had worn enough necklaces, brooches, rings and armbands to literally fill several treasure chests. He thought he looked uncouth in his medieval splendor, but these Vikings might be impressed.

  “What is this?” demanded Brand turning the phone over to look at the glossy silver back. Unfortunately the movement turned it off.

  “Magic,” said Darius, mindful that any sufficiently advanced technology appeared to be magic. He turned the phone back on. Zoomed in on the chains around his neck. “Would you accept a chain like this for your sister’s hand? Or how about a pair of armbands?”

  Hands like hams lifted him by the front of his sweater, tightening the wool enough to strangle him. Brand’s good-natured countenance was red and wrathful. He shook Darius like a mastiff shaking a kitten.

  “Would you offer us our own father’s gold in exchange for our sister?” Brand bellowed. He threw Darius to the ground.

  Enough was enough. It was time to take dragon. Except that he could not hurt Freya’s brothers. He remained sprawled on the rocky beach trying to think of a better plan.

  “Do not kill him, brother,” cried Valdar. “He says his House is rich. And he owes us wergild. Not just for our father. But for our three uncles.”

  “This is true.” Brand stroked his chin. “Maybe we can get this rich uncle of his to pay ransom too.”

  What. The. Hell? Wer-fricking-gild? And they were dead serious, adding up the blood price and calculating his ransom as if he wasn’t there. Apparently they thought they were entitled to blood money for Foreseti’s murder and that of their uncles. What about the dead women? And the sex slaves? Apparently they didn’t count.

  “Hey, fellows,” Darius cut in. “If my distant ancestors killed your family, I apologize. But blood feud or no blood feud, a thousand years have passed. Can’t we call a truce?” Not that Snorre was his ancestor. But he didn’t think Brand and Valdar were vulnerable to facts.

  “What is this truce?”

  “Peace,” said Darius. “Making peace.”

  “What kind of pieces? Gold pieces or silver?” Valdar asked slyly. “We prefer gold pieces.”

  “Not pieces of gold,” Darius said. “The kind of peace where you stop fighting and killing, and you shake hands and break bread together.”

  “And after three days, when your enemies are drunk with your ale, and no longer guests, you slit their throats,” said Valdar knowledgeably. “I remember.”

  “Not at all,” said Darius. “Peace is when you don’t have to fear that raiders will come. Or your sisters will be stolen with your cattle. Because your enemies have become your friends. Or at least your trading partners.”

  “Sounds boring,” said Valdar. “I like fighting and killing. It’s been a long time since I went a-viking.”

  “No one does that anymore,” Darius said. “All that raiding stuff is over. No Norseman has gone a-viking for centuries.” Vikings were what their victims had called them. The raiders had been landless Norsemen who had gone raiding in the summertime, looking for farmland as well as riches.

  “Over? How is it over?” Valdar asked Brand. “Are we not bound by the curse of those infernal raiding dragons?”

  “He’s a liar,” said Brand flatly. “Kin to those who slew our father and stole our sisters. We should pull his liver out and feed it to the eagles.” He pulled a knife as long as his arm from his scabbard.

  Darius picked up his phone and took their pictures. Light flashed as he did so.

  Brand stopped. “What did you do?” he demanded. Valdar took a step backward.

  Darius showed them their photographs. Their green eyes widened. Fear tainted their scent. Good.

  “How did you do that?”

  “Dragon magic. We call it technology. Put away your knife, or I’ll do it again.” Darius’ fingers flicked over the screen, pressing and swiping.

  “Do you think, brother, that tiny thing holds our spirits?” whispered Brand as he sheathed his dagger.

  “Do you think, brother, that tiny thing holds our spirits?” echoed the phone. The wind whistled in the background.

  Both men shrank back.

  “You might as well make peace with me,” said Darius. “My dragon magic is powerful. All I want is to marry your sister – if that is her will. And I am willing to pay you a bride price for her. And wergild for your father and uncles. And I’ll try to get your father’s gold back for you. What do you say?”

  “If you return our spirits,” said Valdar, “And give us our heart’s desire, we will let you earn the right to court our sister.”

  “Depends what your heart’s desire is,” said Darius.

  They told him.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Freya~

  She heard them stomping up the path, singing and laughing as loudly as a dozen men. Laughing as they had not laughed since the dragon had arrived last winter. They came into her kitchen still chuckling. Valdar had one great arm around Brand and was reeling as if he had drunk deep of her mead.

  “G-g-greetings, sister,” hiccuped Brand as if he was indeed overcome by strong drink. Except that neither of her brothers could be defeated by drink, just as they never ailed or hurt themselves.

  But it was good to see them friends again. That dragon had upset the three of them and made them quarrelsome. “What has made you so merry?” She struggled out of her chair, trying to balance her great belly.

  Valdar rushed to her side and gripped her elbow. “Nine months?” he muttered. “Are you sure you remembered right? You look big enough to drop a foal right now.”

  “I’m sure.” When the nights never turned to day, then her child or children would be born, just at the winter solstice. “Are you ready to eat?” she asked.

  “We are always ready, sister.” Brand wheezed. He was still chuckling richly and having difficulty catching his breath.

  “Share your jest, brothers. I have need of cheer.” She was sad still, thinking of her wandering lover.

  “Your damned dragon came back,” Valdar said merrily. He let go of her arm to slap his brother on the back. “Show her his gifts.”

  Brand reached into the pocket of his breeches and pulled out a deerskin bag with a drawstring. Valdar put his arm around her as she staggered.

  “H-h-he has come? Where is he?” Hope made her heart beat faster. She stroked her mound nervously. Should she return to her disguise, or greet him as a young woman? A pregnant young woman. She turned clumsily toward the open door and staggered.

  “Sit, sister,” Valdar pushed her back into her chair. Brand poured the contents of the little pouch onto what remained of her lap.

  Wonderingly, she picked up the glittering objects. They were beautiful, but where was the giver? “Where is he?” she repeated. Gifts of gold were all very well, but she wanted him.

  “We gave him a task or two,” Valdar reported smugly. “He’s gone to fetch a boat that rows itself.”

  “But first he must mend the sword of Foreseti the Wise,” Brand said merrily.

  She could have screamed. Those two oafs stood on her clean flagstones swaying and howling with mirth as if the bards of old had spun the funniest of tales for the amusement of her father’s court. “You sent him away?” She was almost in tears. Again.

  “He has to earn your hand,” Brand said sternly. “Look at the trinkets he brought to woo you. Are those fit bride gifts for the daughter of Foreseti the Wise?”

  She ran her hands over the dragon’s gifts. She could sense the trepidation with which he had placed each piece in the bag. The earnestness with which he had chosen them for her. She held up the ring. The green stone shone like a star. The gold band was etched with a vine that was really a dragon. A great mouth guarded the gem on one side, and on the other a tail like a sinuous spear defended it.

  It looked too big even for her swollen finger. But she slid it onto her left forefinger anyway. The one with a vein that ran to the heart. The metal warmed instantly, and the
gold expanded to slide over her knuckle and then shrank to fit closely. She tugged. But as if she were already married to him, the ring wouldn’t come off.

  “It is a magic ring,” she gasped. “See.” She held her hand up. The sun hit the stone, and green rays danced on the whitewashed walls and gray flagstones.

  “Let me see, Freya.” Valdar tried to remove the ring from her finger. It stayed put. He tugged harder.

  “Ow. Stop that.” She hid her hand in her skirt.

  “Maybe some lard to grease it?” suggested Brand.

  “No.” She was very certain. “Leave it where it is. It is a good sign.” She picked up the comb. It was made of some hard, mottled brown substance and set with an entire constellation of little clear jewels. All of them were cut like the green jewel in her ring. “Look, brothers, who but a sorcerer could cut such small gems so that they shine like stars?”

  “He said it was a new trick the gem cutters have,” muttered Brand. “That stone in the ring is supposed to be an emerald, and he claimed these were diamonds.”

  She undid the end of her braid and ran the comb through her hair. It glided like a knife through butter. “It is a wonderful comb,” she said.

  She turned the mirror over. It was the size of her palm, as round as the full moon, and brighter and clearer than the Pool of Loki. The silver was heavy in her hand, the back covered with designs she had never seen before. The rim was set with tiny pearls and more bright jewels in many colors.

  She peered into the mirror. Wispy curls framed her puffy face. Her eyes looked red from weeping – although she was not supposed to cry, she had been shedding tears ever since she had discovered she was with child. She poked at the dark shadows beneath her eyes. She scarcely needed her disguise. Pregnancy had turned her into a hag without any help from her magic.

  “Let me see, sister.” Brand held out his hand. He looked into the bright circle and laughed. “I never knew how handsome I was,” he joked. “But I see I am as good looking as Valdar!”

  Valdar looked over his brother’s shoulder. “Truly, I have never seen a mirror like this.”

  They were right. This mirror was as good as life. No warp or bubble marred its bright surface. Compared to her polished bronze mirror, well, there could be no comparison. Freya folded her hands together and rested them on her bump. “So why then, brothers, did you send my husband on a fool’s errand?”

  Valdar sat down heavily on his stool and thrust out his great legs. “He wouldn’t fight me,” he complained.

  Panic gripped her. No man could withstand either of her brothers in their battle fury. Even before they had been cursed with immortality, no berserker had been stronger or more skillful in combat. “Why would you fight him?” Didn’t they know he was their only hope?

  “He has dishonored you,” Valdar said flatly. “I challenged him to single combat. But he refused.”

  “And that was the end of it?” she asked in disbelief.

  “No. Brand said he was under your protection, so we argued about the bride price.”

  That she understood. It was their right to negotiate on her behalf. To make her groom pay richly for her hand. As it had been her father’s right to give his daughters where he chose. And her disobedient folly to refuse his command. Except that Snorre and his brothers had not wanted wives but bed-slaves.

  “So he wants to marry me?” she probed. The ring on her hand squeezed her finger lightly and released.

  “So he says. And then he used dragon magic on us and showed us a little picture of himself wearing our father’s armbands.” Valdar sounded awed. “And he used that same scrying glass to capture our spirits. So we bargained with him.”

  “Those dragons have a new kind of magic,” Brand chimed in. “He called it tech-nol-o-gy.”

  “Tech-nol-o-gy.” Freya tried out the new word. “Is it very powerful?”

  “I think so. He uses his celfone to do his tech-nol-o-gy. Whatever that is.”

  “I told him that we too wished to share in the wisdom of the celfones,” Valdar said. “And he agreed.”

  “Truly?” She was amazed. Sorcerers never shared their lore.

  “We found out his true name too,” put in Brand. “His name is Darius Einerson of the house of Lindorm.”

  “Darius.” She tried the name out. The word sat well on her tongue. And there was magic in names. “Darius. Darius Einerson, wielder of the celfone. It is a strange, new name. Like my ring and comb and mirror.” She looked worriedly between her two brothers. She loved them dearly and she feared for them. Setting challenges for mighty sorcerers was perilous.

  “You know the old stories,” she said softly. “And yet you challenged a powerful sorcerer and a dragon to prove his mettle?” Sending the hero on dangerous errands might be traditional, but it always rebounded onto the senders.

  “We are not cowards,” Valdar said. “And you are our greatest treasure. If he wants you, he will have to earn you.” He folded his arms across his chest.

  Brand had been using the magic mirror to shoot light around the kitchen. Now he stopped chasing the sun with the little mirror. He slipped it into the chamois bag once more and handed it to her. “We are owed wergild by that dragon – or at least by his House. We sent him for it. And in addition we gave him two labors to perform before he may woo you as you deserve to be wooed.”

  “To woo me?” she asked faintly.

  “Certainly, sister.” Valdar snorted. “He claims it must be your free choice to wed him. I think he must have heard of the gold in the Pool of Loki.”

  They could be right. It had tempted Snorre. “You don’t think he loves me?” she asked sadly.

  “Freya, you are as beautiful as the goddess for whom you are named.” Brand inclined his head like the gallants of old. Like Darius Einerson. “But what handsome young man falls in love with a withered crone?” He smiled kindly. “When he sees you in all your youth and beauty, I am sure he will love you.”

  The boneheaded lout. That was not true love. Not the kind of love that would release them from the spell. She sighed. She would never be able to explain the difference to them. She put the comb into the bag with the mirror and fastened it to her belt. These days her belt rode under her breasts and over her bump. Then she stood up again. She was not so wobbly now.

  “Let us eat, brothers, and you can tell me over meat what deeds you have set my dragon to perform.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Darius~

  Valdar and Brand had vanished into the pathless forest, leaving him alone on the beach. They had taken his gifts and promised to give them to Freya. Perhaps even now his ring graced her hand and bound her to him. Perhaps his comb was smoothing out her beautiful long hair. And his mirror reflecting the kindness and wisdom of her sweet expression. As soon as he was through with his ridiculous missions he could claim her.

  But by thunder and lightning, his situation was beyond ridiculous. He had been sent on fricking quests by Freya’s two brothers. As if he was the knight errant in some half-baked fable. But those hard-faced, primitive warriors had not looked like they were joking. They meant every word.

  His first task was to retrieve and reforge the sword of their grandfather. The famed Ravensblade had been broken by the pirate Snorre and cast into the waters beneath Bradur. Snorre wasn’t even his ancestor, at least not directly. His own forebear, Bujold the One-Eyed probably had stolen the looted armbands of Foreseti the Wise from Snorre before he slew him.

  Nevertheless, Darius had pledged to return the armbands with the wergild due to Brand and Valdar. Not that that pair had realized that wresting the medieval armbands from the Thane of Lindorm was a quest. He had offered them gold, but had not intended those exact pieces. Those were part of the Lindorm Hoard, worn only for the most ceremonial occasions. Heirlooms beyond price. Treasures of their House. Practically sacred. He was so screwed.

  It was a tossup whether Uncle Thor would give them to him, or blast him for his audacity in asking. And by blast, he
meant a burst of dragon fire. Shift. And he still did not have permission from the Eldest to marry Freya. Nothing was going to transform her into Thorvald Lindorm’s idea of a fit bride for one of his nephews. She had to be at least as old as Thorvald’s venerable wife.

  It was true that when Lady Drake had declared him unmatchable, that the Eldest had said that if, by the time he was thirty, no suitable virgin or dragoness-made had turned up to be his mate, he could make a free choice of wife. But he was not yet thirty. And Freya was not what Uncle Thor had meant by free choice. And twenty-nine was not thirty.

  And yet, returning to Balder had confirmed what his heart had already known. Freya was the one woman in the world for him. He could sense her presence here on the island, and he was ready to win her, even if it meant going on ridiculous quests, and extorting valuables from the most terrifying Lindorm of them all.

  Even if he had brought rock climbing equipment with him, which he had not, he would not have attempted to scale Bradur in human form. Not at this season, when the ice wall probably had meltwater running behind it and would flake off at the slightest touch. But in dragon, it would be easy to fly over the mountain. The difficult part would be locating the sword. After a thousand years, it had probably rusted away in the scalding geothermal springs.

  Not even a dragon could reforge rust. But for Freya he would attempt the recovery. He only hoped that Bradur would not throw another fit. He knew that Freya believed the mountain had deliberately expelled him in a fit of malice. And given the general spookiness of the island, it would be as well to believe her. But earthquake or spiteful fit, if the earth opened again, he would be a dead dragon.

  It made him feel foolish beyond belief, but nevertheless he addressed the island. “Balder, I am come to woo the Lady Freya. Bradur, I would take the sword Ravensblade to the sons of Foreseti the Wise. Permit me this boon, that I may win my bride.”

  No one answered him. Of course not. Islands and mountains were not alive, nor capable of speech. Right. And men could not become dragons at will. He began to remove his clothes. Even in full summer the wind off the North Atlantic was icy, but today it was barely blowing.