Wings of Change

by Lyn Worthen

  My branches crumble the school roof, opening it to the sky. Two-dozen dragons fly upward. Scales of lapis and jasper, garnet and pearl, flash openly under the sun.

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  Grayson Towler is an editor at Electric Spec magazine and the author of the novel, The Dragon Waking, and the webcomic, Thunderstruck. In addition to being a storyteller since he could first string words together, he has been a marketing copy writer, web designer, substitute teacher, comic artist, and small business owner. He has had a lifelong fascination with dragons, dinosaurs, magic, and the mysteries of the natural world. He and his wife, Candi, and their dog, Luna, live in a house owned by three relatively benevolent cats in Longmont, Colorado. For more information, visit graysontowler.com

  About this story, Grayson says: “Perhaps not too surprisingly, I got the idea for this story while I was in Iceland. I was enthralled by the combination of natural beauty, Viking history, and a sense of elemental power all around me, close enough to touch. This story takes place in the same universe as my book, The Dragon Waking, centuries before the events of the novel. In that world, dragons are much closer than we modern humans might ever believe possible… and occasionally, when the right person comes along, they make themselves known.”

  This story of youthful bravado reminds us that there is often a great deal happening just beyond our notice – and of the importance of quick-thinking!

  The Greatest In Iceland

  Grayson Towler

  “Once I vanquish the dragon, I shall be the greatest warrior in Iceland!”

  Egill hefted his drinking horn and shouted his declaration with all the power he could put into his voice. At first his words came out in the sort of booming roar he had intended – yet halfway through his voice cracked and betrayed him, as it had done so often since it had begun to change.

  His words were met with laughter and jeers. Egill was barely a man, still with soft fuzz on his cheeks instead of a full beard. How could he hope to compare with the likes of battle-hardened men like swift and skillful Geirr, the bear-like Steinn who could heft a full keg in each hand, and mad Hrafn who fought with the gods’ own fury? Egill’s father might have once been hailed as the greatest warrior, but he had long since taken his place in Valhalla.

  “Don’t get tangled up in someone else’s stories, Egill fable-weaver,” said Steinn, not unkindly, with a pat on the back that nearly drove Egill to the floor.

  Egill wobbled and leveled a bleary glare at the bear-like Steinn. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “There’s no dragon, lad,” Steinn said. “Brynja is a goose of a child, frightened by a water spout.”

  Perhaps it was the ale, or the too-thick air in the ale hall with its reek of drinking men and dung-smoke, but Egill felt so hot and reckless that he actually shoved Steinn. This had the effect of sending Egill stumbling instead, his ale horn flying out of his hand. He would have fallen flat on his back if some other man had not caught him and laughed.

  “Don’t mock Brynja!” he said, his face burning now. “She is… she is fair… and kind! And she is no liar!”

  “I did not call her so,” Steinn said with a heavy sigh. “Fine, boy. If you want to impress the girl, feel free to seek her dragon. Try not to scald yourself when you’re hacking at fountains. That water’s hot.”

  “I will go!” Egill declared. Then as a final gesture of bravado, he grabbed Steinn’s own great ale horn and downed the entire contents in a huge gulp that burned all the way down.

  Things got a bit hazy after that.

  # # #

  By the time Egill’s head cleared enough to truly think straight, he found himself propped up in the saddle on the back of Trausti, his head throbbing in time with each hoofbeat. His scabbard thudded dully against the shield strapped to Trausti’s side.

  At least he’d remembered to arm himself. That was good.

  Egill looked around, just to make sure he was alone. Yes, just him and Trausti in the drizzly grey morning, with no one for company on the barren volcanic plains.

  “Ha!” Egill said to Trausti. He let out a burp that tasted of stale mead. “Nobody else has the guts to face a dragon.”

  Trausti flicked an ear back and plodded on, clearly not impressed.

  Egill struggled to piece together the events of last night after he’d emptied Steinn’s horn. What had the big man been drinking? Something stronger than the ale Egill had been served… and there had been so much of it.

  Well, it didn’t matter. Egill could handle his drink. After all, he had still been clear-headed enough to saddle his horse and gather his weapons for this quest. He frowned at his sword, thinking that if he’d been really clear-headed he might have brought a spear as well, in case that was a better weapon for fighting a dragon.

  He felt around on the saddle, and to his relief his fingers discovered a full water skin and a soft bundle he knew to be filled with food. A memory of Brynja outside the ale hall danced back into his consciousness – Brynja with her sea-blue eyes, her hair like silver moonlight on snow, skin soft as the down on an eider duck.

  Sweet, generous Brynja. Almost a year his elder, so like a goddess to him she had seemed out of reach. He had worshipped her as a child as he sat beside her and listened to her stories of the gods and heroes of old. Now that he was a man, he would do anything to win her heart.

  “You believe me?” she had said last night.

  “Yes,” he had said. And it wasn’t just young love or strong ale. Brynja was often sent by the medicine women to collect herbs from far and wide, riding out alone on her stout little mare. The others might make fun of her as a dreamer and a cloudwatcher, but the wise women trusted her, and so did he. She wouldn’t mistake a water spout for a dragon.

  Egill believed her.

  “I will find it,” he said. “I will vanquish it. And I will become the greatest warrior in Iceland. I swear it to Odin.”

  Trausti snorted, as if echoing the mockery of the men last night.

  “It doesn’t matter of others are larger or stronger,” he told the horse. “Or older. Being the greatest warrior is about deeds. The gods put opportunities in our path. To be great is to seize the moment and dare to face the most dangerous of foes!”

  Trausti let out a soft huff and plodded along, his sure feet finding smooth passage over the broken ground.

  “If I vanquish a dragon,” Egill said, as much to himself as to the horse, “no other shall be able to claim a greater deed. Not even Hrafn, who once bested six enemy warriors armed with naught but a broken oar. I shall be Egill fable-weaver no more. I shall be Egill Dragonslayer!”

  He smiled at the thought and the smile seemed to ease the dull thudding in his head. He reached behind him and unlimbered Brynja’s pack – salted meat and bread, a thick wedge of cheese, all bundled carefully into a lambskin pouch. Chewing on the freshly-made bread and thinking of Brynja wrapped him in a cloak of warmth that even the dreary miles and freezing drizzle couldn’t penetrate, and Egill’s mind turned to composing verses about her gentleness and beauty.

  ‘Egill fable-weaver,’ Steinn had called him. It was true. Egill’s mind held onto stories like a well-woven net held fish. The other boys his age always begged him to tell tales whenever they were done with arms practice or chores. Yet he longed to be the hero of the story for once, not just the spinner of the tale. And what could be more worthy of an epic story than a lone warrior facing a dragon?

  # # #

  The land of Haukadalur lay deep inland from the settlements of men, and was a place of striking wonders. Even from a great distance, Egill saw the steam rising from the glistening plains. A distant sound like wet thunder reached his ears from time to time as the earth disgorged tremendous gouts of boiling water high into the air, some with force enough to split a longship in half. Trausti’s hooves splashed through the warm puddles left by these constant eruptions.

  The last time Egill had visited this stirring place was years ago, just before hi
s eighth birthday, the last year his father had been alive. He patted the hilt of the sword at his belt, the blade his father had once wielded with such skill and ferocity. He had ridden beside his father across the steaming plains, begging for tales of his father’s voyages and battles, etching each one into his heart.

  Now he had returned to find his own glory.

  And what more magnificent place to find it? These fountains that boiled and erupted from the earth were wonders worthy of song. Egill stared in awe as he and Trausti grew closer to the field of fountains, a simple joy arising in his heart with every plume of boiling water that blasted out from the earth.

  “If there is a dragon here,” he said to Trausti, “I know where it will be.”

  Geysir was the greatest water spout of all. His father had taken him to the mighty fountain many years ago to bear witness to its majesty. Egill remembered how the churning white foam had shaken the earth and shattered the air with its roar, rising so high into the sky he thought it surely must reach Asgard. Brynja had not said exactly where she had seen the dragon, but Egill knew in his heart that Geysir would be where he would find the beast – and his own fate.

  Trausti began to skitter and dance as they moved between the rents in the earth that spewed scalding water into the sky, so Egill dismounted and led him on. Finally, he stood before the vast burbling pool of Geysir. He might have hours to wait before the great spout next awoke, perhaps even a day. That was fine. The mist was warm, he had food to eat. He flexed the fingers of his sword hand, meaning to stay ready for action.

  Steinn had once said the wait before the battle was always worse than the actual fighting. Egill had only been in one actual battle, a skirmish with some unwise raiders who had attempted to sneak into the settlement at night and steal stores, and there had been no waiting in that case. Now he understood what Steinn meant. Egill paced, stared at the bubbling pit, squinted up at the blue sky that was now almost devoid of clouds, and sweated in his leather armor. “Come on,” he muttered to the burbling pool, then resumed his pacing.

  Just as he was starting to wonder whether he had been a fool to come here, the stone trembled beneath Egill’s feet.

  Trausti reared suddenly and let out a loud neigh of fear. Egill lunged for the reins, missed his grip on the steam-slick leather, and went to his knees on the treacherous footing. Trausti bolted away, Egill’s shield thumping against his side as he galloped off.

  The pool of Geysir swelled and heaved, then seemed to gather into itself. Thunder filled the world. Egill craned his head up in awe as Geysir blasted a fist of water toward the heavens. The eruption was even more powerful than the one Egill had witnessed as a boy – but then something happened that he had never seen before.

  When the fountain of steaming froth reached its full height, a long, dark shape shot forth from the earth, streaking up the length of the column. Egill gaped as a great sinewy figure burst from the towering froth. Enormous wings webbed with translucent membrane unfurled from the creature’s body, and it let out a jubilant roar that dwarfed even the voice of Geysir.

  The beast banked and soared around the surging spume. It spiraled to the ground on outstretched wings, until it finally scraped to a landing directly in front of the astonished youth sprawled at the water spout’s base.

  Egill stared up into the luminous eyes of the dragon.

  He could barely fathom the sheer size of the creature. The dragon was easily as long as one of the great fin whales, yet with its wings partially unfurled it seemed even more monstrous. Steaming water sluiced from its green-and-red scales, and its enormous wedge-shaped head tilted as it stared at Egill from the prominence of its long neck.

  Egill’s heart galloped faster than Trausti’s hooves. He gaped at the enormous foe before him, his bowels threatening to turn to water. He reached within for the hot red fury that was supposed to come to a true warrior in battle, but faced with such an adversary all he could find within himself was trembling awe.

  Somehow, he hadn’t expected the dragon to be quite so large.

  “Who are you?” the dragon said.

  It spoke! The voice was deep and strangely melodic, and Egill heard it as much in his mind as he did with his ears. “I… I am Egill, son of Yngvarr!” Speaking the name of his father sent a shot of courage through his veins. Egill scrambled to his feet and hauled his sword from its scabbard.

  The dragon leaned closer, its golden eye fixed on the sword. “What’s that?” it asked.

  Now that he had his sword in his hand, the battle fury all the men spoke of finally swelled Egill’s chest, turning his vision red and his blood as hot as Geysir’s fountain. He reared back with a two-handed grip. “It is your end, monster!” he shouted, then pivoted his hips and let fly with the mightiest swing his body could produce.

  The well-honed blade whistled through the misty air and slammed into the dragon’s exposed neck. He might as well have tried to hew a stone in half. The sword shivered violently in Egill’s hands and flew free, clattering to the earth.

  “Oh,” the dragon said, sounding more curious than angry. “Are we fighting? Then it’s my turn!”

  The dragon swatted Egill with one paw, as a cat might bat at a ball. The force of it was like being hit by a charging stallion. Egill tumbled end over end, all the breath rushing out of his body as he crashed to the drenched earth.

  Egill’s whole torso was one solid, fiery ache. His lungs seemed to have forgotten how to breathe. In his swimming vision, the dragon loomed over him.

  “This isn’t a very fair fight,” it said.

  Egill couldn’t disagree. He was hopelessly outmatched. Yet within his pain and dizziness, a peace stole through him. He might never be declared the greatest warrior in Iceland, but there would be no straw death for Egill son of Yngvarr, no afterlife in Hela’s bleak realm. He would die facing a truly worthy foe. He would be carried by the Valkyrie to join his father in the halls of Valhalla. Though his heart ached at the knowledge that he would never see Brynja again, his soul knew contentment. When his brief life’s great challenge had come, he had faced it like a true warrior.

  A prayer blossomed in his mind – he tried to call out for the All-Father to welcome him to the ranks of the honored dead. All his straining body managed to produce was a wheezing whisper: “All… Father…”

  The dragon jerked back as if startled. “I’m not your father!” it said.

  Egill’s chest gave a painful convulsion, and finally his lungs remembered their duty. He sucked in a huge wet breath, then coughed. The sharp pain of his coughs cleared his head a little. “I… wasn’t talking to you,” he managed between hacking breaths. “I was speaking to Odin.”

  The dragon craned its serpentine neck to look in every direction. “I don’t see anyone else here.” It paused, peering into the distance. “Were you talking to that four-legged thing over there?”

  With a groan of effort, Egill hauled himself to his feet and looked in the direction the dragon was facing. “No,” he said. “That’s just my horse. Odin is the All-Father. Greatest of all the gods of Asgard.”

  “I don’t see him,” the dragon said in a dubious voice.

  “But he sees all.” Egill the warrior might have been defeated, but Egill fable-weaver still had a story ready on his lips. “From his high seat of Hlidskjalf, the nine worlds are laid out before him. His ravens, Huginn and Muninn, soar across the earth each day and return with news.”

  To Egill’s surprise, the dragon settled its chin down onto its foreclaws, staring at him with wide and wondering eyes. “I’ve never heard of him!” the dragon said. “He sounds very interesting. Tell me more. Why is he called ‘All-Father?’ “

  The battle fever had drained out of Egill, but fear had not returned to replace it. Instead, he found himself feeling strangely clear-headed and calm. The dragon was clearly more curious than hostile, and Egill had never been able to resist the call to share a story with an eager audience. “Odin created the world from the body of Ymir the g
iant. So he is father of men and of gods.”

  “I see!” the dragon said, leaning its head slightly to one side. “That must have been after we fell asleep. What are gods?”

  Egill took a deep breath, preparing to speak, but winced at the ache in his side. “Do you mind if I sit down? There’s much to tell, and it may take a while.” He looked around in vain for some convenient rock.

  The dragon shifted, and its long tail splashed through the steaming pools left by Geysir as it swept around behind Egill. “Sit there,” the dragon said, nodding at its proffered tail, “and tell me about the gods.”

  So Egill sat upon the dragon’s tail and spoke. The legends of the gods he had learned from his father and mother and fair Brynja came pouring out of him as the dragon listened. Egill told the story of how Odin and his brothers shaped the nine worlds, how Odin sacrificed one eye for wisdom, and how the Aesir and the Vanir came to settle in Asgard. He retold the adventures of mighty Thor, strongest of the gods, of cunning Loki the trickster, of Freya and her falcon cloak, and the Valkryie who collected the souls of those who died in battle. The sun made its long trek across the clear sky as Egill spoke, and he told the dragon of the wolves that chased the sun and moon, and would only catch them when Ragnarok ended the world.

  The dragon was an attentive listener, though it often piped up with the strangest of questions. “What’s an eagle?” it might ask, or “What’s a hammer?” and Egill would do his best to answer.

  By the time evening began to claim the fading light of day, Egill’s throat was sore and his stomach longed for food. Never had he told so many stories at once. He paused to scoop handfuls of the warm, sulfurous water from a nearby puddle into his aching mouth.

  “Are you tired?” the dragon asked.