Dragon Magic (4 page)

“I shall speak with no man until this task—” Sigurd King’s-Son’s voice was as hard as the metal he worked upon.

Then came other words which carried from the doorway. Though they did not ring as loud as Sigurd’s, still one could hear them plainly.

“With me will you speak, son of Sigmund of the Volsungs!”

Sigurd King’s-Son turned and stared, as did Sig also. Though the night dusk had come, yet they could plainly see the stranger as if his gray clothing and blue hood had light woven into them.

Then Sigurd dropped the hammer and went to face him, and Sig dared to follow a pace behind. This was as brave a deed as he had ever dared in his whole lifetime. For this stranger had that about him to make him seem more fearsome than Mimir.

The stranger unwrapped the fold of cloak laid about his right arm. He was carrying in the cloak pieces of dull metal. That is, they seemed dull, until the light of the forge fell upon them, and then they glittered like the small jewels Mimir set into the hilt of kings’ swords.

“Son of the Volsungs, take your heritage and use it well!”

Sigurd King’s-Son put forth both his hands and took the shards of metal from the stranger as if he half feared to touch what he now held, his hands even shaking a little. Sig could see that the shards were parts of a broken sword.

But the stranger was looking now at Sig, so the boy tried to raise his crooked hand to shield his face. Yet he could not complete that gesture.

Rather, he had to stand under the gaze of that terrible eye.

“Let the lad lay upon the bellows in this making,” said the stranger.

“For there is that in this deed which is beyond the understanding of even you, Sigurd Volsung.”

With that he was gone, and only the dark lay outside. He might have sunk into the ground, or taken wing into the night sky. But Sigurd was already turning back to the forge.

“Come, Sig!” Never had he said “Clawhand”, for which Sig treasured each word he uttered. “This night we have much to do.”

And they labored the night through, working now not with the metal from Mimir’s store but rather with the broken bits the stranger had brought. Nor did Sig feel tired from what he had to do, but helped willingly in all ways as Sigurd ordered.

In the morning a blade lay ready for the testing. And it seemed to Sig that it held some of that shimmering light which had been about the hooded man in the dark. Sigurd’s hand fell upon the boy’s hunched shoulder.

“It is done, and done well to my thinking. We take it now for the testing.”

He took up the sword and held it a little before him as a man might hold a torch to light his path. They came into the full light of day and there Mimir awaited them, the rest of his laborers and those who would learn of his skill drawn up behind him. And the Master Smith drew a hissing breath when he looked upon the blade Sigurd carried.

“So it is wrought again—Balmung, which first came from the All Father’s own forge. You do well to handle it with care, Sigurd King’s-Son, as it once brought those of your own clan and blood to an ill end.”

“Any sword can bring death to a warrior,” Sigurd returned, “that is the reason for its sharp edging. But Balmung, being what it is, may now win your wager for you. To the testing—”

That testing was a mighty one, for they loosed upon the stream a whole tightly bound pack of wool, which tumbled with the current. Sigurd did not slash with the blade; rather, he stood thigh-deep in the water and held it merely in the path of the wool pack. But the wool was sliced cleanly through, so that all marveled.

Sigurd waded ashore and laid the sword carefully upon a square of fine cloth Mimir had waiting to receive it. Then he flung wide his arms and said with a laugh, “It is well said that he who yearns to make a name among men must toil for it. But it seems I have toiled overlong, master.

Give me leave now to rest.”

For though he was a king’s son, yet in this place Sigurd acted always as one of the commoners who would learn Mimir’s craft, and he asked no more than they in the way of any favor.

“It is well.” Mimir nodded, busied in wrapping up the sword. “Go you to rest.”

Then Sigurd turned and held out his hand to Sig. The boy had to take it awkwardly, since his right hand was the clawlike one he never willingly brought into the light.

“Here is another who has served valiantly through the night. Come you, Sig, and take the rest of a good workman.” Sigurd’s hand was tight upon his, drawing him on to where the laborers had their sleeping place.

“Master.” Sig dragged back. “It is not well. I am but a hearth boy and there do I sleep among the ashes. See, I am blackened, not fit for this place. Master Veliant and the other apprentices will be angry.”

But Sigurd shook his head and continued to lead Sig. “One whom
that
stranger has set to laboring in his service need not look beneath the chin of any man when he speaks. Come now and rest.”

And he made a kind of nest at the foot of his own sleeping place, so that Sig slept softer than he had for any time in his memory. Thus he became the shadow of Sigurd King’s-Son. And when the other apprentices dared to speak against him, Sigurd laughed and said that it was plain Sig was a luck-bringer who should be cherished. Though the others did not like it, they dared not raise their voices against Sigurd.

But when they departed for the trial of strength against Amiliar, Sigurd took Sig apart and spoke to him, saying that the journey was long and it was best Sig stay at the forge. Sig agreed, though with a heavy heart.

He counted off the days of their absence, marking them on a smoothed stretch of earth with a stick. While they were gone he set himself a new task, that of trying to learn more of the trade so that some day perhaps he need no longer be only the hearth boy, to be cuffed and driven to the meanest of tasks. For when Sigurd left, as soon he must now, having proven his skill by the forging of Balmung, then once more Sig would be as nothing in this place.

Each day he worked to raise the heavy hammers, to try to bring them down accurately on the anvil, and each day he knew despair at his failures.

But he remembered how Sigurd had worked, each time facing failure with a high head and a will to try again. And it was on the day that Sig first brought down a medium-weight hammer in a true blow that Mimir and his people returned.

They came singing, with oxcarts loaded with the fine stuff which had been wagered and lost by the Burgundians. They told and retold the tale of how Amiliar, himself wearing his fine armor, had sat upon a hilltop and dared Mimir to prove his blade. And of how Mimir had climbed the hill, standing small indeed before Amiliar because of his dwarf blood. And of how the sword Balmung had flashed so in the sun that it had dazzled men’s eyes. Then it had fallen and still Amiliar had set there. The Burgundians had raised the victory shout. But Mimir had reached forward the very tip of Balmung to touch Amiliar on the shoulder. Then his body had toppled limply, and all men could see that he had been cut asunder so cleanly that still he seemed alive, even when he was dead.

All of them praised Sigurd for the forging of such a sword. But he stood before them, shaking his head, saying that the art was by the teaching of Mimir alone—that he was the greatest swordsmith who walked the earth and the credit was his. Mimir stroked his short beard and looked pleased, ordering that a feast be made. Thereafter he shared out some of the plunder from the Burgundians to his household.

But there were those among his senior apprentices who looked with ill favor on Sigurd. They whispered among themselves that king’s son though he might be, surely the King liked him little or he would not have sent him away from the court to labor as a common man at hammer and anvil.

Therefore, there must be some ill hidden in him which the King knew and other men would learn to their sorrow. While they whispered thus Mimir went on one of his journeys, taking swords and spearheads and some of the Burgundian plunder to trade with the southern men who came by ship over the bitter water.

He was gone but a day when Veliant, who was seniormost among the apprentices, came to Sigurd and said, “Charcoal we have, but not enough for a long season of work. This is the time of year when we must go to the burners in the forest to renew our supplies. Mimir lets us draw lots to see who will make this journey. Come while we do so.”

So they all threw bits of stone into a bowl, one such bit being scratched with Odin’s sign. The bowl was given to Wulf, the cookboy, to hold as they drew without looking. Only Sig had seen Veliant talking with Wulf apart, and thereafter Wulf seemed troubled. Sig watched the drawing closely, and it seemed to him that when it came time for Sigurd to close his eyes and put forth his hand for a stone, Wulf turned and tilted the bowl a little.

But this he could not prove.

However, it was the marked stone which Sigurd had to show. And though the others laughed and spoke of luck, Sig was sure that some of them nodded one to the other and smiled in an odd fashion. They made much of telling Sigurd that his was a fine journey which they all wished they might make themselves.

Sig, being uneasy in mind, crept and listened, and so heard enough to make him afraid for Sigurd. But as he was so listening, his foot moved unluckily and a branch cracked beneath him. Then hands were hard on his shoulders.

“It is the nithling!” Veliant grinned evilly at him. “How now, brothers, shall it not be as is fitting—a liege dog to lie in the King’s son’s grave?

Since he needs must go without horse or real hound to bear him company, this shall be both! Knock him on the head!”

Those were the last words Sig heard, for a great burst of pain was in his skull and then only darkness, a darkness in which not even dreams moved.

Then came pain again and Sig tried to call for help, to move, only to discover that he could not.

Afterward there was water on his face and he could see a little, though that hurt also. It was not until the pain grew less that he knew he was resting on a bed of charcoal bags, the grit of them against his cheek. He saw a fire, and by it was Sigurd. He tried to call, but his voice came only as a thin whisper of sound. But Sigurd turned quickly and came to him. He brought a drinking horn and in it a liquid of herbs which he gave to Sig sip by sip.

Thus Sig learned that they were well into the forest, and that Sigurd had been half a day on his journey before he discovered his companion, bloody-headed and trussed into the bale of empty bags loaded on the back of one of the pack donkeys. Sig warned him of the danger to come, for he was certain that Veliant thought they went to their deaths.

“Be assured we shall return,” Sigurd answered. “Then there shall be an accounting between Veliant and me concerning this deed done to you.

What danger can lie ahead for us when this is a journey which has been made for Mimir’s forge many times?”

“But always before, master,” Sig said, “it has been Mimir himself who went, never one of his men. And there are evil tales of this wood and what dwells in it.”

Sigurd smiled and put his hand among the tangle of bags. From them he pulled a bundle wrapped in greased hide. With his meat knife he sawed through the lashings and stripped away the coverings to show Balmung.

“I go to no strange place without steel to my hand, forge-comrade. And with Balmung I think we have little to fear.”

Sig, looking upon the sword, felt his spirits rise. For it was like a torch in the dark. He was willing to face what lay ahead, telling himself that it could hardly be worse than certain dreary days behind him.

Though the way through the forest was narrow and dark, and there was always the feeling that strange and terrifying beings watched from shadows and trailed behind them, yet they saw nothing truly to afright them. At length they came to the center of the wood to find the charcoal burners. In the open clearing they saw the dwellings of the forest men.

And these men, as dark of skin from ashes and the sap of new-hewn trees as creatures of the night, snatched up weapons and stood ready to cut the travelers down. Though Sigurd wore Balmung now openly he did not draw the blade but rather called out, “Peace between us, forest men. I am of Mimir’s household and I have come to buy from you under the agreement made by your master and mine.”

But the leader of that wild company grinned as might a great wolf, showing teeth almost like a beast’s fangs, as he answered, “You speak lies, stranger. When Mimir would deal with us he comes himself. We have our own place and no one comes into it save when we bid him. Otherwise he goes to lie beneath the All Father’s tree and stares up at its branches with sightless eyes.”

The men moved in a little, as do a pack of wolves when their quarry stands at bay. But before the first spear could be thrown, the first sword thrust, there came another voice: “Be not so quick for bloodshed, my dark ones. This bold man I would see.”

The voice came from the large hall at the very core of the cluster of dwellings. The charcoal burners now opened their ranks to form a path for Sigurd. Sig hesitated, eyeing the forest. He wondered whether they might reach it in time by running. But with Sigurd before him, he took up the duty of a shield man, supporting his lord to the death, if that was the fate laid upon them. Trying to hold himself as straight and proud as Sigurd King’s-Son, he followed after his master.

They came into the hall of the forest lord and found it to be a rich place.

The high seat at the end was carved and painted, and there were weavings from the southern people on the walls. The hall was even finer than Mimics, so that Sig stared about him round-eyed at such splendor. He thought this must be akin to the King’s hall ruled over by Sigurd’s father.

But Sigurd looked neither to right nor left; instead he went directly to stand before the high seat where the forest lord awaited him.

The forest lord was so small that the seat seemed over-large. One could hardly see his kirtle above the waist belt, for he had a great fan of beard reaching to his middle, while the locks on his head were long enough to mingle and tangle with his beard. Both beard and locks were white, though the eyes which stared at the travelers from beneath bushy brows were not those of an old man.