by Andre Norton
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 Mimir’s, 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 overlarge. 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.
“Who are you who come so boldly into the place of Regin?” asked the lord.
Sigurd made courteous answer, but he did so with the rightful pride of a king’s son. “I am Sigurd, son of Sigmund, of the true line of the Volsungs. And I come in the service of Mimir Master-Smith, for the charcoal of your making.”
“Ha, how can this be true speaking? I have not heard before that one of the Volsung blood serves a smith, be he master or less. Think up a better tale than that, my would-be hero!”
“There is no better tale than the truth,” returned Sigurd, still with courtesy, though on his cheek was the flush of a man who has had his word doubted. “It was my father’s will that, since I must someday rule, I should better know those whom I would rule. Therefore, I should dwell among them for a space, working with my hands for my bread, even as they do.”
Regin combed his beard with his fingers and nodded.
“A wise man, King Sigmund. And have you learned, Sigurd King’s-Son, what it means to earn your bread with your two hands?”
“For a year have I done so, and Mimir Master-Smith has not yet turned me from his door as useless.”
“Which is in your favor, King’s-Son. Well enough, I accept your tale. Do you rest this night under my roof while those in my service make ready your charcoal.”
He did not seem to notice Sig, and for that the boy was glad. He thought that he would not care to have this lord of the forest watch him too closely. Sig squatted in the shadows behind Sigurd, who sat in the guest chair. But his lord did not forget that he was there, for from time to time he tossed back a round of bread or a bone still heavy with meat, so that Sig ate as well as the high ones.
Regin suddenly leaned forward and asked, “Do you travel with a hound, King’s-Son? One you must feed with the best from the table?”
“No hound, Lord Regin, but one who has been a good trail comrade to me, though he is young.”
“Summon him forth that I may look upon him,” commanded Regin.
There was no escape. Sig came out of the shadows to stand before Regin. Though he and Sigurd had washed well in a forest pool, and he had arranged his poor clothing as best he could, yet still he well knew that he was as a poor beggar. But he was also for the present a shield man to a king’s son, and so he held himself stiff and straight.
“A comrade say you, Sigurd King’s-Son? Ha! An ill choice! This is a plucked crow, a starveling, such as any snug-housed man can find whining for bread outside his door.”
But Sigurd King’s-Son came down from the guest seat. As he made answer he laid his hand on Sig’s shoulder. “This is one I would trust at my back in an hour of need. What man can ask more than that, Lord Regin?”
“It would seem that the whelp has more in him than readily meets the eye. Well enough, keep your hero, King’s-Son.” Regin laughed in such a way as made Sig feel hot and clench his good fist. Yet Sigurd’s hand still rested on his shoulder and then drew him forward, so that he no longer lurked in the shadows but sat on the step of the guest chair in full sight of all, with his lord’s favor plain.
Venison they ate, and wild honey, and white bread such as Sig had never seen, and grapes both tart and sweet on the tongue. Afterward they were led into a small side chamber for sleeping where there was a couch of myrtle and hemlock woven together cunningly to form a soft bed. Sig settled at the foot, wrapped in his cloak, but Sigurd stretched out full upon the boughs and slept.
When they awoke it was after sunup and Sigurd sat up with a strange look on his face.
“This night I did dream,” he said in a low voice as if he spoke more to himself than to Sig. “And it was a dream of power, though I have not the wit to read it.”
They went into the great hall and there Regin sat once more in the high seat, as if he had never moved through the long night past. Across his knees lay the harp of a bard. Now and then he absently plucked a string to bring forth a singing note. Before the guest seat there were bread, goat cheese, honey, and horns of barley beer. Regin waved them to sit and eat, and Sig again took his place on the seat’s step.
“You slept well through the night?” Regin asked as might any ordinary host.
“I dreamed,” Sigurd answered.
“And of what did you dream, King’s-Son?”
“That I stood on a mountain peak, among other peaks, though none higher. And about me flew eagles, while snow lay at my feet. There were the Norns there—Urd, the Past, was to the east where the sun rises, and between her fingers she spun thread which glittered as if it were formed of that very sun.
“And Verdanda, the Present, was afar in the sea where sky and water meet. She caught up that thread and wove a web of purple and gold, richer than any king’s wear I have seen. But even as she wove it, Skald, the dire Future, caught it from her and tore it to shreds, which she cast from her so that they fell at the cold white feet of yet another who watched. And she was Hel, who is queen over the dead. It seems to me that this was a dream which began well but ended ill.”
“In this life many things begin well and end ill,” Regin said. “Listen to one such—” And Regin, old as he was, lifted up his voice and sang.
His voice was full and strong, and that of a great bard. They listened as if caught in a witch wife’s spell. Also, as he sang, he changed so that his white hair and beard faded away, and they saw not Regin the forest lord in that high seat but rather Mimir Master-Smith.
Then he put down the harp and laughed.
“Ay, I am Mimir, who was Regin. But that is another tale and the time had not yet come for the telling of it. But it is true that you have great deeds to do, Sigurd King’s-Son. A sword you have, though it was forged from the shards of another, which was the All Father’s gift—but not a kind one—to your forefather. Now you must gain a horse such as will serve you as well as steel, perhaps even better.”
“And where do I find such a horse, master?”
“You go to the north, to the giant Griph, and there ask it of him. On his pastures run the finest steeds in the world.”
“Well enough.” Sigurd nodded, “And this I am to do now?”
“What time is better?”
As Sigurd King’s-Son prepared to go he shook his head at Sig, who stood waiting, with no sword at his belt but only the stoutest staff he could find in his hand.
“This is no quest for you, youngling.”
“Lord, I do not stay behind. If you will not suffer me to go with you, then still shall I follow.”
Sigurd looked at him for a long, long moment. Then he nodded again. “Well enough,” he said as he had to Mimir-Regin. “It is in my mind that we are in some manner bound to the same fate, though why is not clear.”
The way was long and they found night and day, night and day passing by. Sometimes they went through forests, or over bleak moorlands, or took steep mountain trails. They came to fine, fair lands and were feasted in halls and besought by lords to stay awhile, but Sigurd would not.
This road was not easy and Sig found it very hard indeed. No longer might he hide away his clawhand, for he needed it to hold onto rocks and bushes in places where the going was rough. He used it so much that he sometimes forgot how ill it looked.
At length they came to a place of snow where there was a hall built of huge boulders no human could have moved. White were its walls and within were green pillars which were very cold to the touch, as if they were carved of ice. There was a high seat made of the mighty teeth of sea-horses, and over it hung a canopy of stone. He who sat there held a carved staff of ivory and wore a purple mantle, while his white beard hung nearly to the green floor.
He was large, so that to him Sigurd was as a small boy. But he smiled and made them welcome. And they sat down and broke their fast while he and Sigurd talked of the Midworld from which they had come, of the sky reaching above them, and of the seas framing the earth. And Sig, rested and well fed, listened. Nor was he aware of how long that fine, mind-filling talk lasted.
But at last Griph struck the tabletop with the point of his staff and spoke out. “Enough, Sigurd King’s-Son. It is music to my ears, your voice, for it has been long since mortal man has sought me out with news of Midworld and what chances there. But it is to my mind that you have come for a reason, and that reason runs on four feet in my pastures. Is that not so?”
“Lord Griph, it is so.”
“Thus be it. Go forth to my pastures, King’s-Son, and choose wisely, for upon this may hang your life some day.”
So they went out to the pastures. And there were such horses as Sig had never seen. Each one was finer than the finest in any king’s stable in Midworld. He wondered how Sigurd could choose. But, even as he thought thus, a shadow fell across the stone where they stood. And there was a man.
Gray were his cloak and kirtle, blue his hood, and he wore a patch over one eye. But the other saw twice as keenly as any mortal, Sig believed.
“So, Sigurd Volsung, you have come to find a horse to match the sword you wear?”
“Ay, Great One.”
“Then listen. Such choosing takes care. Drive this herd to the river. The one that takes to the flood and swims over, then returns to you—he is Greykell and none other can equal him.”
“My thanks to you, Great One.”
But he of the one eye did not smile. “Give thanks later, Sigurd, when the thread is all spun, the web full woven, and Skald has finished her part in the matter. That time is yet afar, but it still lies before you.”
Sigurd bowed his head a little. “What man can change the will of Skald? I shall do what must be done to the best of my doing.”
“Which is all any man can say. Go you now and take Greykell.”
Once more he was gone as if he had never stood there. But Sig was wiser now than he had been at the forge. This was surely Odin All-Father come to take a part in their fate, and so he was also more than a little frightened.
It went even as the stranger had said. Sig and Sigurd drove the horses to the river bank. All refused the flood except one, and he swam across and on the far shore reared and trumpeted a challenge. Then he returned and came to Sigurd, nuzzling at the hands held out to him.
Strong was Greykell, strong enough to carry them both back on the long journey to Regin’s hall in the forest. Once more they feasted, and when they were done with food and drink Regin-Mimir took up his harp. This time he sang a tale which cast a heavy spell, for it was fashioned out of his own memories—a strange, dark story.
It began in the older days, when the Asakind had walked more often in the Midworld clothed with men’s bodies. So came Odin All-Father, giving men knowledge and strength, and with him Holnir, who brought cheer and laughter. Yet with them skulked Loki in a dark cloud of cunning, deceit, and base thoughts.
During such a far-faring, Loki, for wicked sport, slew Oddar, who had taken on the seeming of an otter that he might explore the depths of a lake. And then he gave the otter’s body to Oddar’s father, Hreidmar, as a dreadful jest. Then had Hreidmar called upon his other sons, Fafnir and Regin, and together they demanded blood ransom in gold, enough to cover the otter’s hide.
The Asakind cast lots, and Loki was so selected to go for the gold, Odin and Holnir standing hostage. Loki bargained with the sea queen Ran for her fine net, and with this in hand he caught fast the dwarf king Andvari, who had hidden in the scaled skin of a salmon. From Andvari, in return for his freedom, Loki took the great treasure of the dwarfs. He also tore from Andvari’s own finger a ring in the form of a snake, its tail gripped by its fangs. Diamonds were the scales of that snake, rubies its eyes.
Then Andvari cast a mighty spell to curse the treasure and the ring. But Loki laughed as he bore it away to the hall of Hreidmar. There they spread out the otter skin, and it became larger and larger, until it covered most of the floor. On it Loki heaped and leveled the treasure. Yet, when he had done, there was still a single hair left uncovered, so he must also cast down upon that the ring, and so with it he cast the curse.
The Asakind, the blood debt paid, went their way. But Hreidmar, looking upon the vast treasure, lusted for it. And when he touched the ring, behold, he became himself just such a
serpent as it was in form. Regin cried out at this sight and fled. But his brother Fafnir drew sword and killed the serpent, once his father.
Then, in turn, he looked upon the gold, and he, too, lusted for it so greatly that it became all the world to him. He bore it off to a far wasteland and there he spread it out to feast his eyes upon it. Among all else was a fine helm of gold made like a dragon’s head. Fafnir put this on, and as the ring had made his sire a serpent, so did the helm make of him a dragon.
Thus through the years the treasure lay in the waste guarded by the dragon, Fafnir, who had forgotten he had ever been a man. Not until he was slain would evil depart from the land. Many had been the men who had tried to reach the treasure, only to die. Now Sigurd had been chosen by fate to end the rule of Fafnir.
Sigurd King’s-Son listened and, when Regin sang no more, he spoke. “So be it, Regin who was Mimir, who was once host to the Asakind. I shall deal with your dragon brother.”
“But not alone!” Regin was no longer like Mimir now, but different once again, being gray and wrinkled of skin as if many years of time had passed. His eyes were not those of mortal man, so that Sig dreaded them and was glad they were not turned in his direction. “I shall ride with you.”
“And I,” Sig said, for he knew that he must. Perhaps Regin did not like that, for he shot a single disturbing glance at Sig. But he did not dispute Sig’s words openly.
Seven days they went, until they came to a land broken by great chasms. There were many tall black boulders, but nothing grew among them. This way lay twisted at the foot of a mountain up which they must climb and climb, even though their breath came in gasps and their strength failed. Sigurd, who was the strongest, ever led the way.
On the other side of the mountain was a plain, which they looked down upon at nightfall. Around circles of flickering flames moved a vast, dark shape which Sig, for one, wanted to see no closer. They descended to the bank of a river which lay between them and the plain. The water was thick and dark as if it were not water at all, but an evil slime. And there were stirrings in it as if hidden, nameless monsters moved below its surface.
