Dragon Magic

by Andre Norton

  Silver bits. Sig checked through the box again, making sure he had them all, and then he went to work. Sometimes he was lucky and a whole section went together quickly. Other times he had to hunt and hunt for one missing piece. Then it might turn out to be not the shape he thought it would be at all.

  Outside, rain lashed against the windows and walls of the old house. There were more lightning flashes, and the heavy rumble of thunder. But Sig no longer noticed the storm. He had the wings of the dragon, its back, now put together; there was one hind leg ready to join on. Yes, here was the connecting piece for that.

  The head came last and was the hardest. Some pieces seemed to be missing and Sig searched with growing uneasiness. He again studied the picture on the box cover and realized that the dragon was not all silver, after all. It had red eyes and a red tongue, and there were greenish bits here and there. With haste Sig raked through the box again.

  Red bits, green bits—But there was so much red and green in the box! Some pieces fell out on the floor and Sig had to get down with the flashlight to hunt them. But at last he had some which seemed possible.

  He put in a piece with a blazing eye and blaze it did, almost as if it were watching him! Sig wiped the hand which had fitted in that bit across the front of his jacket. The piece had a queer feel, almost slippery. He did not like it. But the fascination of finishing the dragon held him. Now a green bit which formed a curved horn on the dragon’s nose. Yes, and here was the tongue or part of it. Again his fingers selected the right pieces as if he knew just where they lay.

  There it was—no, not quite. When he compared the puzzle to the dragon of the picture one tiny piece was missing. It was the forked tongue end, raised and thrust out of the dragon’s open mouth like a spear. Why had he thought of it like that?

  Sig turned over the boxed pieces. Just one tongue tip. Surely it was not lost! He had to find it.

  Then he saw a piece wrong side up, showing those lines of black sticks like writing. Sig turned it over and it went neatly into place.

  He leaned back in the chair. The need to get the picture together no longer drove him. A dragon—a big silver dragon all ready to claw, bite—and kill.

  A dragon—Fafnir—

  Who—what—was Fafnir? One part of Sig cried that question against a chill, cold fear. Another part of him knew.

  The dragon coiled, reared. Sig could smell a nasty odor. The coiling dragon was turning around and around, turning so fast that sparks flew from its silver scales. Sig could hear a pounding and a loud, clanging noise.

  SIG CLAWHAND

  There was a cold wind coming from the craigs, cold enough to pierce swordlike to the very bones under one’s smoke-grimed skin. Sig Clawhand shivered, but still he drew no closer to the warmth of the forge, where sparks flew like fiery rain and the clang-clang of the smith’s hammer made a noise to deafen watchers. No one watched today, though, by Mimir Master-Smith’s own orders. For it was Sigurd King’s-Son who wrought with that hammer against metal of his own choosing to make a sword—such a sword as would cut through the armor of Amiliar.

  Sig Clawhand rubbed the twisted fingers which had given him that hard name against his thin chest. Under the loose coat of shag-wolf hide he scratched skin so long dusted with charcoal that sometimes he might be thought more forest troll than true son of man. All had heard much of the armor of Amiliar, that anyone who strode the land with it on his back, across his chest, need fear no spear, no sword forged by any mortal man. And so loudly had those boasts rung across the world that Mimir (who, men said, was of the old dwarfish blood, of those who had worked metal for the heroes of Asgard) had frowned and blown out his lips, spoken harsh words right and left, until all his roof had felt the knife edge of his tongue.

  Then he had lifted up his voice in turn and sworn that he could in truth forge a blade to show Amiliar that he was not the first smith in the world, no, nor perhaps even the second! And the King of the Burgundians had laid a heavy wager upon the outcome of such a trial.

  But Mimir himself was not busy at that forge, for he had Foresight. And he had laid it upon Sigurd King’s-Son to do this thing. Seven days and seven nights had Sigurd worked upon the metal, and then he had taken a blade to the stream which flowed from the foot of the craig. There Mimir had set a thread of wool afloat and Sigurd had held the blade in the water so that the thread was current-driven against it—and the thread had been cleanly cut. Then all who labored in the forge shouted aloud. But Sigurd King’s-Son and Mimir had looked into each other’s eyes. And Sigurd had taken back the blade, had broken it into bits, to be once more heated, shaped, and tried.

  He then tempered it in new-drawn milk. And he also used oatmeal, which, as all swordsmiths knew, gave strength to metal even as it did to man. Three days more he worked. Then he took what he had wrought to the stream and this time he cut with it a ball of wool without disturbing the winding of its threads.

  Only, again he and Mimir exchanged looks. And Sigurd raised high the blade above a rock and brought it down with true warrior’s brawn of arm so that it shattered. He then took up the bits and went once more to the forge. But that had been morn and now it was night dusk. And it was plain to Sig Clawhand that Sigurd’s hammer now fell slower and with less force. And he saw the droop of Sigurd’s shoulders and knew that Mimir strode back and forth by that spring of water which men said gave great knowledge to those daring to drink of it.

  The wind blew cold again, and it was the cold of winter instead of, rightfully, the freshness of spring. So Sig Clawhand bunched together, his arms about his upthrust knees, making a ball of himself. He longed for the warmth of the forge side, but he knew better than to seek it now.

  Then he saw two feet standing just at the level of his eyes as he curled so. Those feet wore the rough-finished hide of journey boots. As he raised his head slowly, he saw a kirtle of the same color as the sky when a storm draws near, and the sweep of a gray cloak. Higher still he looked, to a hood which was blue and which overhung a dark face. And in that face was a single eye for seeing, the other being covered with a patch of linen stuff. Yet that one eye saw into Sig so that he wished to run from it, only the power of that figure held him where he was, shivering even more than when the icy wind reached him.

  “Go to Sigurd King’s-Son and bid him come out. There is one here who will speak with him.”

  Though the stranger’s voice was low there was no denying the order it gave. Sig got to his feet quickly and backed into the forge, fearing to look away from the eye which held him. Not until he was within the shadow of that doorway was he free of the bond it had laid upon him. He went to the anvil where Sigurd stood tall, the fire giving a red light to his face and his long yellow hair, looped back while he worked with tongs.

  And, though he was indeed the King’s son, he wore but the coarse kirtle, the leathern apron, the straw footgear which were the dress not even of a master smith but of a common laborer. Yet one looking upon him, Sig thought—any man with eyes in his head—would know this was one of kingly blood, worthy to be shield-raised when a crown was offered.

  Sigurd rested the hammer against the edge of the anvil and leaned forward to see his work. But there was a frown on his tired face as if what he looked upon pleased him very little. Sig dared then to say, “Master, there is one at the door who would speak with you.”

  The frown was darker yet as Sigurd swung around. Sig retreated a step or two, even though Sigurd King’s-Son was not one to cuff for little reason, but was kinder than most men Sig had known in his short life.

  “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 pl
ainly 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 s
eemed 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.