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>>Long, long ago, for all such stories were, the mighty warrior Volsung begat a child. He was a proud father, and the moment he learned he had a son, he bequeathed to the babe his legendary sword, the magical blade, Gram. With Gram he had vanquished many a foe, earning for himself the title of hero.
>>Hiordis, his wife, named their son Sigurd. He was a fair and bonny lad, so say the tales, and I dare believe it's true. Without doubt, he was sturdy and straight of limb. Sigurd was scarcely two years old when Volsung went off once more to battle.
>>Even heroes die, and this time fate was against him. In a battle that requires a tale of its own, the incredible sword, Gram, was shattered. Weaponless, Volsung fought on, but he was eventually overcome and killed.
>>In those times, life was difficult and uncertain for widows, and Hiordis found her situation particularly demeaning. Thus it was that when she found favor in the eyes of King Hialprek, she wed him gladly.
>>Hialprek viewed Sigurd with warmth and tolerance. If nothing else, the child bore witness to Hiordis' ability to bear healthy heirs, something which Hialprek desired greatly. Sigurd himself, of course, was no such heir.
>>The tales told by humans say that Sigurd grew happily with his half-brothers, (for Hiordis did indeed give the king a variety of sons), but the storytellers are liars by nature and the dragons don't know. What we do know is that Sigurd was trained as a warrior, intended to become a knight in his step-father's court.
>>Now the king's master smith was a dwarf named Regin, and he was both a gifted smith and a vile, evil creature. He had come to Hialprek's court, making himself valuable so that he might have access to a royal library. There he studied and searched, gathering bits of information from this document and that.
>>After a long while, he had what he wanted, but not yet all that he needed. From his research he had confirmed that which he aleady suspected: Fafnir, that patricidal dwarven prince of generations past had almost certainly hidden his illgotten treasure within a little known cave on Gnita Heath. Regin had tried to explore the cave, only to find it inhabited by a dragon.
>>Generally speaking, dragons and dwarves tended to be either great friends or bitter enemies. Regin, being of villainous heart, was quickly driven away. Thus it was that Regin began looking for some likely youth whom he could set against the dragon. Young Sigurd suited his ends all too well.
>>Patience Regin had in abundance, and he went first to King Hialprek, requesting to take the young lad as his apprentice. Hialprek knew that Sigurd was bright and quick of wit, easily capable of learning multiple trades, and agreed gladly. Poor Sigurd was never even consulted, but that is often the way with humans.
>>Evil though he was, Regin taught Sigurd well, imparting to him not only the ways of metalurgy, but those of harpestry and healing as well. Sigurd was an attentive student, becoming accomplished in all three.
>>"You are restless," observed Regin one day.
>>"Am I?" Sigurd responded carefully, though he knew it well enough. He had grown terribly weary of the dwarf, of his bitter, scowling personality.
>>"You are," Regin affirmed. "I know what ails you, and I know its cure."
>>"Do you now?"
>>Regin merely nodded.
>>Sigurd, of course, recognized that Regin was leading him, but, all things considered, it would be wise to listen. "What ails me then, and what might be the cure?" he asked.
>>Now that he had the boy's attention, Regin took him by the elbow and led him to a chair, seating him so that he might look straight into Sigurd's eyes, the better to judge the effects of his words. "You were raised in a palace, brother to princes yet heir to nothing save your dead father's legend. Is this wrong? Nay, say I, for fate is neither random nor accidental. You were raised as you were because you are destined for great things, perhaps even greater than being a mere king."
>>Regin then spun for him the tale that humans have repeated ever since, but scarce is the truth of it. "I am ancient, Sigurd," he said somberly, "and I've not that much longer to live." He was, he stated, the son of a great dwarven king, but ever so many years ago his evil brother, Fafnir, murdered their poor father for his wonderous treasure. Regin, rightful heir, was driven from the palace lest he lose his own life as well.
>>"Avenge me!" Regin pleaded throatily, startling young Sigurd. Avenge my poor father. Fafnir's evil and greed have transformed him into a loathsome dragon, standing guard over the treasure for which he murdered."
>>Liar! Never an heir was he to any king, dwarven or otherwise; never a dragon was Fafnir. Nor was Regin's life o'er long, save that he lived to deceive Sigurd that day.
>>Alas, emboldened with the confidence of youth, the prospect appealed to Sigurd. The treasure, Regin said, would be Sigurd's - he himself was old, his needs simple, his remaining time too short to matter. Moreover, as Regin well knew, Sigurd had been taught a knight's honor, and such a plea was virtually impossible to ignore. (Had Sigurd known the truth, of course, it would have been another matter entirely.)
>>"I'll need a blade," he said simply.
>>"Your mother holds the weapon you need, your father's sword, Gram."
>>"Gram was shattered," he pointed out somberly. "Had it not been so, he would not have died."
>>"Precisely so," agreed the dwarf, "but your mother will have saved the pieces. Bring them to me, and we shall see if the king's master smith cannot make them whole again."
>>This was a greater lure to Sigurd than treasure or adventure, for he dearly loved tales of his father. To have and to wield the mighty sword Gram...! Therefore, Sigurd did as he was bade.
>>The dwarves had learned arts unknown to humans, then or now. For all the faults of his nature, Regin knew better than to tamper with the integrity of the weapon, and he strove diligently to restore it to its original form, adding only a jeweled hilt. How it tore his greedy heart to turn it over to Sigurd. (Indeed, he did so only because he meant to have it back.)
>>Sigurd examined the blade, his sking tinglying with emotion as he turned it lovingly in his hands. For the first time he felt he was truly Sigurd the Volsung, son of a mighty hero. With Gram in his hand, he just might be able to fulfill the expectations of such a heritage.
>>Regin led him out of the courts of Hialprek, north from the land of the danes, north to Gnita Heath. He took him to the ruins of a great hall, the Hall of Fafnir, though he told Sigurd it had belonged to his father. Together they rested there while Regin told him of some of the rooms, supposedly memories, but only tidbits he had gathered when he had come before.
>>Beyond the ruins lay a small, clear pool, and beyond this the cave, and the treasure within. At the mouth of the cave were fallen boulders and earth, small shrubs growing up between the rocks, creating a narrow gorgelet through which the dragon must pass. The pit Sigurd dug there was shallow, but deep was the treachery of Regin's plan.
>>Now humans rarely admit to the telepathic abilities of dragons, fearing it as they do, but dwarves, living in closer proximity to dragons, had accepted the truth of it long before. Regin was no exception, and for this reason, (and the fact that he had run into this dragon before), he would go nowhere near the dragon's den. It was his intention to let both dragon and youth battle it out, and his hope that both would die of their efforts.
>>Innocent and ignorant, Sigurd settled himself in the pit, allowing Regin to cover him with both their cloaks and then a covering of earth to conceal him. "Wait until Fafnir is just above you, then strike upwards into his belly. Make certain your strike is a true one, else you'll not have time for a second."
>>How long Sigurd lay in his grave is impossible to say, but surely it must have seemed twice that him. They had no assurance the dragon would even come, and that thought must have crossed his mind more than once. The only enticement available was the small pool of water from which the dragon might wish to drink.
>>Alas for the dragon, however long it actually took, Sigurd did not abandon his vigil. Perhaps he was frightened, (perhaps not), but as he heard the slow, sure approach of the dragon, he held his place, waiting. Pebble rattled against stone as it drew nearer, but still he held. Dirt pressed in more tightly against his leg, and the dragon was above him.
>>He gripped the jeweled hilt of Gram, but lying on his back as he was, he could not draw back for a proper strike. The cloaks and earth pressed down upon the blade, and for a moment it seemed that he must fail. The dragon paused above him as if waiting for him to get it right - or more disconcerting, sensing his presence.
>>With a tremendous yank Sigurd drew the sword to the side, stiking from a angle. The steel bit deeply into the dragon's belly, and Sigurd drove it further as he surged upward to gain his feet, following the dragon as it pulled away from the bite of the blade.
>>Sigurd, Regin's warning ringing in his mind, leapt backward then, bringing the blade to fore. Vibrant yellow eyes pierced Sigurd's being, but the dragon did not strike. Reaching within his soul, she opened her own to him.
>>For an instant he was baffled, but as ancient as the enmity between mankind and dragons, is the reputation as liars which Lucifer bequeathed to us, and Sigurd resisted, doubting. But within such deep communion there is no room for doubt. The creature before him was no ancient monster; she was young, and her name was Ophelia.
>>Outraged and weeping, Sigurd struggled now to find some means of helping her, but even with his healer's skills, the wound was too great. Dying, she taught Sigurd the gift of hearing, (for this, my friend, is something of which all humans are capable, but they hid it from themselves long ago in the mists of time, the better to lie to one another, and to themselves.) At the last she told him, "Follow your heart, dear Sigurd, and beware of liars." With that, she closed her eyes and returned to God.
>>Sigurd sat quietly, weary and sore of heart. It was no comfort indeed that he could hear the birds that came and went, first accusing, then sympathetic. How earnestly he wished that he could undo what he had done, but that of course could not be.
>>"Beware! Beware!" cried a jay as Regin approached, flitting from tree to tree, tracking his progression. Sigurd sat waiting, eyes downcast as he listened to Regin's thoughts. Dark, darting things they were, nervous when he saw that Sigurd still lived, contemptuous when he schemed to use the youth's muscles to move the treasure, then to slay him as he slept.
>>"Bravely done," Regin said as he viewed the dead dragon.
>>"Not so," Sigurd answered softly. The dwarf froze at the sound of his voice, eyeing Sigurd warily as he rose to his feet, Gram drooping from his hand. "It was basely done, and cowardly. That beautiful, splendid creature was no monster, and you are no prince."
>>He met Regin's eyes and the dwarf saw that all was known. With a snarl he drew his own dwarven blade, well wrought with the best of his abilities. But just as Sigurd could not match the abilities of a master smith, so Regin could not best the youth who had trained so hard to become a knight. With a hardened will Sigurd parried Regin's thrust and cut off his head, putting an end at last to his wicked treachery.
>>Sigurd camped there, keeping a death watch over Ophelia. The next day he prepared to depart. He would have left the treasure behind, ashamed to possess it, but the animals begged him to remove it before it caused more harm. Two small bats led him to it, and three wild boars helped him move it.
>>Arriving home, he was greeted with elation. For some time he tried to tell the truth of his battle, but he found that people preferred Regin's tale, (or their own version of it). Items from the treasure were identified as having belonged to Fafnir, cementing their convictions and Sigurd eventually gave up trying to sway them. Sigurd went on to become a great hero among men, with many adventures both great and small, but never again would he battle a dragon.
