Long ago, in the age when heroes walked the earth, a boy named Sigurd was born of royal blood. His father had been a great king, but Sigurd's father died before his son was born, and the boy grew up in the halls of a master smith named Regin. Regin was not quite a dwarf and not quite a man — he was something older and stranger — but he was the greatest craftsman in the world, and he taught Sigurd everything: sword-work and horse-craft and the language of runes.
'You are ready for a great quest,' Regin told Sigurd one day, his bright eyes watchful as a crow's. 'I will tell you of a dragon named Fafnir, who guards a treasure of gold so vast it fills an entire valley. Slay him, and the gold is yours.' Sigurd's eyes lit up with excitement. 'And yours as well,' he added. 'Your father's sword will not do for this task. I will forge you a blade worthy of a hero.'
Regin worked for many days at his forge, hammering and shaping, quenching and sharpening. But the first sword he made, Sigurd tested by striking an anvil — and the blade shattered. The second was the same. Then Sigurd remembered pieces of his father's sword, which his mother had saved. He brought them to Regin, and the smith melted them down and reforged them into a new blade. When Sigurd struck the anvil with it, the anvil split clean in two. The sword was named Gram.
On his way to Fafnir's lair, Sigurd met an old man in a wide-brimmed hat who seemed to know where he was going. The old man walked with him a while. 'The dragon travels the same path every day,' the old man said. 'He goes down to the river to drink at noon. The path is narrow there. A clever hunter could dig a pit in the path...' He smiled and walked away into the trees. Sigurd felt certain he recognized those wise old eyes.
Sigurd found the dragon's path — a deep groove worn into the earth by years of Fafnir's heavy body passing over it. The ground was scorched and grey where the dragon's breath had touched it. Following the old man's advice, Sigurd began to dig. He worked all day, cutting a pit deep into the earth on the dragon's path, just wide enough for a man to hide in, directly beneath where the dragon would pass.
At noon, the earth began to shake. The trees swayed. A sound like rolling thunder grew from the north — not thunder, but the movement of an enormous scaled body. Then Sigurd saw Fafnir coming: a dragon longer than a longship, his bronze-green scales glinting, his golden eyes burning, wisps of dark smoke rising from his nostrils. He slithered toward the river without noticing the pit — or the young man hiding silently inside it.
As Fafnir's massive belly slid directly over the pit, Sigurd thrust Gram upward with every bit of strength he had. The great sword went deep. Fafnir reared up with a roar that flattened the nearest trees, thrashed wildly, and then lay still. The valley was quiet again, except for birdsong and the distant sound of the river. Sigurd climbed out of his pit, breathing hard, and looked at what he had done. He had slain a dragon.
As Sigurd stood there, something extraordinary happened. A drop of Fafnir's blood touched his finger, and without thinking, he put it to his lips. Instantly the world changed: the birds in the nearby trees were talking — actually talking — and Sigurd could understand every word. He stood very still and listened. 'So Sigurd has slain the dragon,' said one bird. 'Now Regin will come,' said another. 'And what does Regin plan to do?' asked a third.
'Regin plans to kill Sigurd and take the gold for himself,' sang the birds. 'That is why he sent the boy to do the dangerous work. He is Fafnir's brother — he wants the gold that was always his family's curse.' Sigurd stood very still, Gram in his hand. He thought of Regin — his teacher, the man who had forged his sword and taught him everything he knew. Betrayal has a particular feeling: cold, and very clear.
Regin arrived quickly, as the birds had predicted, with a calculating smile and excited eyes. 'You've done it!' he said. 'Well done, my boy. The treasure is just beyond those rocks...' He began to speak of how they would divide the gold. Sigurd looked at his teacher for a long moment — thinking of the years of lessons, the forged sword, the careful sending to a dragon's lair. Then he made a decision.
Sigurd acted swiftly and decisively, as a hero must. He would not let greed and betrayal follow him further down the road. When it was done, he was alone with the vast treasure hoard of Fafnir: mountains of gold and jewels and ancient artifacts, all of it glittering in the afternoon sun. Sigurd looked at it for a long time. The birds still chattered in the trees above, and they told him of greater adventures yet to come.
Sigurd loaded his horse Grani with as much of the treasure as it could carry — Grani was Odin's own grandson and could bear more than any ordinary horse. The birds directed him north, where they said a sleeping warrior-maiden awaited, surrounded by fire, waiting to be woken by a hero who knew no fear. Sigurd sheathed Gram, mounted Grani, and rode toward the mountains. The greatest dragon-slayer in Norse legend was only just beginning his story.
