“I know not how to slay a dragon.” Sigurd searched the dwarf’s weathered, wrinkled face.
“Each day, Fáfnir drags himself down to a lake to drink. Dig a trench in his path and hide within it. When he crawls over you on his return, drive your blade into the soft underside of his belly. Then cut out his heart for me.”
“You know the location of his lair.”
“I do. And I shall take you there once we reforge the sword.”
Theouroborosblazed above Sigurd’s thundering heart. “Then I agree to your price.”
Regin nodded and rose from the table. He rinsed the bowls and spoons in a bucket of water, setting them on the counter to dry. “Fetch the swords and follow me,” he grunted, taking a torch from its iron sconce on the stone wall. “We’ll see how much you remember from your days as my apprentice at Sjóborg.” When the dwarf grinned, the yellowed fangs above his thick black beard sent a shiver down Sigurd’s spine.
Regin led him down a dim corridor toward the back of the dark cave and into the open forge chamber where veins of ore glittered in the solid rock walls.
The hot air was stifling, heavy with the pungent scent of iron and thick with smoke. At the back of the cavernous room, the forge fire roared within a broad stone hearth fed by a bellows made from cured hides and iron ribs. In front of the massive hearth, the anvil sat on a squat stone block, its steel face blackened with soot and scratched by countless hammered blows. Runes etched along the edge glowed and pulsed in the firelight.
Beside the anvil, a wide stone basin sunk into the floor, brimming with icy water fed from a cold trickle of the waterfall.The overflow emptied through a channel carved into the stone, carrying the excess back toward the waterfall’s roar.
“Bring the blades,” Regin grunted.
Sigurd unwrapped the elkskin and laidGramr’scold, gleaming shards upon the anvil. From the wolfskin sheath, he withdrew and unwrapped the linen parcel, placing the three jagged sections of his brokenblade beside the shards ofGramr.The snarling wolves and rolling waves etched into the steel shimmered faintly in the firelight. He laid the intact hilt ofÚlfblóðrcarefully on a nearby table, the deep blue lapis gem in the pommel sparkling like a sunlit sea.
Regin’s calloused, blackened fingers hovered over the pieces of the two blades. He nodded in satisfaction.
“Good,” he muttered. “They respond to each other.”
He gestured to the bellows. “Pump.”
Like he had done as Regin’s apprentice when the dwarf had been King Álfr’s royal blacksmith, Sigurd heaved the hide bellows. With each stroke, the forge roared higher, intense heat rolling across his sweat-soaked skin.
Regin fed the fire with charcoal and strange dark flakes from a leather pouch, whispering under his breath in a Dwarven tongue Sigurd did not understand. The arcane runes along the anvil’s edge glimmered in the carved stone.
One by one, Regin laid the pieces of the broken blades into the heart of the fire. The shards ofGramrbrightened fast, the remnants ofÚlfblóðrtaking on a deeper, blood-dark glow. When they were white hot, Regin drew them out of the forge with huge tongs and laid them on the anvil.
The dwarf placed the shards ofGramratop the darker pieces ofÚlfblóðr,their jagged edges overlapping like the teeth of a wolf. When he struck the first blow, his enormous hammer meeting metal, sparks leapt into the blistering air. He drove the shards together, binding them into one glowing body.
“Slice your palm with your wolf dagger,” he commanded, nodding toÚlfhjartaat Sigurd’s waist. “Three drops of your blood each time we fold the steel, and three times into the fire. Nine drops of your wolf blood sealed in the reforged blade.”
Sigurd complied, letting three drops fall onto the warm metal. Regin closed the steel over the blood and thrust it back into the forge.
He drew it out a second time, worked the hot metal, and Sigurd fed it three more drops. Again, Regin sealed the blood into the blade and returned it to the fire.
The third time, Sigurd gave the final trio, and Regin knit the steel shut, blending the blood into the heart of the blade.
“Now,” Regin barked, indicating a heavy mallet hanging on a hook near the hearth. “Take that hammer. Strike with me.”
Sigurd grasped it, working in rhythm with the dwarf, drawing and shaping the softened steel together. Sparks soared with each resounding blow asGramr’sVölsung power merged withÚlfblóðr’sSea Wolf spirit and Sigurd’s lupine blood.
Sweat ran down Sigurd’s spine. His arms burned. The rhythm took him—like rowing through strong, stormy seas. With every strike, the steel answered, a low thrum vibrating into his bones.
When at last Regin quenched the reforged blade in the icy basin, steam screamed as water met fire. The forge chamber filled with curling mist, waves and wolves rising along the stone walls of the hidden cave.
The sword lay cooler but still warm in Regin’s skilled hands. “Hold it steady,” he growled, as Sigurd grasped the tang of the blade, sensing the magic in the merged steel.
Regin fitted the intact hilt ofÚlfblóðrinto the reforged blade, the etched runes beneath the grip blackened with soot and sweat. He pressed the snarling wolf crossguard into place while Sigurd tapped it snugly over the shank with the woodenmallet, careful not to hit the lapis gem in the pommel. Together, they drove tiny metal pins into the hilt, firmly securing it to the reforged blade.
The Dwarven blacksmith stepped back, examining the gleaming sword.
Power pulsed from the etched runes. The lapis eyes of the snarling wolf glowed with otherworldly fire. Running the length of the shining blade, wolves and waves shimmered as if alive.
