Dragon Magic Read Online Free Page B

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