Chapter 1
A Masterpiece Among Masterpieces
Djanamark, Gotaland
The lands of King Hjalprek lay nestled between the River and the Woods and the King had the wisdom to build his hall none too close to either. Whether it be raiders going up and down the River in search of plunder or the fell creatures lurking deep in the Woods, any threat would have to venture across open plains in clear sight of the Marcher King's bowmen if they thought they could make a prey of him.
However, while the King kept his distance from perils to the east and west, the Dwarven master smith Regin needed fuel for his forge more than he needed protection from the denizens of the Woods. Not only a master smith but also a formidable sorcerer, Regin had etched runes in the palisades around the forge that warded off any unwelcome visitors. However, the young man who was approaching this morning had his welcome, even if that welcome may have been wearing thin.
The young man was well-favored, like a statue crafted by the skillful hands of the Greeks, with hair spun of red gold and piercing blue eyes that shone like the very stars themselves. He was a prince among men, a son of kings who was destined to win a crown by his own hand, and that was the business that brought him to Regin's forge.
The fires of the forge never went out and it was rare to find Regin anywhere else. You could not find a more skillful smith in all the land, yet he never ceased working to refine his craft more and more. It was rare for him to admit any apprentices, as much as his skills were sought from all corners of the world, but he did leave the humdrum work to a small army of thralls who cut wood, fed the fires, carried water, and made deliveries to and from the forge.
The young man's voice could be clearly heard over the sound of Regin's hammer striking the anvil.
"Ho there, you old stump!"
Regin struck a sharp, rather unkind blow to the iron he was working as he looked up to the young man.
"What is it now, you yapping pup?" the master blacksmith asked, not hiding his annoyance. "You have your sword. Have you tested it?"
"Yeah, well, about that..." the young man replied.
He unhooked the scabbard on his belt and drew out the sword within, but there was nothing more to it than about a handsbreadth of blade connected to the hilt. The young man then upturned the scabbard to let the remaining broken shards of steel clatter to the floor. Regin scowled mightily at the sight of this.
"That blade was a masterpiece," he said.
"And now it's in master pieces," the young man replied. "We had a deal. You promised me a sword that'd lay low any foe."
"And I delivered," Regin replied, "not once but twice. You can't tell me you did that on flesh and bone."
"Flesh and bone may not be all I need to cut."
"What do you think the Hundings are made of?"
"The Hundings..." the young man growled, spitting on the floor after the accursed name passed his lips.
Regin furrowed his brow and asked the young man, "You break two of my swords and you expect me to make a third?"
"I expect you to make a sword that'll avenge my father," the young man said. "It was what you promised me. Or does a Dwarf's word come up as short as his height?"
"Those the manners your mother taught you?"
The young man looked as if he had just remembered something as he said, "Speaking of my mother..."
He undid the knot tying what appeared to be a bedroll about him and spread it out on the floor, then opened the inner bundle with uncharacteristic care and reverence. The reason for this care was soon made clear when its contents were revealed to be the fragments of a blade so fine that the mere sight of it was enough to bring the master smith to his knees. That such an unparalleled masterwork would find itself in the poor state of being broken in pieces like the ill-treated weapon Regin had forged was a sin against all that was good and right.
"Gram...." Regin muttered.
"You know it?" the young man asked.
"Know it? You could walk the earth a thousand years and never find the like of it."
"Can you fix it?"
Regin stroked his beard as he looked at the shards of the sword and said, "Can? Perhaps. None but me could, but I'm going to need some help. No common iron will do. There's an apprentice of mine, Volund's his name. Dead now, I imagine, but he's got a boy out east, in the court of a King Thidrek of Bern. If you're lucky, that boy knows where Volund kept his stock, and if you're real lucky, there'll still be some of the star iron he used to forge Gram."
"This Volund's the one who forged Gram?" Sigurd asked.
"That's the story," Regin replied. "A commission from the All-Father himself as I hears it."
"What does the All-Father need with a sword?"
"He's always got some plot in mind, the old fox."
Regin then spat on the floor.
"I thought you didn't like people spitting in your forge," Sigurd said, even though he had ignored this when the Hundings were mentioned.
"Some people warrant an exception," Regin replied.
"You speak of the All-Father as if you know him."
"That's because I do know him," the old smith growled. "Have I not told you the story?"
"You've always been too busy banging your hammer to tell many stories."
"Well, you've taken me from my work, so I may as well tell the tale. It pertains to our business."
"Then I'd like to hear it."
"Alright then, boy, if you've got ears to hear, then hear my tale, of the bane of Ottar, son of Hreidmar, and the curse of Andvari."
