Dragon Magic by Andre Norton Read Free Book Online

again.
    “Well enough,” he said as he had to Mimir-Regin. “It is in my mind that we are in some manner bound to the same fate, though why is not clear.”
    The way was long and they found night and day, night and day passing by. Sometimes they went through forests, or over bleak moorlands, or took steep mountain trails. They came to fine, fair lands and were feasted in halls and besought by lords to stay awhile, but Sigurd would not.
    This road was not easy and Sig found it very hard indeed. No longer might he hide away his clawhand, for he needed it to hold onto rocks and bushes in places where the going was rough. He used it so much that he sometimes forgot how ill it looked.
    At length they came to a place of snow where there was a hall built of huge boulders no human could have moved. White were its walls and within were green pillars which were very cold to the touch, as if they were carved of ice. There was a high seat made of the mighty teeth of seahorses, and over it hung a canopy of stone. He who sat there held a carved staff of ivory and wore a purple mantle, while his white beard hung nearly to the green floor.
    He was large, so that to him Sigurd was as a small boy. But he smiled and made them welcome. And they sat down and broke their fast while he and Sigurd talked of the Midworld from which they had come, of the sky reaching above them, and of the seas framing the earth. And Sig, rested and well fed, listened. Nor was he aware of how long that fine, mind-filling talk lasted.
    But at last Griph struck the tabletop with the point of his staff and spoke out. “Enough, Sigurd King’s-Son. It is music to my ears, your voice, for it has been long since mortal man has sought me out with news of Midworld and what chances there. But it is to my mind that you have come for a reason, and that reason runs on four feet in my pastures. Is that not so?”
    “Lord Griph, it is so.”
    “Thus be it. Go forth to my pastures, King’s-Son, and choose wisely, for upon this may hang your life some day.”
    So they went out to the pastures. And there were such horses as Sig had never seen. Each one was finer than the finest in any king’s stable in Midworld. He wondered how Sigurd could choose. But, even as he thought thus, a shadow fell across the stone where they stood. And there was a man.
    Gray were his cloak and kirtle, blue his hood, and he wore a patch over one eye. But the other saw twice as keenly as any mortal, Sig believed.
    “So, Sigurd Volsung, you have come to find a horse to match the sword you wear?”
    “Ay, Great One.”
    ‘Then listen. Such choosing takes care. Drive this herd to the river. The one that takes to the flood and swims over, then returns to you—he is Greykell and none other can equal him.”
    “My thanks to you, Great One.”
    But he of the one eye did not smile. “Give thanks later, Sigurd, when the thread is all spun, the web full woven, and Skald has finished her part in the matter. That time is yet afar, but it still lies before you.”
    Sigurd bowed his head a little. ”What man can change the will of Skald? I shall do what must be done to the best of my doing.”
    “Which is all any man can say. Go you now and take Greykell.”
    Once more he was gone as if he had never stood there. But Sig was wiser now than he had been at the forge. This was surely Odin All-Father come to take a part in their fate, and so he was also more than a little frightened.
    It went even as the stranger had said. Sig and Sigurd drove the horses to the river bank. All refused the flood except one, and he swam across and on the far shore reared and trumpeted a challenge. Then he returned and came to Sigurd, nuzzling at the hands held out to him.
    Strong was Greykell, strong enough to carry them both back on the long journey to Regin’s hall in the forest. Once more they feasted, and when they were done with food and drink Regin-Mimir took up his harp. This time he sang a tale which cast a heavy spell,