Dragon Magic by Andre Norton Read Free Book Online Page B

thick and dark as if it were not water at all, but an evil slime. And there were stirrings in it as if hidden, nameless monsters moved below its surface.
    Though it was day by the time they reached the bank of that dark and threatening stream, no sun warmed the sky. Nor could they see any clouds, but only a gray light hardly clearer than night dusk. Through that shone the glow of the cursed treasure. Yet there was that about it which also beckoned one, made a man wish to seize it piece upon piece.
    Gems lay there, set in crowns of kings long forgotten, bracelets and necklets, and rings, jewel-hilted swords, blazoned shields, all tumbled together in heaps. And from one to another of these crawled the guardian on his ceaseless rounds.
    The dull light, and also a kind of mist which arose from the treasure, were such that one could not clearly see Fafnir. That he had ever existed in the form of a man Sig found hard to believe. This creature was as great as the giant Griph, yet it crawled upon its belly, holding a horned head but a little above the ground. A long tail dragged behind it and the stumps of small wings were on its shoulders.
    They could see on the further bank a smoothed rut in the clay leading down to the water’s edge. Perhaps that marked Fafnir’s path to drink.
    “Would you swim?” Regin-Mimir squatted on the bank, gazing down into the water. Now he took his staff and this he pushed into the flood as if testing for a ford. There was a flurry and a swirling of water. He gave a cry and jerked back. But what he held now was only half a staff. The rest was gone, as if sheared off by giant jaws.
    “It would seem,” Sigurd said, looking at this grim proof of what lay beneath the surface, “that swimming is not the answer.”
    Regin-Mimir glanced at him slyly, and Sig liked less and less what he guessed might lie at the back of those eyes which were no longer a man’s eyes.
    “How then, do you, reach that which you have come to slay?”
    Even as he spoke there came a boat on the river. From whence it came, and why they had not sighted it before, Sig did not know. It was like one of the small craft used on lakes by fall-time hunters of wild fowl, and a single man sat in it, making easy play with the oars. Sig half expected each time the oars dipped into the water to see them rise again splintered and riven, yet they remained whole and unscarred.
    The man who used them wore a hood of blue, though his head was bent so that in this half light they could not see his face. But Sig did not doubt that there was a patch over one eye on that face. And he shivered a little, took a tighter grip upon his staff.
    “Hail, Sigurd Volsung!” The stranger brought the boat to the bank and stepped out of it to face them. Though he did not tie the craft, yet it did not drift with the current but remained fast
    “Hail, All Father!” This time Sigurd dared give name to the other.
    “Being who you are, you know the reason for our coming.”
    The one eye seemed to rest not only on Sigurd but on his companions also. And Sig could not look away. What could they do save as the Norns decided when Odin All-Father himself took a hand in their future?
    “The reason is known,” said the stranger. “No man, no, or Asakind can turn or alter the weaving of fate and fortune. Since the beginning of this venture was partly of my doing, so now I must aid in the ending. No mortal man or Asakind can meet Fafnir in open battle. So thus you must do: Once a day, close to eventide, Fafnir comes to drink at the river—you can see the path he has worn over there across the water. Do you dig a pit there, and put on it a light covering of earth, hiding yourself thereunder.
    Then when Fafnir passes above you, stab upward into his softer lower parts, which is the only place even Balmung can find entrance.”
    “For your aid, All Father, are we grateful.”
    The stranger shook his head slowly. “For that thanks wait until your life’s ending, Sigurd