Scales of the Smith

Looking at his half-empty bucket of ores, the blacksmith sighed. He could not make a living like this. He would need to find another cave to mine, if he wanted his orders to be on time. Slinging his pickaxe over his shoulder, he picked up his bucket and trudged out of the mine.

He had seen another cave once, in the mountains, that looked like a good place for finding iron. It was a longer trek through rougher terrain, but he supposed it would have to do. There was plenty of daylight still. He would see if he could fill this bucket after all.

Viggo’s mood brightening as he approached the cave, he began whistling to himself. His bucket swung loosely at his side, as his boots crunched pebbles along the entrance to the cave. When he stepped into the mine, glinting minerals caught his eyes as they adjusted to the dimness. And deeper within, he saw movement.

A massive shape rose up before him in the darkness. He fumbled for his headlamp. When it clicked on, he froze. A beast covered in hardened green scales roared at him. As the creature stepped forward, it sent gemstones tumbling from the pile beneath it. Viggo backed away just before sharp teeth snapped at where his head had been.

Another roar shook the cave. “Turn that glaring light off!”

“Y-you can speak?” Viggo asked, before clicking the headlamp off.

He heard the dragon call out from the darkness. “Obviously. Now, get out of my cave before I eat you. I won’t have you stealing my treasure.”

“Oh,” Viggo replied. “you misunderstand me, great dragon. I didn’t come for your treasure. I just wanted to mine the iron deposits.”

The dragon roared again, but it sounded different. In the dimness, it looked like the creature was laughing. “You expect me to believe that you would leave my mound of jewels untouched, and be satisfied with some iron?” The huffing roar sounded again, and the dragon’s front arms wrapped around its golden stomach.

“I may be a humble blacksmith, but I am no fool. I would not risk the wrath of such a ferocious beast. I would surely die before I could lay a hand on any of your treasure. I simply seek the means to continue my craft.”

“A blacksmith, you say?” The dragon’s wings settled to the ground. “Hmmm…you may mine the ores, if you swear never to try to steal my treasure. And,” he continued, “don’t shine that blinding light into my face anymore.”

Viggo was taken aback. He was just hoping to get out of the cave alive. He hadn’t expected the dragon to let him stay and mine. He debated whether he should leave anyway, but he needed the iron, and he didn’t want to risk offending the dragon by refusing his offer. So he took up his pickaxe and began to mine.

For a time, only the clanging of metal on stone echoed through the cave. The dragon lowered itself back onto its glittering hoard, watching. It did not seem to be watching out of wariness or curiosity; it seemed oddly at peace with the sound and motion of the blacksmith’s swinging arm.

“Are you a very good blacksmith?” the dragon asked.

“I am very good,” Viggo replied. “But I could be better.”

“How so?”

Viggo swung his pickaxe a couple of times before answering. What harm could it do to speak to this dragon of the things he never said aloud to human ears?

“All those from nearby towns come to me for their tools and weapons, and I am grateful for that. It is enough to take care of me and my family. But what I really want is to make weapons for heroes. To have the products of my hands bring good to the world. To have tales told about the great weapons forged by Viggo Fjordorn.”

The dragon turned its head and looked Viggo up and down. It let out a soft sound, as if pondering some question. “I could see it…” the dragon mumbled to itself, so Viggo barely heard. The dragon raised itself up into a proud stance. “I am Fafnir, both dragon and dwarf, and I will help you.”

...

It turned out Fafnir had been a dwarf in a former life, before he was cursed to become a dragon, and still remembered the ways of dwarven smithing. And dwarven armor was coveted for a reason, for they knew a powerful secret.

Fafnir challenged Viggo to forge the best weapon he had ever made and bring it to the cave. Viggo chose his finest ores and made sure his hammer struck true, as he drew out the blade. He expertly quenched the sword and artfully shaped it. When he was finished, he presented the blade to Fafnir.

The dragon took the sword into his claws and twisted it to examine every angle. Finally, he nodded. “You are worthy,” he announced. “I will show you the secret known only to dwarves.”

Fafnir scanned the cave and pointed with a claw towards one corner. “Mine some of those ores and bring them to me.”

Viggo sat the dark ores in front of the dragon, who used his claws to break them apart. He made an exasperated sound and called Viggo over. “My hands are too large for this; you must take these drops of quicksilver and mix it,” he turned to pick through his pile of treasure, “with these silver coins. Step back now.”

Fafnir clawed a small hole into the ground, pushed the coins into it, and melted them with his flames. “Now, the quicksilver.”

Viggo came forward and tilted the split ores so that drops of the metallic liquid dripped out into the molten silver. He looked back up at the dragon.

“You must do this next part as well. You will use the mixture to write runes on the sword, in the center inlay, and on the hilt. Let me show you the symbol to draw, only make yours smaller.” Fafnir then used a claw to scratch out what looked like an arrow, and other lined symbols, ending again in the arrow. “These are called victory runes. They will lend the bearer strength and luck in battle.”

Viggo laid the sword next to the hole in the ground and pulled out the thinnest drift from his belt, dipping it into the metallic paste.

“As you draw the runes, you must think about a time when you felt strong and victorious,” Fafnir told him.

Viggo thought back to the time he completed his apprentice-ship. His arms had grown muscular, he’d felt in the best shape of his life, and his skill had been deemed worthy of becoming a proper blacksmith. He began to copy the runes onto his sword. As he did so, the runes glowed blue. Taken by surprise, he pulled back, and they flickered.

“Focus,” Fafnir chastised him.

Viggo continued inscribing and brought himself back to his memory, the feeling of being young and strong. The runes glowed a steady blue, as he completed the drawing.

“Step away,” the dragon ordered. This time he fired the entire sword. The blue glow faded, and in its place the markings were bright silver, as with any silver gilding. “It is done. This is a sword for a hero.”

...

Word of Viggo’s magical weapons soon spread, and heroes came from far and wide to commission him. He worked tirelessly in the forge, comforted by the sound of ringing metal and the heat of the furnace. Fafnir taught him more runes, and he began sharing the memories he used to fuel the magic with the dragon. After setting the gilding with his dragon flame, Fafnir would honor him with a story of his own. Surprisingly, Viggo found he liked having a companion in his work.

The small town began to flourish, the innkeepers filling every room and cooks busy feeding the appetites of heroes. They would thank Viggo profusely whenever he went through town for food or goods, some even offering the requested items for free, in repayment for the business he brought to the town. Viggo was uncomfortable with these offers, and turned them down, for he was an honest working man and surely made enough from his own work now to pay for all his needs and more.

A few months later, Viggo noticed a change when he came into town. No one offered him any gifts, which at first he took as a sign that his constant refusals were finally being accepted, until he realized no one thanked him or clapped him on the back either. And then there was the grumbling.

“The poor bar-maid was dodging hands all night as she brought out the drinks, and hardly a tip for her efforts.”

“Suppose they think their mere presence is a tip enough for her.”

“They all wanted the best room I had, but I’ve only got one best. It came to blows right in the middle of the common room. The victor declared he had won the right to the best room, with no mention of payment for the broken stools and shattered glasses.”

It seemed that the novelty of the heroes had worn off, and patience was now wearing thin.

Viggo was taking a short-cut around a stable, when he heard a voice call out to him. “What are you doing taking a stroll, when my horse is yet to be saddled?” The man speaking was tall and broad shouldered.

“Sigurd, we are waiting on you, as usual,” a nearby man called out.

“Stop pestering me, Thidrek. It is the fault of this lazy excuse for a stable hand,” Sigurd replied. He raised his hand to Viggo. “Get my horse saddled, now, before I strike you.”

Sigurd? Thidrek? These men in front of Viggo were heroes he had heard songs about. The ones he dreamed of making great weapons for. He was so shocked by their presence before him, and the incongruence of Sigurd’s actions toward him with the courage and generosity the songs spoke of, that he immediately began to saddle the horse.

The two men were soon joined by others, swaggering around the stables and boasting of themselves.

“Thidrek and I have both slain dragons, what of the rest of you?” One of them challenged.

“I will have my dragon soon, Gunther, and its treasure,” Sigurd answered. “I have heard of one in a nearby cave. He used to be a dwarven prince, they say.”

“And how do you plan to defeat him, mighty Sigurd?” The other men chuckled.

“As soon as I have an enchanted sword from that famed blacksmith, I will find the weak spot in the dragon’s belly, and use it to stab him in the heart.”

...

The next morning, the band of heroes converged on Viggo’s smithy. He was exhausted from a sleepless night, but had reached a decision by dawn. He greeted the men heartily. It was clear they did not recognize him as the man at the stables the day before. They treated him respectfully, even if their orders were phrased more as demands than requests.

“I’ll have one of those enchanted swords I’ve heard tale of, the ones of unparalleled strength that can vanquish any foe,” Sigurd told him.

“This armor belonged to my grandfather, and doesn’t fit as well as it could. Resize it, touch up the nicks, and give it a good polish. I only trust one such as yourself with enchanted armor.” Thidrek handed him a golden suit of armor. “It is impenetrable,” he added proudly.

The third hero, he had heard called Gunther, demanded a shield that would protect him from any blow.

Viggo examined the armor and pondered their requests. “I can do the jobs, but three enchanted items, even if one is just a repair, will take time. A fortnight, likely.”

“Pah, surely it can be done faster,” Sigurd said.

Viggo looked him in the eye. “If you do not believe me, you may go ask another blacksmith who is familiar with making magical weapons.” They both knew the only others with this skill were dwarves, and they would have to travel great lengths and still likely be refused such a request. The dwarves were notoriously picky about bestowing their gifts on humans.

Without another word, the men handed over their payments, mounted their horses and galloped away.

...

Sweat dripped down Viggo’s face and his arms were sore. This was the hardest he had ever worked in the forge. The only time he saw his wife was when she brought his meals to the smithy, and when he kissed her goodnight before falling into bed. He did nothing but work, eat, and sleep, to ensure he met his deadline. It was crucial that every item was perfect.

He pounded dents out of Thidrek’s armor and polished it to a gleam. He flattened and quenched the sword for Sigurd. He grinded and welded a formidable shield for Gunther. He admired each of the items sadly; such beauty and strength was wasted on these men that called themselves heroes.

But he wasn’t done yet. He shaped scales, linked chains, and added leather straps. He tested every bit of his work before heading toward the mountains. All that was left was the runes.

Fafnir obligingly taught him the necessary runes and fired the metals for him, once he revealed his plan.

“Go on, see if it fits,” Fafnir said.

“I’ll need to climb on your back,” Viggo warned him.

“Yes, yes fine,” he said with a sigh.

Viggo strapped on the massive scaled breastplate as carefully as he could, adjusting as the dragon informed him of where it felt tight or loose. At last, Fafnir seemed comfortable.

“How do I look?” Fafnir asked a little self-consciously.

Viggo laughed. “Quite striking, and very fierce.”

The dragon stretched himself tall. “It seems I am prepared then, but are you?”

“I’d not let them kill you, no matter the cost.”

Fafnir nodded, and then turned to rummage through his mound of treasure. He scooped up a claw full of treasure and deposited it in front of Viggo. They both looked at it, and before Viggo could respond the dragon added a sizable ruby to the pile.

“Your payment, for a job well done.”

Viggo blinked. “I didn’t need payment, and this is far too much.”

“A small price to pay for my life.”

...

After presenting the heroes with their weapons and armor, for which he received no thanks, except a satisfied nod of the head after they had tested the items, Viggo returned to Fafnir’s cave. They would now await the attack.

At midday they heard boots stomping through the forest, no attempt made to disguise the steps. Fafnir snorted at the arrogance of this so-called hero. Sigurd swaggered into the cave, sword raised, before stopping short at the sight of Viggo.

“Have you dared to try and beat me to the beast’s treasure?” Sigurd spat. “Clearly you have failed, and are now taken prisoner. Despite your deception, I shall still rescue you. That is what heroes do, after all.”

Sigurd raised his sword again, bracing for attack, and then frowned. He scanned the dragon’s armor, trying to puzzle out how to defeat the creature now.

“I will allow you one chance to flee this cave,” Fafnir boomed out, “before I eat you.”

Viggo’s mouth twitched. The dragon didn’t eat humans, but Sigurd didn’t know that.

Sigurd gulped. He slowly lowered his sword, taking a step back. Then, he charged at the dragon, hoping to catch him off guard.

Fafnir roared and swiped the hero aside, knocking him into the cave wall. Sigurd stood and came at him again, jumping the next claw that came at him. Sigurd slashed with his blade, but it only bounced off the armor, barely leaving a scratch. He rolled, as Fafnir blasted fire where he had just stood.

Jumping to his feet, he stabbed his sword between scales on the dragon’s side, above the armor. He was able to get the tip of the sword in, but the overlap of the scales prevented it from going in further at that angle. The armor had done its job, and Sigurd was unable to stab anywhere he could have done significant damage. Fafnir roared and raked his claws across Sigurd’s armor, leaving huge dents, but not piercing through. However, the impact knocked him down and wrenched the sword free.

Fafnir let out a breath of flame across the lower half of the hero’s body, turning his armor glowing orange, like it had just come out of the forge. Sigurd screamed and rolled away. The dragon paused his assault, and Sigurd lay on the ground panting.

“Those burns can be healed. Go now, before I do worse,” Fafnir rumbled.

“Fine, I shall just go…and find another d-dragon that doesn’t have that…ridiculous armor,” Sigurd said between winces of pain. He managed to stand and drag himself out.

“You know,” Fafnir said. “I quite like this armor, and I shall spread the word. I believe you may have just found a new clientele, one with substantially more wealth.” He nudged his mountain of treasure.

Viggo smiled before replying, “And a more honorable one, at that.”

...

What did you think of this story? Who would you have chosen, the heroes or the dragon? Let us know in the comments!

Thanks so much for reading!

-Clever & WTF