The Story of Sigurd and Fafnir

Long ago, when the world was younger and dragons still haunted the wild places of the earth, there lived a dwarf named Hreidmar who possessed great magical knowledge and skill in crafting. He had three sons: Fafnir, Otr, and Regin, each gifted with their father’s supernatural abilities.

Fafnir was the strongest, with arms like iron and a heart that burned with fierce ambition. Otr possessed the power to transform into an otter, spending his days fishing in the clear streams and rivers. Regin was the most clever, a master smith whose hammer could forge wonders from common metal.

Their fate changed forever when three gods—Odin, Loki, and Hœnir—came traveling through their lands. As they walked beside a rushing river, they saw a magnificent otter basking on the bank with a large salmon in its jaws.

“What fine prey,” Loki observed, picking up a stone. “That otter’s pelt would make a valuable addition to our traveling gear.”

Without thinking of consequences, Loki hurled the stone with perfect aim, killing the otter instantly. The three gods claimed both the otter’s pelt and the salmon, pleased with their good fortune.

But when they sought shelter for the night at Hreidmar’s hall, their host recognized the otter skin immediately.

“You have killed my son!” Hreidmar cried out in anguish and rage. “Otr lies dead by your hands!”

The dwarf’s magical power seized the three gods, binding them with invisible chains of sorcery. “You will pay the blood-price for this murder,” he declared, “or forfeit your lives.”

“What compensation do you demand?” Odin asked, knowing they had committed a grave wrong, even unknowingly.

“You must fill Otr’s pelt with gold,” Hreidmar replied, “and then cover it completely with more gold until not one hair can be seen. Only then will the blood-debt be paid.”

The gods agreed to these terms, and Loki was sent to gather the required treasure. Using his cunning and shape-changing abilities, he captured the dwarf Andvari, master of a great hoard of gold hidden beneath a waterfall.

“Give me all your treasure,” Loki demanded, “or face the wrath of the gods.”

Andvari was forced to surrender his entire hoard—room after room of glittering coins, precious gems, and magical artifacts. But as he handed over the last piece, a golden ring called Draupnir that could create eight identical rings every ninth night, the dwarf spoke a curse.

“This gold is now cursed,” Andvari declared with bitter hatred. “It will bring ruin and death to all who possess it. Brothers will slay brothers for its sake, and it will never bring happiness to any who claim it.”

Loki brought the cursed treasure to Hreidmar’s hall, where they filled Otr’s pelt with gold and covered it completely. But one whisker remained visible, and Hreidmar demanded even that be covered. Reluctantly, Loki placed Andvari’s golden ring over the whisker, completing the payment but ensuring the curse would fall upon Hreidmar’s family.

No sooner had the gods departed than the curse began its work. The sight of so much gold awakened a terrible greed in Fafnir’s heart.

“Father,” he said, his eyes gleaming with avarice, “surely I, as the strongest, deserve the largest share of this treasure.”

“The gold was payment for your brother’s life,” Hreidmar replied. “I will decide how it is distributed.”

But Fafnir’s greed had grown beyond all reason. That very night, he murdered his own father in his sleep and claimed the entire hoard for himself. When Regin discovered their father’s body, Fafnir drove him away with threats and violence.

“The treasure is mine alone!” Fafnir declared. “Any who seek to take it will die!”

The cursed gold worked its evil magic upon Fafnir, transforming his greed into something monstrous. Day by day, his body began to change. His skin hardened into impenetrable scales, his limbs grew powerful and clawed, and his breath became poisonous fire. The curse had turned him into a mighty dragon, the most terrible that had ever existed.

Fafnir carried his treasure to a desolate heath called Gnitaheath, where he built a lair and coiled around his hoard like a serpent around its eggs. There he remained, guarding his gold with murderous vigilance, killing any who dared approach his domain.

Meanwhile, Regin wandered the world as an exile, his heart burning with desire for revenge and for the treasure that had cost him his father and brother. He became a master smith, working at forges throughout the lands, always watching and waiting for an opportunity to reclaim what he believed was rightfully his.

His chance came when he entered the service of King Hjalprek, whose court had recently welcomed a young hero named Sigurd. The youth was tall and strong, with golden hair and eyes like blue flame. He was the son of the great hero Sigmund and bore the blood of the Völsung clan, known throughout the world for their courage and strength.

Regin watched Sigurd train with sword and spear, noting his incredible skill and fearless nature. Here, he realized, was a warrior who might be capable of slaying Fafnir and reclaiming the treasure.

“Young Sigurd,” Regin said one day as he worked at his forge, “you have great potential, but you need a sword worthy of your bloodline.”

“I have heard tales of your skill,” Sigurd replied. “Could you forge such a weapon?”

“Indeed I could, but first, let me tell you a tale of great injustice and stolen treasure…”

Regin told Sigurd the story of Fafnir’s transformation and the cursed hoard, carefully omitting his own role in the events and presenting himself as an innocent victim.

“This dragon was once my brother,” Regin said with feigned sorrow, “but greed transformed him into a monster. He guards a treasure so vast it could purchase kingdoms, and he has murdered innocents to protect it. Surely a hero of your noble blood would see justice done?”

Sigurd’s young heart burned with desire for glory and righteous purpose. “I will slay this dragon,” he declared, “and free the world from its evil!”

Regin set to work crafting a sword for the young hero. Twice he forged mighty blades, and twice Sigurd shattered them in testing, for his strength was beyond that of ordinary men.

“I need the fragments of my father’s sword, Gram,” Sigurd said. “It was broken in his final battle, but it was forged with magic that cannot be replicated.”

Regin reforged the fragments of Gram, and when the work was complete, Sigurd held the finest blade that had ever been made. It could cut through stone as if it were cloth, and its edge would never dull.

“Now,” said Regin, “you are ready to face Fafnir. But beware—his hide is impenetrable to any weapon, his breath is deadly poison, and his strength is beyond imagining.”

Sigurd considered this challenge carefully. “Then I must use cunning as well as strength,” he said. “Tell me, does this dragon ever leave his lair?”

“Each day at dawn, Fafnir travels to a nearby river to drink,” Regin replied. “He follows the same path always, wearing a deep groove in the earth with his massive body.”

Sigurd smiled grimly. “Then I know how he can be defeated.”

On the appointed day, Sigurd traveled to Gnitaheath and found the path Fafnir used to reach the river. He dug a deep pit in the groove and concealed himself within it, with only his sword pointing upward.

As the sun rose, the earth began to tremble with the dragon’s approach. Fafnir was enormous beyond description—longer than a great ship, with scales like black iron and eyes like burning coals. Poison dripped from his fangs, and the very air around him shimmered with toxic heat.

The dragon’s massive belly passed over Sigurd’s hiding place, and the young hero drove Gram upward with all his strength. The magical blade pierced the one vulnerable spot on Fafnir’s body, sinking deep into his heart.

Fafnir’s death roar shook the mountains and sent flocks of birds fleeing in terror. The great dragon collapsed, his life’s blood pouring out onto the heath.

“Who has slain me?” Fafnir gasped with his dying breath. “What hero has achieved what armies could not?”

“I am Sigurd, son of Sigmund,” the young warrior replied, climbing from his pit. “I have ended your reign of terror.”

“Beware, young hero,” Fafnir wheezed, his voice growing weaker. “The treasure you seek is cursed. It will bring you no joy, only sorrow and death. Already my brother Regin plots your doom, for he desires the gold for himself.”

“I fear no curse,” Sigurd replied boldly, but Fafnir’s words planted a seed of suspicion in his mind.

When Regin arrived and saw his brother’s corpse, he wept crocodile tears. “You have done a great deed, Sigurd,” he said. “Now, as payment for forging your sword and guiding you to this victory, I claim the dragon’s heart. Roast it for me over the fire while I rest.”

As Sigurd prepared the dragon’s heart over the flames, hot fat spattered his finger. Instinctively, he put his finger to his mouth to cool the burn—and suddenly, he could understand the speech of birds.

In the trees above, ravens and eagles were discussing the scene below.

“Look at the young fool,” cawed one raven. “He prepares his own doom, for Regin plans to kill him once the heart is cooked.”

“If only he knew,” replied an eagle, “that eating the dragon’s heart himself would grant him great wisdom and the knowledge of many secrets.”

“The old dwarf sharpens his blade even now,” added another bird. “He means to strike as soon as the hero’s back is turned.”

Sigurd glanced toward Regin and saw that the birds spoke truly—the dwarf was indeed honing his sword with murderous intent.

Without hesitation, Sigurd drew Gram and struck off Regin’s head with a single blow. Then he ate the dragon’s heart himself, gaining supernatural wisdom and the ability to understand the speech of all creatures.

The treasure in Fafnir’s lair was indeed beyond imagining—gold enough to fill a dozen wagons, jewels that blazed like captured stars, and magical artifacts of immense power. Among the treasures was a golden helmet called the Helm of Awe, which struck fear into the hearts of enemies, and a magnificent mail shirt that no weapon could pierce.

But the greatest treasure was Andvari’s ring, Draupnir, which would multiply itself and provide endless wealth. Though Sigurd now knew of the curse, his young pride convinced him that he was strong enough to resist its power.

Sigurd loaded as much treasure as he could carry and set out into the world, now acclaimed as the greatest dragon-slayer of all time. His fame spread far and wide, and his name became legendary throughout the Northern lands.

But the curse of Andvari’s gold would follow him, bringing love and betrayal, glory and tragedy in equal measure. For though Sigurd had slain the dragon and claimed the treasure, the true price of the cursed gold had yet to be paid.

The young hero rode away from Gnitaheath with his head held high, unaware that his greatest trials lay not behind him, but ahead. The dragon’s treasure would indeed make him the richest man in the world, but it would also set in motion events that would lead to his own destruction and the fall of the mighty Völsung clan.

Yet in that moment of triumph, as he rode across the heath with the morning sun glinting off his golden spoils, Sigurd was the embodiment of heroic courage—a young warrior who had faced the impossible and emerged victorious, earning his place among the greatest heroes of legend.