Sigurd lay in the pit awaiting the dragon. The air was stale and hot in the tight space and he could barely move lest he give himself away or disturb the covering of the trap. The smell of the humid earth filled his nostrils and the ache in his knees from the way he was squatting was overwhelming. He longed to move or to adjust his stance, but he knew that he must not. He must endure. The success of his plan depended not on strength or valor or even courage, though courage would be needed, it depended on his ability to sit unmoving in ever increasing discomfort until the time to strike arrived.
What if the time comes, he thought, and my arms and legs are numb from waiting unmoving and they betray me and will not function? Then I will die, and I will deserve the death, though I hope the beast should tear the treasonous limbs from me first for their betrayal. His foe was mighty he knew, mightier than man should expect to assail and live. I am accounted a strong warrior, he thought, and yet what am I to such a beast except so much soft flesh to be rent and torn and swallowed. Even my armor I left behind the better to hide in this hole.
Sigurd knew the beast was massive, larger than any creature he had ever seen or clapped eyes on or even heard tale of. Moreover, it was covered in tough scales, which he was unsure if his sword could penetrate. He remembered the way he had seen it push through the trees down to the lake. The saplings and young trees had bent and snapped as it heaved its bulk through a thicket, and it had scraped many great trenches in the earth down the slope to where it would drink at the top of a cliff, its long neck descending to the water’s surface. He remembered especially the way its belly dragged across the ground, pulled by its short reptilian legs. That’s what gave me the idea, he thought, its belly dragging and it’s lumbering travel to the lake. If a man could strike from beneath and strike well, he might kill it outright and fear nothing from the things massive size and poisonous breath. This is how men survive this world, Sigurd thought, not through strength but cunning. And endurance he reminded himself, the endurance to sit sweating in a hole under the most worn track to the water waiting to plunge his sword into the belly of a beast. It was not heroism. A hero would attack the beast in its cave and be blasted to death by its breath. He would wait in a hole and stab it in its armpit. The scales will be weak there, he thought, and if I angle it right, I can hit the heart or lungs. Then it will die quickly and will not do me harm.
If I miss, I will die. But what is that? Death is nothing, just an end. I do not fear to die, I fear that the dragon will never come, and I’ll sit in this hole forever waiting for it. I’d rather it was here now, and I could be done with it. It will die or I will die and that is as it should be, it is the waiting that is impossible to bear.
The sword might fail him, that was the other thing. The sword had been broken before. It broke for his father in the midst of battle and that had spelt the end of him. Do not fail me, he whispered to his father’s sword. The dwarf had re-made it, but Sigurd did not trust the dwarf. The dwarf had been right about the dragon though and Sigurd had not wanted to believe him on that account. He could not deny it any longer when they hid in the forest and watched the great wyrm slither its black scaled length down the slope to get a drink of water.
If the sword fails me or my arms fail me let me die, Sigurd thought, that would be a brave death, a man’s death. But if my heart fails me and I miss the strike, or if I cannot endure and I give myself away then I will fall on my own sword; I am no man then.
All the while that Sigurd mused thus and sweated in his little hole, he strained his hearing for the sound of the beast’s approach. It must be today he thought. It has been two days since last it drank, it must drink today. If it could live without drinking it would sit on its treasure in the cave forever. But it cannot and so it must come and that is how I will kill it, because it is thirsty. It must come today and if it does not, I will wait all night and into tomorrow. If it doesn’t come tomorrow, I must sneak out at night for food or my strength will fail, but then I will return and wait again the next day and one day the beast will come. This waiting is insufferable, how I wish I could stretch out my right leg, my knee burns from being stuck in this position. Silence body, you will grow numb soon and then I will not feel your complaints, but I must still use that leg in the thrust, I will cut it off if it fails me.
He heard something then, a rustling or a scuttling sound. His heart seemed to grow still with the stress of it. No, it was too small a sound. It was not the grinding and shaking of earth or the snapping of wood that he had heard while watching the dragon two days past. Perhaps the dragon will not come today he thought, perhaps it need only drink but once in a week. Well then, I will wait for it each day and each night for a week. Tomorrow when I leave, I will return with dried meats to sustain me and a skin of water, then I can stay longer. What if it does not drink for a month? I will wait a month, or a year and then I will slay the beast when it comes, and men will know that Sigurd of the Volsung’s is a great man.
The sun was now beginning to wane, Sigurd could see that through the covering of leaves that lay on the net over his pit. I have been here since the dark hours of the morning he thought, and the dragon has not come, and now night will descend, and I must wait in the darkness. I am so thirsty. His mouth was dry and parched. I should have brought water, but now I dare not leave. I will wait through the night, he thought, I can make it through the night, and the day tomorrow, but then I must have water.
While he had dug the pit, he knew the dragon might come at any moment. He had been afraid then; he had felt exposed and vulnerable in the middle of the scar in the earth left by the beast’s body. How small he was in comparison. A noise had startled him, and he had run for the cover of the trees. Peering out he observed the white tail of a deer bounding away. Sigurd had laughed at himself then. Mighty Sigurd, son of the Volsung’s, battle-hardened warrior, running from a deer. No bard would have named him hero then.
Sigurd ignored his hunger as night fell and he ignored his thirst and the pain in his head that accompanied it. The air cooled as the sun set, but he was warm in his small hole. At least for now he thought, as night carries on I will grow colder. There were leaves and pine needles at the bottom of his hole. I will borrow into those if I must, but I cannot fall asleep and miss my chance. I am glad it is not raining; this would be terrible in the rain. The sky is clear, and I can see the silver light of the moon rise. Let the beast come, let it slake its thirst in the night so that I can strike and what comes after is for the gods to choose. A man merely acts, the gods decide the outcome.
Sigurd heard a grating and a rumbling and the earth about him shook. The dragon is coming he thought, at last the dragon is coming! His heart was filled with gladness because soon he would not have to crouch.
It must still be far away, Sigurd thought to himself, near to the top of the hill, the sound is still too muffled. That is the dragon though, that was the sound of it when I observed it before. Now I must wait until it blocks the moon from where it peaks through the hole there. Then I will strike.
The sound grew louder and closer as the dragon slithered down the steep gradient of the hill. It sounds like it takes this path Sigurd thought, Odin let it take the path that leads it to my sword. Send Loki to trick it, bring it here. Let it not choose a different path, so that I will have waited in vain and must wait again. Let me face it now and be done. I will wait if I must so let it come now and see which is the stronger.
As the noise of the beast descended the slope and drew close Sigurd longed to move, to test his limbs and assure himself that they were ready. I must not he thought, the hole is too small and if I touch the covering, I will give myself away. So, he crouched still and did not move.
When the dragon came before the hole it stopped and smelt the air and seemed to hesitate to move forward. Sigurd could smell the sulfuric stench of its breath and hear the bellows-like rush of its huge nostrils as it sniffed the air. Surely it will smell me he thought, it will turn and retreat, or blast me with its breath in my hole, and for all my trouble I will have merely trapped myself in my grave. He tried barely to breath lest his breath make a sound that the dragon perceived.
Finally, the dragon came over head, he saw the shape of its great head silhouetted against the moonlight. Then all went dark as its belly followed behind scraping the netting from the top of the hole. He thought for a second that perhaps he should wait, that he should not strike, just wait and let the thing pass none would know that he had feared to face the dragon. Coward he thought, will you betray your name and your father in Valhalla, and he cast the thought from his mind. He saw what he thought must be the armpit of the dragon and stabbed hard upward with his sword Gram and pushed upward with all the might that was in his strong legs and muscled body. He felt the tip bite and sink into the dragon’s flesh and then hit bone or scale and his cramped legs did not have the strength to drive any further.
The sound the dragon made at the prick of Sigurd’s sword was horrendous and terrifying, a lesser man would have been struck dumb from the unearthly demonic bellowing. It reared up, pulling Sigurd out of the hole by his sword grip, then the serpents heavy body came crashing down trapping Sigurd beneath it. Sigurd landed hard on the bare earth and he felt his ribs pop as the dragons weight crushed him, but he kept his grip on the sword and tried to angle it towards the creature’s center.
The falling weight of the dragon drove the point still deeper into its chest and hot blood burnt Sigurd’s hands as it dripped down the sword. The beast shuddered and darted forward dragging Sigurd across the ground, ripping his skin against stones and broken roots. It slammed to a halt against a tree and then bent its long neck and attempted to bite at the thing causing it such pain. Holding fast to the sword handle with all the strength of his mighty arms Sigurd kicked out hard with his feet, trying to turn its snout enough to keep its teeth off him. The dragon stood up again on all four legs and raised its body off the ground trying to get at the kicking man that it now knew was the cause of the deadly pain it felt in its chest. Sigurd found his feet and with all his might thrust into the creature’s chest, hammering a fist against the pommel of his sword, the sword sank to the cross guard even as the dragons great mouth closed on Sigurds torso and he felt the awful penetration of huge fangs into his body. The blood on his hands and arms burnt agonizingly and he could smell the sickly stench of his own cooking flesh. The dragon’s muscles slackened and weakened as the life flowed out of it and its falling weight knocked Sigurd to the ground again pinning his leg beneath the scales of its neck. The teeth slid out of him as its jaws fell open and Sigurd marveled at the gush of blood from the punctures across his belly.
I am killed he thought, trapped here bleeding and burnt; I will die. But I have killed the dragon so it is a good death, surely, I will go to Valhalla, Odin will be pleased with such a deed. I only wish there were someone to tell of it. He noticed that the blood did not spurt from his wounds, a good sign he knew from his experience on the battlefield, but what matter if he could not get free. His arms were charred and black from the burning blood. He tore the cloth from his shirt with burnt fingers and pressed them into his wounds as best he could, then kicking with one foot attempted to free the other from under the dragon’s dead body. After a great deal of effort, he was free, but when he stood his head reeled from the pain and loss of blood and he fell unconscious to the earth. That was where the dwarf found him after coming to his aid from where he had watched in the forest, with his life barely clinging to him.
