The Story of the Volsungs

CHAPTER XIX. Of the Slaying of Regin, Son of Hreidmar.

There­after came Re­gin to Sig­urd, and said, “Hail, lord and mas­ter, a no­ble vic­to­ry hast thou won in the slay­ing of Fafnir, where­as none durst hereto­fore abide in the path of him; and now shall this deed of fame be of renown while the world stands fast.”

Then stood Re­gin star­ing on the earth a long while, and present­ly there­after spake from heavy-​mood: “Mine own broth­er hast thou slain, and scarce may I be called sack­less of the deed.”

Then Sig­urd took his sword Gram and dried it on the earth, and spake to Re­gin –

“Afar thou faredst when I wrought this deed and tried this sharp sword with the hand and the might of me; with all the might and main of a drag­on must I strive, while thou wert laid alow in the heather-​bush, wot­ting not if it were earth or heav­en.”

Said Re­gin, “Long might this worm have lain in his lair, if the sharp sword I forged with my hand had not been good at need to thee; had that not been, nei­ther thou nor any man would have pre­vailed against him as at this time.”

Sig­urd an­swers, “Whenas men meet foes in fight, bet­ter is stout heart than sharp sword.”

Then said Re­gin, ex­ceed­ing heav­ily, “Thou hast slain my broth­er, and scarce may I be sack­less of the deed.”

There­with Sig­urd cut out the heart of the worm with the sword called Ridil; but Re­gin drank of Fafnir’s blood, and spake, “Grant me a boon, and do a thing lit­tle for thee to do. Bear the heart to the fire, and roast it, and give me there­of to eat.”

Then Sig­urd went his ways and roast­ed it on a rod; and when the blood bub­bled out he laid his fin­ger there­on to es­say it, if it were ful­ly done; and then he set his fin­ger in his mouth, and lo, when the heart-​blood of the worm touched his tongue, straight­way he knew the voice of all fowls, and heard with­al how the wood- peck­ers chat­tered in the brake be­side him –

“There sittest thou, Sig­urd, roast­ing Fafnir’s heart for an­oth­er, that thou shouldest eat thine own­self, and then thou shouldest be­come the wis­est of all men.”

And an­oth­er spake: “There lies Re­gin, mind­ed to be­guile the man who trusts in him.”

But yet again said the third, “Let him smite the head from off him then, and be on­ly lord of all that gold.”

And once more the fourth spake and said, “Ah, the wis­er were he if he fol­lowed af­ter that good coun­sel, and rode there­after to Fafnir’s lair, and took to him that mighty trea­sure that li­eth there, and then rode over Hind­fell, where­as sleeps Bryn­hild; for there would he get great wis­dom. Ah, wise he were, if he did af­ter your re­des, and bethought him of his own weal; `for where wolf’s ears are, wolf’s teeth are near.’”

Then cried the fifth: “Yea, yea, not so wise is he as I deem him, if he spareth him whose broth­er he hath slain al­ready.”

At last spake the sixth: “Handy and good rede to slay him, and be lord of the trea­sure!”

Then said Sig­urd, “The time is un­born where­in Re­gin shall be my bane; nay, rather one road shall both these broth­ers fare.”

And there­with he drew his sword Gram and struck off Re­gin’s head.

Then heard Sig­urd the wood-​peck­ers a-​singing, even as the song says. (1)

For the first sang:

“Bind thou, Sig­urd, The bright red rings! Not meet it is Many things to fear. A fair may know I, Fair of all the fairest Girt about with gold, Good for thy get­ting.”

And the sec­ond:

“Green go the ways To­ward the hall of Giu­ki That the fates show forth To those who fare thith­er; There the rich king Reareth a daugh­ter; Thou shalt deal, Sig­urd, With gold for thy sweet­ling.”

And the third:

“A high hall is there Reared up­on Hind­fell, With­out all around it Sweeps the red flame aloft. Wise men wrought That won­der of halls With the un­hid­den gleam Of the glo­ry of gold.”

Then the fourth sang:

“Soft on the fell A shield-​may sleep­eth The lime-​trees’ red plague Play­ing about her: The sleep-​thorn set Odin In­to that maid­en For her choos­ing in war The one he willed not.

“Go, son, be­hold That may un­der helm Whom from bat­tle Vin­sko­rnir bore, From her may not turn The tor­ment of sleep. Dear off­spring of kings In the dread Norns’ de­spite.”

Then Sig­urd ate some deal of Fafnir’s heart, and the rem­nant he kept. Then he leapt on his horse and rode along the trail of the worm Fafnir, and so right un­to his abid­ing-​place; and he found it open, and be­held all the doors and the gear of them that they were wrought of iron: yea, and all the beams of the house; and it was dug down deep in­to the earth: there found Sig­urd gold ex­ceed­ing plen­teous, and the sword Rot­ti; and thence he took the Helm of Awe, and the Gold Byrny, and many things fair and good. So much gold he found there, that he thought ver­ily that scarce might two hors­es, or three be­like, bear it thence. So he took all the gold and laid it in two great chests, and set them on the horse Grani, and took the reins of him, but no­wise will he stir, nei­ther will he abide smit­ing. Then Sig­urd knows the mind of the horse, and leaps on the back of him, and smites and spurs in­to him, and off the horse goes even as if he were un­laden.

END­NOTES: (1) The Songs of the Birds were in­sert­ed from “Re­gins­mal” by the trans­la­tors.