To Shape a Dragon's Breath (Nampeshiweisit #1)

by Moniquill Blackgoose

Sigur took twenty of his bravest and fiercest warriors and ascended the icy cliff above Sigur’s Fast to face the beast in its lair with sword and spear and bow. Sigur alone survived to return to his fast, the beast unconquered. Sigur was a clever man, and he sought the counsel of his skalds, saying, “The lyndwyrm comes every night to eat of my cattle and my people, and twenty of my bravest warriors have been slain, and none can dispatch it. What can I do?” The skalds asked Sigur how he had slain the wolves, and Sigur said, “I did not slay the wolves. I beat them and collared them, and now they hunt beside me as my hounds.” The skalds asked Sigur how he had slain the horses, and Sigur said, “I did not slay the horses. I bridled them and saddled them, and now they are my steeds.” The skalds asked Sigur how he had slain the mammoths, and Sigur said, “I did not slay the mammoths. I bewildered them with fire, and harnessed them, and turned their might against my enemies, that they be crushed and cowed.” The skalds took Sigur to a secret place where the waters that Lothreid used to quench blades from his forge ran from the rocks, and drew for him a skilta—one such as could be woven in those days that cannot be woven now. It was to be fed on silver and gold and blood and bone, the caul of a child and the egg of a hen, and many other things. “That,” said the skalds, “is how you must bridle the lyndwyrm. You must go to its lair while it is sleeping, and you must draw this skilta al...

“They say that there are still people back in the old country who sacrifice the real horse,” Marta whispered conspiratorially, “but that seems terribly cruel and uncivilized, don’t you think, when it’s only a bit of blood that’s needed?”