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Reynard and the Dragon

By Searska GreyRaven

Previously published in the anthology ROAR 5

Among the most dangerous of the legendary beasts of the Nine Worlds--and there are many, don't ye doubt!--there is one what stood above all others in ferocity. A dragon, with scales the color of old blood and teeth like a steel trap. His coils were as tight as a spring and his eyes glowed like wisp-fire. This dragon had no hoard of gold and treasure, as most dragons are like to have. No glitter of common gold would satisfy his greed, nor the shine of silver calm his need. Nay, he coveted a far grander treasure; for this wicked wyrm, only one treasure would satisfy--souls. He devoured his prey, and in his belly they became trapped between life and death. Unable to die and unable to live, those poor souls became _draugr--_the undead. And as he slithered along the paths of the Nine Worlds seeking more souls for his bowels, his bulging belly dragged in the nether dust, leaving behind a snaking trail that any brave enough to dare it could follow.

This wicked wyrm's name was (dare I utter it?) Vandrhoggr, and he feared neither Man nor Beastfolk.

Heroes across the ages, both great and small, had followed the wyrm's trail and challenged wicked Vandrhoggr's might. None prevailed, and most (aye, if not all) of those former heroes wail eternally in the wyrm's belly, howling a warning to those that might challenge the wyrm. Many a hero found himself daunted by the sound of those draugr alone, screaming for release from the gaping maw of the beast. The sound alone would turn to ice the blood of even the most fiery of warriors! And while the hero stood paralyzed with terror, Vandrhoggr would swallow them whole. Or try to; more than a few snapped out of their horror trance long enough to lift a blade to the dragon's bite before they were devoured body and soul. Over the years, Vandrhoggr's hide became riddled with the broken hilts and hafts of weapons, so many that they looked like a mangy coat of quills, rusting in his flesh. If they bother the wyrm at all, no one knows. No one's lingered in his presence long enough to ask.

('Cept one, o'course. But he had bigger things on his mind than the beast's discomfort. But I get ahead of meself.)

No weapon forged by Man or Beastfolk could stand against this monster. No mail existed that could turn the dragon's teeth, nor a shield to repel his wicked claws, for the beast was joten-borne--giant's blood, the son of the World Serpent himself! Naught but a god's weapon might even bruise the beast, and there hadn't been a gods-forged weapon upon the face of Midgard in many a year. Not since the days of Sigurd, by my reckoning. All mortal things lived in terror of Vandrhoggr, and would dare not even utter his name for fear of summoning him. His time upon Mid-World was always marked as a time of blight and famine, for his very breath turned the land barren for a hundred years.

It came to pass in the Year of Whispering Shadows that Vandrhoggr returned to Mid-World and there settled in a forest known as the Myrkwood. Where once the forest was a bright and inviting place, now hunters found only warped and twisted game, and trees curled in upon themselves like gnarled claws. Black shadows smothered the verdant moss; the only green left lay within stagnant pools as slime-slicks. Each day, the blight in the Myrkwood grew deeper and darker, until the people of the village just outside its Western edge feared they would be forced to abandon their homes. Aberfew, it was called, and it was home to over two-hundred souls--mostly Beastfolk.

Aberfew was ruled by the proud King Leonine, a lion with a golden mane and fiery eyes. He sent knight after knight into the Myrkwood to rout Vandrhoggr, but none returned to claim the ransom. And as the blight sickened Aberfew's livestock and wilted their crops, King Leonine became desperate. The kingdom faced starvation if the wyrm could not be driven off.

"Is there no one that can slay this dragon? Will no one brave the Myrkwood and break this monster's grip? Name your price, and it shall be, if you can bring me the head of Vandrhoggr!" He roared at his hall of assembled nobels. They all shuffled their slippered feet and looked aside, for all knew but dared not speak the truth--that their fair kingdom was doomed.

"I can, Your Majesty," said a sly voice from the back of the throne room.

King Leonine growled, and the crowd of villagers--noble and peasant alike--stepped aside to make room for the speaker. And as the speaker approached the King's dais, his growl deepened into a bitter, disbelieving chuckle.

For the creature approaching him was nothing more than a raggedly-dressed fox. It wore a tattered cloak that barely covered its mud-spattered ankles and a vest that might have been green at one time, but was now a faded shade of grey. The fox walked with a gnarled walking stick and carried a shabby (though solid) leather scabbard on his lean hip. Though weather-worn and scruffy, he carried himself proud.

"Who spoke of slaying the dragon? For it cannot be this wretch that stands before me," said King Leonine with a dismissive wave of his paw.

The fox made a wry face and tapped the heel of his staff against the marble floor smartly. "You heard true, M'Lord. T'was indeed I--this wretch, as you say--who spoke. I say and I say again, I can and I shall slay your dragon."

The king narrowed his black-rimmed eyes, his lip curling in disdain. "I have sent the very best of my knights sheathed in the best armor, wielding the truest of weapons in my armory, and none have yet returned to claim my ransom. And now you--a fox without a scrap of armor wielding a dull sword!--think you can do what my knights can not?"

"I do not think, M'Lord," the fox said softly. "I know. My price for slaying your dragon is this--it is said that among your court, you have a creature of beauty beyond measure. A vixen with eyes as bright as the sun and fur that shines like fire, whose voice can still even the birds in the forest to listen. Pray, tell me I have not heard false," the fox said.

King Leonine snarled and stood up from his throne. "You are pert, fox, and were I not in so dire a position, I'd have your pert tongue cut from its offending mouth. You may ask for land, for titles, for riches beyond measure, but you'll not have that one. Pigs shall sprout wings and roost like pigeons before I'll allow you to court my daughter!"

The scruffy fox snickered. "She is no daughter of your loins, M'Lord."

Around the room, there rose a murmur of surprise and anger, and more than a few yips of dark laughter. The king's paws squeezed into tight fists and he glared at the ragged fox with black rage. "You dare? Foolish fox, you dare?"

"Father, let him speak, I beg," said a voice as clear and soothing as a spring in summer. The king (and, indeed, the whole of the court host) turned to face the new speaker. The ragged fox turned a touch slower than the rest, his eyes glinting with amusement and charm which melted away the moment they settled upon the creature who spoke. He could only stare at her, eyes wide and jaw slack.

She was, as the ragged fox had described, a beauty beyond measure. She walked down the plush carpet of the throne room on silk-slippered feet, the hem of her purple dress whispering softly. And as she moved through a shaft of sunlight, her auburn fur flashed like fire and her eyes flared like molten copper. Those eyes smoldered like coals when they set upon the enthralled ragged fox, and he startled back to his senses when she politely cleared her throat.

The king coughed and shook his mane--for even a king was not immune to her beauty, daughter or no. "Lady Idun, please. This cur is not worthy to clean the royal privy, let alone beg your hand in marriage."

The corner of Lady Idun's lip curled upward in a coy smile. "Perhaps not yet. But if he can bring before you the head of Vangrhoggr, he will have earned that which he was not born to--the right of nobility. Will you not at least allow him this chance?"

"He will earn nothing but a fool's death!" King Leonine snarled.

"Better a fool's death than a coward's life," the ragged fox replied softly. "Only the All Father knows who shall live and who shall die on the field of battle. I beg, give me this chance. And if I fail, you have done nothing more than relieve yourself of a poor, meddlesome suitor."

The king's shoulders hunched and he fell heavily into his throne. Lady Idun stepped onto the dais and knelt beside her father, the image of a doting daughter. King Leonine took her hand and kissed it chastely. He then turned to the weather-worn drifter. "Fox, do you have any idea of the thing you face? This is no mere dragon, but the Dread Dragon Vandrhoggr himself! He is a wyrm what can't be cut 'cept by a blade not forged by any Man nor Beastfolk, and can only be killed if that sword has tasted his mother's blood! So say the wise women of my court, and every soothsayer I've spoken to. Aye, even the great sybils in the East tell me it is so." The King regarded the ragged fox's shabby scabbard. "You mean to tell me that pig-sticker you carry can do the job?"

The ragged fox grimaced and shook his head. "Nay, it cannot do the job...yet. Tell me, M'Lord, do you know the name of the dragon's mother?"

The king's great mane shook from side to side, along with every head in the great hall. "No one--not even the seers--could tell me this," said the King. "And the beast itself claims to have none."

Lips set in a thin line, the ragged fox nodded. "Then it seems my work is cut out for me."

Behind him, the Lady Idun's eyes flashed, her lips curved in intrigue. But no one--not even the King--saw this.

***

The ragged fox sat upon a hill, staring at the slowly decaying edge of the Myrkwood and smoking a worn pipe. Tis a tough riddle to solve, this dragon's doom. I have half the riddle, aye, so there's that at least. But without the other half, the first is all but useless.

The problem, he thought, was bloodlines. Dragons mark their family by the blood of their fathers. It was no secret who the wyrm's father was--Vandrhoggr was called "Jormungandrson" for a reason. As if that were not daunting enough. What being would be strong enough to carry the Midgard Serpent's spawn within her belly? And more worrying, what would be daft enough to try? He shook his head. He was approaching this riddle from the wrong side. Could Jormungadr have played the mother, rather than the father? The World Serpent was well known to be male through and through, but the serpent's father was equally well known for his shifty ways. Perhaps that was the answer to the riddle? No, that doesn't feel right. The World Serpent is many things, but ergi is not one of them.

The ragged fox blew a smoke ring and frowned. He wondered if the riddle of the wyrm was unsolvable--that the dragon's mother perished in birthing him, thus making him impossible to defeat.

"Nay, it cannot be. The riddle'd not be if it had no answer," he murmured. "Seers never lie. The truth they twist and knot and fold upon itself like braids of bread, but the riddles they speak always have answers."

Behind him, a twig snapped. The ragged fox was on his feet--blade at the ready--quicker than the flick of a whisker. And just as quickly, he slipped the blade back in its humble sheathe.

"Ye're brave, lass. I'll give ye that," he grumbled, his courtly accent slipping in his irritation.

Behind him, a hooded and robed figure stood. It wore a monk's fawn-brown robe tied with a simple length of rope, hood pulled close over its face so that not even the tip of its nose could be seen. The ragged fox retrieved his cooling pipe from the dust and settled back down. The robed figure chuckled, a sound like the clinking together of seashells.

"Tis not bravery to approach openly. You were lost in thought, Ser Fox, and didn't hear my approach 'til I mis-stepped," said the robed and hooded figure in a soft whisper of a voice.

"Aye, deep in thought, but not lost. I do not get lost in such familiar territory," he said with a wink.

"If you say so, but I'd hardly call the Riddle of Vandrhoggr familiar." The robed figure sat down next to the ragged fox and wrapped her arms around her knees. "Are riddles so common to you?"

The ragged fox smirked and blew another smoke ring. "Aye, many of them are." His smirk grew slyer, and he bent close to the robed figure's ear. "My Lady. Does your father know you roam the night? Pray, tell me it isn't so!"

The robed figure hissed and recoiled, her hood falling back just enough to show a flash of gold-colored iris in the starlight. "I'm honorable, Ser Fox, if that be what you are implying. I came because I saw you from my window, pondering alone upon the hill, and felt it would be prudent to...to..." She stumbled over her words as the ragged fox chuckled merrily.

"Ye thought one such as me would need lookin' after? That I must be mad, to brave the Dread Dragon with nigh but a pig-sticker and my wit?" said the ragged fox.

"Aye," Lady Idun said softly.

"Why?" he asked, and in his voice was no small trace of bewilderment. "Why care you what becomes of this ragged fox? I would think ye overjoyed at the idea that such a shabby suitor goes to his death."

"But you don't do you?" she said. "Else you would have already been off into the woods. Yet here you sit, puzzling out the Wyrm's riddle."

"Battles are won by more than brawn alone," the ragged fox replied. "I am wise enough to know that the beast is many times stronger and meaner than I will ever be."

"Yet not wise enough to know when to leave well enough alone," Lady Idun said. "It can't be just the riddle that brought you here. Seek you glory, as my father accused? Riches? A trophy to hang on your arm til the end of your days?"

At that, the ragged fox threw back his head and yipped gaily. "Glory? Riches? What would one such as me do with it? I wander often and travel light, and gold is far too heavy--and far too tempting!--for bandits. Glory draws just as many idiots, wishing to prove their worth by besting me. As for the trophy you speak of..." His voice trailed off. "Aye, I might have over-stepped myself with that one." He leaned in close, his whiskers brushing lightly against Lady Idun's hood. "But I'll speak a small secret, if ye give yer word to keep it. I think the Lady has seen nobility for what it is, and wishes one to free her from her gilded cage."

Lady Idun's paw lashed out, meaning to strike the ragged fox right in his pert mouth. But the wily fellow was no longer there. He was already halfway down the hill toward the Myrkwood's edge, wicked humor dancing in his eyes.

"Who are you, Ser Fox?" she demanded. By some trick of the wind, her voice carried down to him, and the ragged fox turned.

"Why, you haven't figured out the riddle of the ragged fox yet?" he called. "Perhaps you should riddle more often! Seems you are far more lost in such territory than I!"

She frowned and shook her head. "You've vexed me, Ser Fox. I've puzzled out a name, but no matter how true it rings to my ears, my mind cannot accept it. You can't be he. Tis a myth! A myth, like Sigurd and Fafnir!"

The ragged fox barked at the moon and bowed deeply. "Aye, just as dragons and faeries are myths, m'lady! There is magic in this world yet, if ye've eyes to see!"

She glared at him, indignant. "Even if you were the legend you claim to be, you'll still end up a feast for crows! Your pig-sticker will do naught but anger the wyrm!" she snapped back indignantly. "Common weapons cannot harm him!"

"You think one such as I carries a common weapon? Nay, this 'pig-sticker' is far from common. Once before it tasted the blood of a dragon, and it hungers for another drink!"

Lady Idun's breath caught in her throat, and she stared at the ragged fox in disbelief. "Nay, it cannot be! Shattered it was, by Bolverk himself!"

"Aye, and reforged by those that taught the art first!" replied the ragged fox. "And it be well past time to slake this sticker's thirst! What say you, Nothung Dragonsbane?" The sword slid free from its sheath with a sound like a sigh of pleasure, and as the ragged fox swept it through the air, it sang; a low, humming tone like wind through a mighty bell. He re-sheathed Nothung a minute later, and the blade sighed like an unrequited lover as it slid home.

"You are who you claim," Lady Idun whispered, awed. "Reynard Fox, Trickster's son."

Reynard bowed deep, his bushy tail sweeping behind him and his lips spread in mirth. "I am but a humble fox, come to slay a dragon and win fair Lady's heart," he said.

"You've yet to accomplish either!" Lady Idun retorted. "Fancy words and a fancy sword--even a legendary fancy sword--do not a dead dragon make!"

"Aye, and moonlight is wasting. Fare thee well, Lady. I return a dragon slayer, or not at all!" And before Lady Idun could speak again, he was off and into the Myrkwood. She watched him vanish into the velvet shadows, shaking her head.

"You're a right fool, Reynard Fox," she said shouted into the forest. "A greater serpent than Vandrhoggr you'll never see!"

"Nay!" came a disembodied voice from the wilderness. "I must seek one greater--it's mother! Farewell, my lady!"

The moon set through the skeletal trees, peeking between the knotted branches like a naughty child, until the horizon swallowed it. Never had the Myrkwood looked so grim, nor so hopeless.

Still, as the Lady Idun made her way back home, she found her lips curved skyward like Skadi's bow.

***

Reynard Fox wandered the thready trails of the Myrkwood until the moon was long since sunk. Though he appeared to wander to and fro without any obvious purpose, he paused several times to check the stars through the web of blighted branches above. He corrected his course twice, and just as the darkest hour of the night approached, came to his destination.

In a clearing deep in the Myrkwood was a single ash tree with a trunk that could be circled than no fewer than five men. It lorded over its clearing, gnarled roots choking out any but the most hardy of brush plants. The blight had only just begun to turn the mighty tree's leaves yellow. Pale starlight gilt the edges of its branches and gave the sickly color of its leaves an eldritch glow.

The ragged fox paused at the edge of the meadow and made an odd sigil in the air with one paw.

"An ash I know there stands, Yggdrasill is its Name. A tall tree showered with shining loam," he murmured softly, and stepped up to the tree's trunk. He slipped his paw (the one which drew the rune) under his cloak and pulled from a hidden pocket a small, leaf-bound packet. He opened the parcel gingerly, reverently, and swallowed its withered contents whole. It was a mushroom, its cap once blood red but now faded to a fiery orange. Its underbelly was the color of dried bone, and it tasted like ash, but the ragged fox swallowed it anyway. And once it was down his parched throat, he spoke again.

"On that tree of which no-one knows, from where its roots run, Heimdell, bid me pass."

The ragged fox leaned against the ancient ash tree, his palms pressed to the rough bark. An hour passed, or so he thought. The stars had ceased their stately progression overhead shortly after he'd swallowed the mushroom. Instead, they seemed to hover as if watching, waiting, a thousand-thousand unblinking eyes in the darkness.

And then, all at once, they blinked.

The night deepened as the stars winked out, like a fell wind had blown across the heavens, and the velvet black of the sky bled down the branches of the blighted trees. Inky, tar-like shadows fell like rain, slithered through the ragged fox's fur like worms. No, not worms, he thought, serpents. A thousand tiny vipers.

He whimpered in spite of himself, and bit his tongue between his teeth to prevent it from happening again. He gripped the tree harder, digging in his dull claws to steady himself. All around him, the undulating liquid night wrapped around tree and branch in thick ribbons until all that remained was Reynard and the ash tree. The last of the stars dripped from the sky like milk off a thorn and melted into the darkness.

Without warning, the ragged foxes palms sunk into the wood of the tree. He tried to recoil, but the wood hardened in an instant. Like a fox in a trap, he thought wryly, Aye, let's get this over with, then.

"What seek you, seidmann?" asked a voice as deep as the place between stars.

The ragged fox grimaced and tried not to struggle in his bonds. "To slay the dragon known as Vandrhoggr," he replied.

"Then slay it, and bother me naught," the voice rumbled in irritation.

"I cannot, for only a blade that has tasted the blood of its mother might strike true," he said. "I pray thee, Gatekeeper, Son of Nine Mothers, ye see all from your lofty place at the crossroads of all worlds. Tell me the name of the beast's dame."

The voice made a sound like boulders striking together. "And what makes you think I shall tell you? Who are you, to demand such from me?"

"No one!" Reynard said quickly. "I demand nothing. I am seidmann, no sorcerer. I do not presume to move the heavens to my will. Only ask those with a better view to speak of what they might see."

The thunder softened and became thoughtful. "Silver is the color of thy tongue, Ser Fox, and I know the color of your eyes, for I've looked into their sire's a time or two. Speak your name, if you be true, or take your leave. I care not either way."

The ragged fox took a deep breath. "Reynard Fox, Trickster's son," he said.

The voice chuckled. "Never did I expect to see the day when Reynard Fox became humble with his titles. Do they not also call you the Knave of Thieves, stealer of a thousand chickens?"

"And Wanderer. And Wayfarer."

"And now you wish to add Dragonslayer? Why?"

Reynard took a deep breath. "I may be a thief and wanderer, but never have I been accused of being heartless. I can slay this dragon, if I but knew its dame's name."

"The hand of the lovely Lady Idun hath nothing to do with thy will to slay the monster?" the voice chuckled. Reynard blushed under his fur, but when he spoke, his voice was steady.

"Aye, a touch. A fairer vixen I've never seen, and I've wandered far enough to know. Tis taking two birds with one stone, as they say."

"Aberfew is less one dragon, and less one princess."

"She is not his daughter!" Reynard snapped, a bit too sharply.

"She is, in all but blood. And she bears the King's royalty well."

"One stone, three birds, then," Reynard said.

The voice rumbled again, musing. "For one who professes such contempt for nobility, you have strange designs to join them."

"I would love her well, and care for her," he said.

"And often, I'd wager. Especially her dowry." Thunder cracked like a whip, but Reynard didn't flinch.

"The only gold I wish from her lies in her eyes; the only silver, the moon upon her fur."

The voice was silent for a long time, and for a horrible moment, Reynard thought it had left him, locked in the tree to rot.

"Your words, Reynard Fox, are honey, sipped from a silver spoon. But you speak true, and so I shall give you what you seek. Strange are the times when the Knave of Thieves will ask before taking."

"Honor among those who proffer, be it gold or wisdom," Reynard said, bowing as best he could from his awkward position.

The voice in the darkness roared with mirth, and suddenly sobered. "To be called a thief by the Knave of Thieves himself! Behold the color of thy kettle and pot, Ser fox, and note the resemblence in color they bear! Bah, but this palaver grows long and mortals--even of your sort--lead short lives best not wasted with idle chatter. The name you seek, of the dame of Vandrhoggr Jormunandrson...The beast was indeed sired by the Midgard Serpent, and one second in power bore him." The voice became low, a distant, terrible growl. And as it spoke, Reynard's eyes widened.

"Malice Striker, Devourer of the Dead, Hel's Hound, Yggdrasill's Bane. Know you these kennings?"

Reynard swallowed. His mouth had gone dry as dust. "Nidhoggr," he whispered.

"You are no hero, Reynard Fox. A minor player in the game, at best. Do you still wish to try your hand at it?" The voice was softer now, like a father to a difficult child.

Reynard nodded. "If the Fates will it, so shall I be a hero yet."

"Love makes you an even bigger fool, Reynard Fox."

The ragged fox made a slight smile and bowed his head in agreement. "Better a fool in love than a coward at bay."

"Aye then, Reynard Fool-Fox." The tree's grip on Reynard's wrists went slack, and when he pulled his paws free, Reynard saw twin bands of gold upon each wrist. Embossed on each band was an image of the World Tree, overlaid with an iconic squirrel--the image of Ratatosk.

"These bands grant you passage until sunrise. Tis the last of the gifts you shall have from me."

"Many thanks, Gatekeeper." Reynard said, rubbing the bands on his wrists.

"No, no. Do not thank me. I fear I send you to your doom."

"Doom, but not death."

"They are one and the same, Fool Fox," the Gatekeeper snapped.

"For a mortal, they always are," Reynard sighed.

Heimdall Gatekeeper ignored him. "May your wit preserve you, Son of the Trickster." Suddenly, the ground beneath Reynard split wide, and he tumbled into the icy black. He fell forever, for no time at all, and when his feet touched the ground, he yelped in pain. The ice upon the ground was so cold that it burned. His breath came in ragged puffs, barely seen in the fog and mist that filled the place. Heimdell Gatekeeper had dropped Reynard into Niflheim--the World of Ice and Mist. Long crystalline icicles hung down from the roots of the World Tree, some forming columns that seemed to stretch forever overhead (until they vanished into the ceiling of fog) and others barely a handspan in length. And everywhere, down every path, in every dip and between every root there was mist. Endless, grey mist. Reynard's breath only added to the haze, though some of it froze on his whiskers. Rime coated his cloak and every inch of his fur until he looked less like a fox and more like some sort of hoary goblin.

Reynard wandered the misty moors, stumbling from one slush-filled pool to the next until the idea of warmth became nothing more than a maddening dream, and a fading one at that. Unable to find his way by step or star, he strayed through the mist, lost, and finally collapsed half in and out of a particularly dark pool of ice.

"I cannot go on. The Gatekeeper was right--I am a fool. And this is as good a place as any to die." He set his frost-covered head upon the grey ground and sighed. He did not breathe in immediately. Instead, he contemplated the value of filling his lungs yet again with choking fog or simply willing himself to pass right then.

But then, in the space between those ragged breathes, he heard it. At first, he thought he was only hearing the grinding of ice against itself. He held his breath a moment longer, ears cocked. Then it came again, and he was certain.

Gnawing--like teeth against root. A crunching, grinding, deliberate sound that roused the ragged fox from his apathy.

With a mighty heave, Reynard pulled himself free of the freezing slush and staggered, drunk with cold and hope, toward the sound. He had to stop every few steps and listen to be sure, but the sound grew steadily stronger and stronger. Dark shapes began to form in the mist. At first, they were no lighter or darker than the grey fog, but slowly, he was able to make out what they were--roots of enormous size. Bigger around than the trunk of any tree he'd ever seen; bigger around than a barn, than a castle, than a field!

The gnawing sound grew louder, and louder.

And suddenly, he saw her, crouched between the roots and as large as a house. Nidhoggr, the Malice Striker. Her scales were matted with frozen muck and mottled with verdigris, her paws tipped with wicked black claws, and her maw filled with scythe-like teeth. Her coils were entwined with the roots, and it was impossible to tell if_she_ was entwined with the roots, or the other way around. Her lower body was so covered in ice that it appeared as if she'd frozen solid to the Tree from the middle down. The ice tried valiantly to complete its task of entombing the dragon, but it flaked and cracked every time the great monster flexed, sloughing off like old, dead skin. The ground beneath her was littered with jagged drifts of shattered ice.

I cannot stab her through that ice! Mighty though Nothung is, it would stick fast when the blood froze. I must strike a part of her that is not entombed. But that means the head, and the teeth. How to muzzle that maw...

Suddenly, Nidhoggr stopped gnawing. A barbed tongue black as tar flicked out and was gone. "Is that you, Ratatosk?" she hissed in a voice like a steam vent. "Come to trade more insults, have you?"

Reynard crouched behind a great root and spoke in a high-pitched voice. "The Eagle sends his regards, and wishes to know if your mother was a worm or a lizard," he said.

Nidhoggr snorted derisively. "Bah! That thin-boned feather-brain must be going senile! I've heard better insults from the backside of an elderly nanny goat!" The dragon cackled. "Come to think of it, your mother rather resembled that nanny goat, ye rat!"

Reynard thought fast. "Patience, Queen of Serpents. I've barely begun my message!"

Nidhoggr snorted. "Out with it, rat!"

Reynard took a deep breath and grinned. Here was a game he excelled at! "The Eagle says thus--A baser creature there never was, who gnaws like a mole day and night at the Root of the World. Your breath stinks of the corpses caught between your teeth, and naught but the mist will abide you. Even your Mistress--she half dead herself!--will not tolerate your foul stench!"

Nidhoggr growled and ripped a smaller root from the grey dirt beside her foot. A moment later, a smaller fibrous root began to grow in its place and slowly wrap itself around her thumb. "Are you finished, milk-drinker?" she said, sounding bored.

"I've hardly begun!" Reynard cried. "Spake the Eagle, baser still are your deeds! Ye slithered through the earth, devouring as ye went, and slime from your vent freezing as ye went, coiling yer foul self around every root that would have ye. Until ye found the greatest trunk of them all! A scaled trunk as wide as the very roots of the Tree. And ye coiled yerself 'round and 'round, and squeezed until its sap burst within ye!"

Nidhogg stopped her gnawing and went deathly still. She regarded the place where Reynard hid with flinty eyes. Undaunted, the ragged fox continued.

"Aye, ye call me milk-drinker! But never was there a deeper drinker than Nidhoggr! Ye didn't pause yer gulping til ye were almost too swollen to slither!"

Nidhoggr growled, and the roots around her twitched spastically. The ice around her middle began to run and re-froze in slick puddles when it hit the ground. Still, Reynard spoke.

"I watched ye, as ye milked the World Serpent's forked root until the earth shook with his throes. And when he finally shook ye free, ye slithered on yer belly back to yer hole to nurse yerself to sleep!"

"Ware your words, rat," Nidhoggr whispered venomously. "Ware your words, lest they be your last."

"Ye would add murder to yer crimes? I speak only what the Eagle bid me speak!" Reynard protested.

"Finish your flyting and begone!"

"Lastly, the Eagle names ye thief, for stealing seed that doesn't belong to ye. Worse yet, that stolen seed produced blighted spawn that ravage the world Above, just as ye ravaged the world Serpent!"

Nidhoggr screamed. Her coiled bunched and snapped, throwing shattered ice in all directions. "Lies! The Eagle speaks lies!" She snapped her wicked fangs, her jaw clicking shut where Reynard stood only a heart beat before. Venomous spittle flew, spattering several roots that blackened and withered where they were sprayed.

"Ah, I knew you were not that meddlesome squirrel. Greetings, wanderer. Here your wayfaring ends!" Nidhoggr screamed again and snapped. Reynard darted aside again, barely missing having his tail bitten off.

"Aye, greetings Malice Striker. Truly, you live up to thy name," he said with a hurried bow.

"Honeyed words, from a slanderer. Cry my pardon, or cry your last!" Nidhoggr snarled.

"Nay, I'll not cry pardon for speaking the truth, bitter though it might be. Ye should be proud! Never has a more vicious dragon defiled Midgard!" said Reynard. "Tell me, did ye know what ye'd spawn when ye defiled Jormungandr, or were ye simply bored with raping the World Tree?"

The Malice Striker's flinten eyes fairly crossed in fury. "You know nothing! NOTHING!" she screamed.

"Aye, on that, at least, I can say I do not. I've stolen many things, but never have I taken my pleasure from those who don't desire it!" Reynard snapped. He stood atop an enormous root and shouted his words to the fathomless mist above, where Nidhoggr's eyes glowed like a pair of sullen lamps. "Nor have I ever had my seed stolen by one who wants only to have whelps by me. Tell me, have ye any honor left?"

There was no warning. One moment Nidhoggr stood before Reynard, eyes flashing murderously, and the next, her fangs were upon him. The ragged fox pitched to the side and rolled, one paw upon the worn hilt of Nothung. He righted himself, drawing his blade faster than the speed of thought, and stood with the whispering blade before him.

He needn't have bothered. In her fury, Nidhoggr struck so hard that her fangs were buried to the gums in the root that Reynard had been standing on. Her barbed tongue--no longer coated with its withering saliva, was caught by a pair of roots gradually making their way toward her throat. No matter how she writhed and struggled, the roots held her tongue fast. Only by severing her tongue could she hope to break free before the World Tree's roots choked her. And Nidhoggr could not reach with her claws to free herself. The dragoness screamed again, a furious, despairing sound that turned the tip of Reynard's tail ghost white. He approached the stuck dragon cautiously.

"Ye should be proud, Corpse Gnawer. Yer son is quite the monster. A blight upon the face of Midgard! But like all monsters, he must meet his end. In gaining that which will end him, I also free thee from thy stupidity. If ye ever loose another horror like Vandrhoggr upon the land, know that I will return to coat my blade anew with your blood. And next time, I may not be so forgiving," Reynard said, and he severed Nidhoggr's tongue from her body. Black blood splashed across the blade as the dragoness recoiled. Malice Striker snapped her maw three times, chasing the white-tipped tail of Reynard, but all three times, she bit air.

Crafty Reynard was already gone.

And though Nidhoggr's tongue grew back in time, never again did she allow it to grow barbs.

***

Reynard ran through the mist as if the Wild Hunt was after him. The misty moors of Niflheim flew past, fog lifting with every bound. Just as the silver disc of the sun broke through the mist, Reynard saw the luminous rainbow bridge known as Bifrost. And standing guard at the foot of the bridge was Heimdell Gatekeeper.

"You took your fair time, fox," he said, flashing a golden smile.

Reynard shrugged.

"You did your father proud, Reynard Trickster's Son."

The ragged fox inclined his head and grinned.

Heimdall sighed and shook his head. "That wasn't a compliment."

Reynard's grin widened. "I prefer to take it as such. Why the long face? I de-thorned the Rose of Nilfheim!"

Heimdell hit his forehead with the heel of his palm. "Better than de-flowering her, I suppose," he said. "Go then, Great Fool of a Fox. You have your blooded blade. Slay your dragon, if you can!" He shoved Reynard onto the bridge, which became more of an upward facing slide. Reynard slid all the way "up" the bridge, and landed just outside the Myrkwood, bouncing on the yellow grass thrice before coming to rest. He stood and brushed himself off.

"Aye, slay my dragon. That I shall, Gatekeeper," Reynard said, still holding his blade, slick with Nidhoggr's oily blood. Somewhere in the blighted forest, Vandrhoggr roared a challenge.

"Alright, dragon. Let's finish this," Reynard said, and plunged into the blackened brush. The ragged fox ran through the forest, down the game trails abandoned by anything living, and straight into the heart of the wood. Above him, a single crow soared. It cawed to the sky, and was joined by another.

The sight made Reynard grin. He stopped and raised his sword high. "Come, Vandrhoggr, Jormungandrson! Come, ye foul wyrm, and face your doom!" He howled to the heavens. The sky darkened with thick clouds; thunder rumbled in the East, and with that first rumble, there came the whump of mighty coils striking decaying trees. Reynard watched the trees, but the sound seemed to come from everywhere at once.

"Guide my hand, Mighty Thor, for I come to slay thy enemy's spawn," Reynard prayed. Another rumble came from behind him, and Reynard turned just in time to see the serpent of legend push through the blighted trees.

It came out of the forest like an oil-choked shadow, bristling with the hilts and hafts of a thousand rusted weapons in its skin. Its lamp-like eyes (so very much like its wicked dame's that Reynard had to squint to be certain this was not Nidhoggr come for revenge) cast eldritch shadows, and yellow mist dripped from its crooked maw.

"Who dares challenge me?" it rasped. "Who dares stand before Vandrhoggr?"

"I do," Reynard said, raising his voice about the growling storm.

"You are nothing," Vandrhoggr hissed. "An annoyance. Another of King Leonine's lackeys, sent to irritate me further." He spoke the word "king" like a curse. From within the wyrm's belly came the wailing of a thousand souls, and Reynard felt his resolve flicker. Then, he remembered Lady Idun's face, and nodded to himself. I have not fought through Niflheim only to run away now.

"I, Reynard Fox, The Wanderer, Trickster's Son, plunderer of a thousand nobles' chicken coops, and wielder of Nothung, Nidhoggr's Bane!" Reynard cried.

Vandrhoggr chuckled coldly. "Nidhoggr's Bane? You boast, little fox."

"Aye, Nidhoggr's Bane!" Reynard cried. "I have faced the Malice Striker, and bested her in combat!"

"Liar," Vandrhoggr hissed, but he regarded the ragged fox's sword with a wary look.

"I speak truth, mighty Vandrhoggr! I've faced the Malice Stiker in battle. Aye, and plunged her deep with my sword!" Reynard said with a roguish wink. "A sharp tongue, had Nidhoggr. But no more!"

Vandrhoggr roared. The souls trapped within his bloated belly screamed and moaned, howling with the wind. "I shall add _your_tongue to my choir, little fox. You, and all that live in that little village. Even your precious Lady Idun, though I'll make her squeal before I devour her!"

Reynard's gaze sharpened, and he held his blade at the ready. "Never, blighter. You'll come no closer than this."

Vandrhoggr reared up, his bulk blocking the sky, and lightning veined the clouds behind him. His coat of a thousand broken weapons clattered fiercely together.

And he struck.

Reynard darted to the side, barely getting out of the way in time. He felt Vandrhoggr's fangs comb through the white-tipped fur of his tail. Vandrhoggr struck again, but this time Reynard slashed. Quick as a snake, Vandrhoggr recoiled and the blade missed by a whisker. The draugr cried out, screeching and wailing wordlessly with every thrust of the dragon's bristling head.

Reynard dodged, darted, and dashed, but every time he tried to strike, Vandrhoggr was beyond his reach. He bared his teeth and growled in frustration. It's like the wyrm is trying_to drag this out. But why? What can the dragon gain from it?_

Above him, thunder rumbled and the first drops of the storm fell. Vandrhoggr chuckled darkly, and Reynard finally figured out what the dragon was up to.

The dragon feared Reynard's sword. But it was only a danger to him while it was coated with Nidhoggr's blood. And as sticky as the stuff was, the rain would wash it away, and Reynard would be facing Vandrhoggr with nothing more than a semi-legendary blade.

May my wit preserve me indeed! Reynard thought in dismay. I am no hero. No hero would make such a mistake!

He dodged another blow, the dragon's mocking eyes just out of reach. "Tiring so soon, little fox? Shall I end this quickly for you?"

Reynard panted, his sword flagging. "You are quite agile, Vandrhoggr. And ye've more stamina than yer dame."

Vandrhoggr went still and looked at the ragged fox in confusion. "My dame? What speak you of my dame?"

Reynard stood tall, puzzled at the look of vexation on the dragon's face. "Yer dame, yer dame, ye daft lizard! The one who bore ye!"

Vandrhoggr growled low. "I have no dame, you foolish fox."

Reynard just barely dodged another stike, so dumbfounded was he. Could I have over-estimated this wyrm?

"Oh course ye've got a dame!" Reynard insisted. "And I know her name!"

Vandrhoggr snarled and struck again. This time, his strikes were in earnest. Reynard fell back, and back, and back, unable to do more than dodge the mighty jaws of the Dread Dragon. Finally, he found his back pressed against a deadfall and he could dodge no more.

"My dame, fox," Vandrhoggr growled. "The name of my dame for your miserable life."

Reynard swallowed, took a deep breath. His paw gripped the hilt of his sword tighter. His knees shook, but not with fear. One leap,_he thought, _that's all I've left in me. One good leap.

He took a bracing breath, and grinned.

"The name of yer dame? Aye, I can give it to ye for the price of my life. She was a right monster, yer mother. Frigid as the ice, least til clever Reynard came along. T'was my mighty sword that cleaved her cold lips twain!" he said with a wink and a smirk. "And wilst I had her pinned, she spoke to me the truth of yer blood! That yer a right bastard, through and through!"

Vandrhoggr howled, the draugr in his belly screamed, and the Dread Dragon struck with all his might. Reynard's tired legs coiled under him and released, getting him out of the way just as the wyrm's teeth sank into the rotten wood of the fallen tree. The ragged fox slid on his knees beneath wicked Vandrhoggr, sword held above his head. The blade sang a sweet song as it bit into the wicked wyrm's flesh, parting it.

Vandrhoggr screamed. The blade cut through the dragon's scales like a hot knife through butter, Nidhoggr's blood sizzling against her son's flesh. And when Nothung met the beast's breastbone, Reynard coiled his legs beneath him one last time and stabbed upward with all his might. The blade rang against dragon bone, thurmming like a harp, and buried itself deep in the dragon's black heart. Vandrhoggr howled in agony and collapsed, keeling over to one side and nearly twisting Nothung from the ragged fox's grasp. Reynard held on to the sword until the last flicker of light was gone from the wyrm's eyes, and he let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Rust-colored blood pooled around his feet, and the wind moaned. No, not the wind. The draugr the dragon kept.

Reynard withdrew his sword from the dragon's still heart and cut the monster's belly wide, freeing the souls of the fallen heros. A golden mist rose from the monster's gut and vanished into the sky just as the storm broke. Silver rain fell in threads all around him, and he reveled in it.

I've done it, he thought, I've really done it!

The cawwing of a raven brought him back. The rook cocked its head to the side, regarding the ragged fox first with one eye, then the other. It bent--quite deliberately--and took a sip of the dragon's seeping blood. It gave Reynard a meaningful look and flew off. The ragged fox cupped his paws beneath the still dripping fountain of blood from the wrym's throat and drank the dragon's blood.

The raven above cawwed, and he understood its words. You're a daft fox, Reynard, but then again, can't expect anything less from your blood. Your Lady awaits. The raven croaked a laugh and vanished into the clouds. Take care that sword, Dragonslayer!

Reynard nodded and, after cutted Vandrhoggr's head free of his body, cleaned the blade of the mingled dragons' blood and sheathed it. Just as he was finishing, the storm ended and the sun came out. Blackened trees bore just the barest hint of green, and the ground was once more a fertile black instead of blighted grey.

And everywhere the dragon's blood had fallen, there was a patch of bright red flowers--the first of the Dragon's Blood Roses.

Reynard Fox returned to King Leonine's court a hero, and the glassy-eyed head of Vandrhoggr was stuffed and mounted over the door of Reynard's new castle. Maupertius Keep, he called it, his place of refuge. True to his word, King Leonine allowed Reynard to court his daughter, and the two fell fast in love. Lady Idun accepted his proposal (despite some grumbling from her father, although it was mostly bark rather than bite--he knew his daughter would do well with Reynard Fox by her side). And, although I wish I could say they lived happily ever after, Tricksters and their sons never do for long. I can say that they lived, and had many more adventures both together and apart.

Aye, but the hour grows late. Those be tales for another time.