Volundr was the village blacksmith, when the Jotünn came. Volundr hoped the earl would send someone to deal with it, or he’d never get any rest.
The first week, the Jotünn carried off a goat. The earl sent a thane, with eyes as splendid as his mail coat. “Smith, make me a pike,” he commanded. “I’ll spit it like a pig.”
“More work,” Volundr sighed, and hammered a pike, long and keen.
The thane rode out and never came back, crushed like a bug by the Jotünn’s club.
The second week, the Jotunn carried off two sheep. The earl sent a skald, with knees as white as his cloak. “Smith, make me a horn,” he commanded. “I’ll scare it like a crow.”
“More work,” Volundr sighed, and hammered a horn, heavy and iron-banded.
The skald rode out and never came back, crushed like a bug by the Jotünn’s club.
The third week, the Jotünn carried off three cows. The earl sent a seithmathr, with a feet as twisted as his staff. “Smith, make me cage,” he commanded. “I’ll catch it like a fish.”
“More work,” Volundr sighed, and hammered a cage, tall and unforgiving.
The seithmathr rode out and never came back, crushed like a bug by the Jotünn’s club.
The fourth week, the Jotünn carried off a child. The earl sent no one. All his men were too afraid.
“More work,” Volundr sighed, and shouldered his hammer.
He did not ride out of the village but walked, with slow and determined steps. When he found the Jotünn he said nothing, merely strode up to it and smote it three times with his hammer. Once in the foot, once in the knee, once right between the eyes.
Volundr nodded once, satisfied. His work was done. At last, he could get some rest.
The first week, the Jotünn carried off a goat. The earl sent a thane, with eyes as splendid as his mail coat. “Smith, make me a pike,” he commanded. “I’ll spit it like a pig.”
“More work,” Volundr sighed, and hammered a pike, long and keen.
The thane rode out and never came back, crushed like a bug by the Jotünn’s club.
The second week, the Jotunn carried off two sheep. The earl sent a skald, with knees as white as his cloak. “Smith, make me a horn,” he commanded. “I’ll scare it like a crow.”
“More work,” Volundr sighed, and hammered a horn, heavy and iron-banded.
The skald rode out and never came back, crushed like a bug by the Jotünn’s club.
The third week, the Jotünn carried off three cows. The earl sent a seithmathr, with a feet as twisted as his staff. “Smith, make me cage,” he commanded. “I’ll catch it like a fish.”
“More work,” Volundr sighed, and hammered a cage, tall and unforgiving.
The seithmathr rode out and never came back, crushed like a bug by the Jotünn’s club.
The fourth week, the Jotünn carried off a child. The earl sent no one. All his men were too afraid.
“More work,” Volundr sighed, and shouldered his hammer.
He did not ride out of the village but walked, with slow and determined steps. When he found the Jotünn he said nothing, merely strode up to it and smote it three times with his hammer. Once in the foot, once in the knee, once right between the eyes.
Volundr nodded once, satisfied. His work was done. At last, he could get some rest.
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