Dragon Magic by Andre Norton Page B

leaving it all behind them.
    On they went to fulfill the weaving of the Norns, living the lives allotted to them.
    3
    SIRRUSH-LAU

    “Let it lie as Sigurd Fafnir’s-Bane said, let it lie—”
    The words echoed around in the dusty, gloomy room. Sig raised his head. His hands were before him, gripping the table edge so hard they ached. He should have been holding a staff—and where was the river—the mountains—Greykell and the other horses? He shook his head, trying to throw off the remnants of that dream. Or had it been a dream? So real—so very real! You did not eat in dreams, or get tired, or feel . Sigurd had been real, and Mimir, and Fafnir—
    There was Fafnir still before him, silver-bright. Sig raised his hand to sweep away the pieces of the puzzle he had so painstakingly put together—the silver dragon. But somehow he could not touch it. It would be—it would feel—NO!
    He pushed back the chair so hastily it fell with a bang to the floor.
    Outside there was a flash of lightning and he knew where he was, though he was not yet sure just what had happened to him. He only knew that he wanted to get away—go home—
    Sig ran, out of the room, back to the old kitchen. The rain was beating in through the open window. But he remembered there was something else—the table—Ras—
    He hesitated as he reached the window. Least of all did he want another fight now. But he did not, could not, leave Ras shut in the basement. Sig dashed for the table against the door, gave it furious jerks with all the strength he could muster, pulling it farther away from the door. Then he waited no longer, making for the window, and the rain and dark beyond.
    The overgrown bushes of the unkempt garden caught at him as he plunged on, by the shortest way, to that outer world he could believe in.
    But the other world was a part of him still. He could see in his mind the forge with Sigurd King’s-Son beating out the mighty sword, the forest hall of Mimir-Regin, the long journey to reach the terrible, blasted land of Fafnir.
    Treasure! That word, which had always been so exciting, meant something different now. Fafnir had taken the treasure and turned from man into monster because of his greed for it. Mimir, who had been Sigurd’s master and good friend—when the treasure had lain before him, he, too, became a monster, in another way. Then Sigurd had made his choice, to leave the evil, and so he had gone away a hero.
    Sig went over and over those memories as he ran for home. It must be awfully late. Dad would be there, he would want to know where Sig had been. But if he told, no one would believe him! Just as he could not make up any story, either. Sig Clawhand could not have lied his way out of trouble. If Dad did ask any questions he would have to tell the part about going into the old house, finding the puzzle. But telling the rest—that he could not!
    There was no one home. When he came in the kitchen door he glanced up at the clock on the shelf, stared at it in disbelief, and then went over to shake it. Five o’clock—only half an hour—he had only been away half an hour!
    Still finding that hard to believe, Sig shrugged out of his wet raincoat.
    He had beat Dad home after all, and he would not have to tell. But still tugging at his mind was the thought of Ras.
    He had heard nothing from the basement when he pulled aside the table he had used to bar the door. What if in the dark down there Ras had fallen, or been hurt? No one knew he was there, no one but Sig. It would be Sig’s fault if Ras was lying now at the foot of the steps in the dark, maybe with a broken leg, no one knowing—
    Slowly Sig looked at the clock again, being prodded into doing what he least wanted: going back to the house, making sure that Ras was all right.
    Dad would come for sure if he left now, then Sig would have to explain everything.
    Ras was tough, he was probably already out of the basement and on the way home. But if he were not? Sig buttoned up