SearchFroðo was a born warrior. From an early age all he ever wanted to do was to emulate the heroes that heard about in the lays sung in the hall. He practised daily with sword and spear, and avoided laziness, drinking and over-eating. He also avoided the distraction of women. It was not that he didn’t find them attractive, but he saw how much time and energy others put into the pursuit of them, and he wanted to focus that energy on his training. By the time he was fifteen he had his own war-band – thirteen of them, including himself. He could afford no more, but he made good use of them in minor raids on the coasts of the Heaðobards’ enemies – indeed, that was how he paid them, with a share of the booty. Sometimes he even ventured as far afield as the land of Britannia, though that was a few years after a king called Arthur had turned the tide against raiders, and he got precious little reward for all that sailing.
When Froðo’s father, Hadding, died, he became king and it fell to him to see to the protection of the country. However, he found that his father’s treasury had been drained by warfare, and his hirð decimated by battle. His father had been a brave warrior, but a foolish one. He had chosen his enemies unwisely, and he lost more often than he won. I wish he had heard my Wisdom Poem for there is a line in it he might have benefited from: “Choose your foes more carefully than your friends".
Frotho found that his father’s enemies threatened from every side – in addition to those he had stirred himself up by his raids – so it became a matter of survival for the Heaðobards for him to find a way to fill his coffers.
The usual way to do this was by warfare: raid a neighbouring tribe and carry away their possessions as booty, and their people as slaves, or if you were strong enough, exact annual tribute. But, of course, his war-troop was too small – that was the problem! He knew he had to think of something – and fast, for he had heard that the Gifthas, the Heathobard’s greatest enemy, were threatening to invade. He had nothing to sell, no services to offer, and no allies to lend him money or men. The situation was desperate, and called for a desperate solution.
That was what gave him the idea – because it was a truly desperate idea – but the danger was to him alone. If he succeeded, he would win fabulous wealth and fame throughout the Northlands, could fend off his foes and live in peace and honour for the rest of his life; but if he failed, only one Heaðobard would die – himself!
He had heard seafarers tell of an island to the north called Fehmarn where a fabulous treasure was hidden in cave under a high mountain. The treasure was guarded by huge fire-dragon, who slept coiled around his hoard and would attack any intruder with fire and poison. Many men had gone there to try to win the treasure, but none had returned. Froðo decided that it was his turn to try.
Next day he ordered a special helmet to be made with a full face-plate to protect his face from the dragon’s fiery breath. He also ordered a shield to be made of iron to replace his lindenwood shield, and a large leather cloak to put over his byrnie. He intended to soak the cloak in water and hoped that it would help to keep out both fire and poison. When everything was ready, he took his father’s heirloom sword out of its scabbard and polished the ring-patterned blade. The sword was called Gram. It was of great antiquity and was said to have been made by dwarves long ago in the Hall of the Mountain King. It had never failed him in battle, though he had been in some tight spots and abused the blade mightly, smacking it down on hard shield-bosses and helmets in ways that would cause weaker blades to shatter. But how would it fare against a dragon’s hide? Well, he would soon find out.
He gathered his arms and armour, and a pack of food, and went down to the harbour hoping to find a boatman who was willing to take him to the island. That was no easy task. As soon as he told them where he wanted to go, they turned away, and could not be persuaded for any price. They too had heard about the dragon and preferred to keep well away from Fehmarn. In the end he decided to manage the boat himself, and was just looking for a boat to hire when a wizened old boatman appeared as if from nowhere. He was tall and sinewy, his lank grey hair hung in tatters, and his weather-beaten face had only one eye.
Where do you want to go?” said the old man.
“Fehmarn – if you dare to go there,” replied Froðo.
The old man sighed and shook his head sadly, but he did not turn away.
“I will take you,” he said at last,
“What do you want as payment?” said Froðo.
The old man considered for a moment. “Your arms and armour if you are killed; the first treasure you find if you survive.”
“My arms are worth more than all the boats in this harbour!” said Froðo in amazement.
“But they are no good to you dead,” said the old man wryly.
Frotho knew it was far too high a price, but as he had no intention of getting killed, he accepted.
The old man led him to a small boat that was moored nearby. He helped Frotho to load his gear and before long, they were scudding over the waves, driven by a howling wind in the single square sail. The old boatman hung on the steerboard and stared ahead with one unblinking eye, saying nothing. Frotho covered his head with his leather cloak and tried not to think about the dragon.
They arrived as night was falling. It was a desolate place with a shingle beach in a small bay between two jagged cliffs. It had started raining, and the howling wind whipped around the headland and dashed the freezing rain into Froðo’s face. He didn’t feel so optimistic about the adventure now, and was of half a mind to turn back when the old boatman spoke a few comforting words to him.
“It looks desolate now,” he said, “but it will seem better in the morning.”
Froðo looked around at the stark cliffs and deserted beach, and found it hard to imagine that it could ever look better.
Then the old man said, “You can sleep in that hut there. Tomorrow, follow the road inland, and keep going towards the mountain. You will find the dragon there. Or more likely, he will find you first.”
Frotho shuddered at the thought. “Will you come with me?” he asked.
“No,” said the old man, “this boat is more than enough for me to manage, let alone a dragon. But I will give you some advice. You must beware of his three-forked tongue and the slaver that drips from his mouth – that burns like acid! And keep away from his sharp claws and his even sharper teeth! Don’t waste time hacking at his scales. They are tougher than any byrnie you have ever struck, but there is a place at the lowest part of his belly where his skin is soft. I will be waiting here at the same time tomorrow, but if you have not come by the time the moon rises, I will come ashore to seek for your dead body and strip it of its armour, then I will sail back and tell the Heaðobards to elect a new king.”
Froðo looked towards the dark shadow of the mountain silhouetted against the last dim light of day, appalled by the starkness of the old man’s words – though he knew he was only saying what was true. Then he turned back to him to ask another question – but the old man was gone, and no matter how hard he scanned the darkening beach, he could see no sign of him or his boat.
Next morning Froðo awoke with the dawn and forced himself to eat a meagre breakfast from his pack, though he had little appetite. Then he followed the road that the old man had pointed out and before long found himself in a small village – or what was left of it. It was ruined and deserted. The buildings were no more than charred heaps of ash, and the stench of burning flesh was everywhere. It was a sign of the devastation that the dragon could wreak, which was more like the ravages of a whole army than of a single beast. He almost turned back then, but mere momentum carried him on.
The road led on a weary way, climbing higher and higher into the foothills of the mountain with scarcely a living thing anywhere, just a few ragged tufts of grass and a few stunted trees. His war-gear was heavy, made heavier by the leather cloak and the iron shield, and it took all the strength he had to keep going on the ever-steeper road. He felt that he had scarcely the strength left to kill a fly, let alone the most fierce creature of Midgarð. He became more and more despondent. He couldn’t help wondering what he was doing here – alone, and trudging towards certain death. Why hadn’t he thought of a better way to raise the money he needed, after all, even a battle with the mighty Gifthas could not be as bad as fighting a dragon. And if he had to come, why had he not brought his war-troop? Together they would have made short work of the dragon.
As these thoughts tormented him, his courage ebbed low, and he almost turned back. But then the sun rose out of the morning mist and cast a ray of light and warmth across the desolate landscape. Froðo’s heart lifted within him. He grasped the gold-inlaid hilt of Gram and once again felt like a warrior. If only he could pull it off – what a warrior he would be; the most famous in the Northlands while he lived, and the richest – and most important of all, the king with the biggest war-band. All the neighbouring tribes would have to pay tribute to him – including the Gifthas – and when he died he would be assured of his bench-place in Valhalla.
Froðo was jolted from these reflections by a movement among the rocks just ahead of him. Something green and glittering had just disappeared into a yawning crevice under an overhanging cliff. Then he saw it again. It was the dragon. His heart started galloping like a bolting horse, his breathing became fast and shallow, and his hands started shaking. Then he got a grip on himself and made ready for battle. He put down his heavy pack, took out his faceplate helmet and lowered it onto his head, lacing it firmly in place. Then he gathered up the folds of his cloak, wound it around him and fastened firmly with brooches and shoulder-clasps. He looked around for water to wet the cloak, but there was none – he would have to do without it. Finally, he drew Gram, and started to walk cautiously towards the cliff.
The dragon had seen him and reared up in anger. Froðo couldn’t believe how big it was – easily as big as a longship, and like a longship it had a fat belly tapering towards a slender neck which carried a head the size of a whale. It opened its wings for balance. Like two huge sails they were, but ribbed like a bats. Then it roared. The sound was like Þórr’s hammer beating the mountains and making the rocks shake, but what was even more frightening was the huge surge of smoke and flame that gushed from its jaws. It flapped its wings slowly and heavily, and then leapt into the sky. The wings worked hard and it began to ascend. Then it dived on Frotho, its three-forked tongue flicking from its mouth raining poisonous saliva everywhere. But even worse was the torrent of flame that it spat at Frotho as it flashed by him. He fell to the ground and felt the hot flames as they scorched his flesh even through his thick leather cloak. For a moment his heart despaired. This was going to be a very uneven fight!
The dragon soared up into the air again, then turned for another pass. This time, Froðo was ready. At the last minute he dived behind a nearby rock, and escaped the worse of the dragon’s fiery breath. As it whooshed over him, so close that he could have reach up and touched it, he noticed that the skin on its belly was smoother than its scaly back, and that towards the bottom of the belly, the skin was totally smooth, not armoured at all, and slightly pink, like pigs’ flesh. Then he knew what to do.
When the dragon soared into the air again, he stood up, waved his arms, and shouted, “Come on you ugly brute! Is that all you’ve got?”
The enraged dragon dived towards him again, and again Froðo ducked behind the rock. Then, judging the moment to a split second, he sprang up with his sword arm outstretched. The dragon hit Gram with the full force of its dive, and the sword sank up to the hilt in its belly. Froðo was knocked over and dragged along underneath the dragon as it crashed to the ground. Its great weight almost crushed him, and the gushing blood almost drowned him, but somehow he managed to wriggle out from underneath the creature and prise Gram from its belly.
He wiped Gram with the remains of his charred cloak then took off his helmet, gratefully gulping the cool, fresh air. The dragon was panting its last short breaths. Soon it would be dead and would no longer rule the island with fear and death. He had done it! He had killed the dragon and won the treasure! He was a dragonslayer! He was rich! He would be famous! He would feast in the hall of Valhalla! After his moment of exaltation, he realised he was parched with thirst, but before he went to look for water, he just had to look at the dragon’s hoard to see if the legends were true and if he really had won enough treasure to fill the coffers of his kingdom.
The cave was dark, and stank of dragon, but in the dim light filtering in from the entrance, Froðo could see the dull gleam of gold. As his eyes got used to the gloom he saw that the treasure hoard was heaped to the ceiling: ancient gold wrought into plates and flagons, twisted armlets, rings and torques; old swords, their blades rusted, but their hilts wound with gold wire and encrusted with gems; helmets, also rusty, but gleaming with inlaid patterns of gold. He picked up a gem-studded drinking horn and ran out of the cave exulting once again. “I’m rich, I’m famous…I’m a DRAGONSLAYER!” he shouted, and the last word echoed for a long time around the mountains. He found a stream and drank a refreshing draft of icy cold water from the goblet. It was the sweetest drink he had ever tasted.
The old man was waiting for him as promised, and Froðo gave him the golden drinking horn as promised. A hero’s welcome awaited him at home. How people knew that he had killed the dragon he could not imagine, but they did. Perhaps the old man had said something. He held up his trusty sword, Gram, as a token of his triumph and the people cheered, then carried him shoulder high back to his hall. Later that day he set out again with his hearth-companions with two ships, which they filled with treasure and still did not get to the bottom of the treasure-pile.
Of course, he had help to kill his dragon, for that old man was none other than Óðinn who often wanders the world in disguise to help the heroes he favours. Notice that I say “help”. Óðinn helped Froðo by giving him good advice. He did not kill the dragon for him. It was Froðo’s courage and cleverness that enabled him to do that, or in the words of my Wisdom Poem: “Óðinn helps those who help themselves.”
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