Join us at the campfire for tales from around the world, told by storytellers of all backgrounds and creeds. From the heros and heroines of old, let us relearn and rediscover the wisdom of our ancestors. Shhh..the story begins..

Svafrlami was the warlike leader of a realm filled with forests, bogs, and lakes. The land was as wild as its master. Many terrors lurked in the trackless woods beyond the palisade enclosing Svafrlami's stronghold, and few members of the ruler's court cared to stray from the compound. Svafrlami himself, however, was afraid of nothing. For diversion, he would often shoulder his bow and ride out to hunt deer and boar.

Late one afternoon, after a day of solitary hunting, Svafrlami spied a stag in the fading light of a distant clearing. He gave chase immediately but could not gain on the animal. The stand of birches through which he galloped gave way to a dense forest, whose floor was a tumble of boulders. The darkness thickened, and Svafrlami lost sight of the deer. Then, he glimpsed a new quarry. At the base of a boulder, two pallid faces observed the fearless monarch, their dark eyes gazing from corpse-gray skin.

The watchers were dwarfs, Durin and Dvalin by name, and they crouched low in the gathering shadows, rigidly wary, while Svafrlami dismounted and sauntered past, pretending not to see them.

Suddenly, Svafrlami whirled about, sweeping his sword from its scabbard. He brought the blade down with all his might, so that it bit deep into the stony soil behind the two dwarfs, cutting off their route of retreat into the boulder that served as their home. Trapped, the dwarfs flung themselves upon the ground, grinding their faces into the earth and uttering muffled cries of dread.

Svafrlami seized the pair and hauled them to their feet, the better that they might hear his demand. He would spare their lives, he told them, if they forged him a sword that would surpass any in mortal possession. It should never dull, it should cut through iron and stone as if through cloth, and it should bring its owner victory in every battle. The dwarfs regarding Svafrlami with fear and hostility, but they were helpless to refuse. Svafrlami could hold them until daylight came, and daylight was the one thing that terrified them above all else. When they had given their word, Svafrlami allowed them free passage into the rock. In less than an instant, Durin and Dvalin had made good their escape.

As the night insects droned and moonlight silhouetted the trees, Svafrlami dozed, his head pillowed against the dwarfs' boulder. He awoke at intervals to see showers of sparks cascade from the rock and hear the screech and clang of the dwarfs at work. Just before dawn, Svafrlami awoke again. Durin and Dvalin had reappeared, and they carried with them a fine, massive broadsword. Its scabbard was golden and upon it, in high relief, were depicted the deeds of the old gods. Guard, grip and pommel were also crafted of gold, winking with precious jewels.

Svafrlami grasped the weapon and, when he drew the blade, saw that the steel was bright and flawless. At he turned it, the metal magically flashed sun-dazzle into his eyes, although the sun itself still lay below the horizon. Svafrlami turned his gaze upon the sword's creators and was met with an expression of malevolent amusement.

"It is all that you asked for, and more," said Dvalin. "It is named Tyrfing and to those qualities you demanded, it adds these: Once drawn, it cannot be sheathed unless it is warm with human blood; it will figure in three atrocious crimes; and you, yourself, will meet death by its keen edge."

His face darkening with rage, Svafrlami swung at the dwarfs, but they skipped nimbly to one side and Tyrfing cleft the rock behind them. Chuckling, Durin and Dvalin fled, leaving Svafrlami alone to regard and ponder upon his perilous prize.

Svafrlami was unable to sheathe the weapon for many days...not until the blade of the charmed sword had proved its worth in battle on the flesh of Svafrlami's enemies and, as the dwarfs had intended and predicted, Svafrlami himself experienced Tyrfing's stinging bite some months later.

A raider from another country harried the fringes of Svafrlami's realm and, as was the custom, Svafrlami sallied forth to meet this intruder in single combat. On a windy plain, the two men fought until Svafrlami's sword glanced from the iron-banded shield of his opponent and sank into the earth. Cursing, Svafrlami struggled to pull it free but, before he could succeed, his enemy severed Svafrlami's hand at the wrist with a swift stroke. Then, he tugged Tyrfing free from the earth and hewed Svafrlami to the ground. Now, the sword was his and he used it to good effect. Leading his warriors across Svafrlami's land, he slew defenders by the hundreds and sold Svafrlami's kin into slavery.

But the raider and his descendants profited no more from the radiant weapon than had Svafrlami. As Tyrfing, perversely prized, was passed down the generations, brother wielded it against brother, and son against father. The kin slayings in which it figured were three in all. Then, apparently having shed its appointed quantity of blood, the dwarf sword mysteriously vanished from the chronicles and was never heard of again.

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