A Hero is Forged

It was on the steps of the Temple of Heroes that Sigrun earned his everlasting glory. The Orc King, a brute named Gorag the Devourer, had led a horde of beasts from the Blackspire Mountains into the heart of the Valley of Mimir. Sigrun, standing alone at the temple's entrance, faced down the beast king. With a roar that shook the forests and the valley, he swung his Hammer of Mjolnir in a wide arc that hit its mark, smashing Gorath's demon skull to bits. Poisonous orc blood cascaded down the marble steps like a river, staining the sacred stones forever.

“Dad, that's so barbaric!” His daughter Freyja interrupted, her face scrunched with disgust.“ heads, blood–it's, it’s–monstrous.”

Sigrun sat back down and sighed, his massive hands clenching into fists.

Freyja was a young woman of seventeen, hair like spun silk and eyes as blue as a winter horizon. In their family’s mountain cabin, she returned her attention to mending a cloak, brow narrowed in disgust, an upward palm signalling he should stop speaking of the battle anymore.

The young ones of the Fjallkin Moon were soft, spring grass under the snow. Perhaps the next hatchlings in seven years, when the stars aligned for the birthing rites, would rekindle the fierce spirit of the northern warriors.

In his days, two-year-olds were thrown into the icy waters of Driftfjord, forced to swim or sink, everyday they brought to the verge of death, forging their bodies into unbreakable weapons. Oh, how he hated the taskmasters of the day! They tormented him with endless drills, hauling boulders through blizzards, sleeping on frozen ground—torturing their students, instead of teaching them the thrills of combat: the clash of steel, the joy of pursuit, the glory of victory.

To shake off his frustration, Sigrun returned to his passion project. He hefted a twelve-foot timber onto his shoulder, and began the arduous climb up the path behind his cabin. A thousand stairs wound up the sheer cliffside, each step hewn out of the mountain's granite. At the summit, he was building a temple to Fjarn, the warrior god of the forest. Stone by stone, beam by beam, Sigrun built it as a monument to the old ways, a lighthouse against the darkness that lies outside of their valley.

Hours later, he descended, his muscles aching. He quenched his thirst with five liters of small beer, the frothy brew from the valley's fields, light enough to drink like water. As he sat on his porch, gazing at his small garden where herbs and vegetables pushed through the rocky soil, a pigeon landed on the fence. A royal golden thread gleamed around its slender foot–a message from the wizard.

Sigrun unrolled the tiny scroll tied to its leg. “A Draug worm is laying siege to the West Fortress,” it read.

Battle! His blood surged at the thought.

The message continued: “You are to stay at Joseyrr Castle to protect the heartland.”

Half a day later, he restlessly paced the battlements of Joseyrr Castle—a towering fortress at the valley's heart—as the wounded were carried back on litters. Their groans filled the air, mingling with the scent of blood and charred flesh.

“I could have slain the Draug with one smash of Mjolnir's hammer,” Sigrun growled to the captain of the guard.

“Another day, the wizard says.”

A scout burst into the hall, breathless from his sprint. “Sir, the Draug has been defeated, by the palladium crossbows.”

Sigrun's eyes widened. Palladium crossbows? A new weapon developed by the wizard, forged from the rare, silvery metal mined in the deep caverns, enchanted to pierce through armor like butter.

It was almost like cheating. No, it was cheating—robbing warriors of the honor of close combat, the test of strength and skill.

He had never trusted, Eldric the Elder, and the wizard had never liked Sigrun. Eldric was a gaunt man with a flowing robe embroidered in glowing flowers, a creature of books and spells, his tower filled with dusty parchments. He scorned forest men like Sigrun, men of war who didn’t bathe, and solved every problem with a hammer.

But why did Eldric keep him from the battle? They had fought as partners in the past wars. Was Eldric scheming to create a new hero, a more loyal sycophant to supplant Sigrun as Lord of the Forest? If he was, the dying soldiers who littered the castle were his fault.

In the autumn, Sigrun was again called to the keep. Conflict simmered at the east gate, a cavalry army from the Eastern Plains had arrived and sounded their horns of battle. These nomads, clad in leather and fur, rode massive horses bred on the endless grasslands. The Valley of Mimir had no such open land for horses; their warriors fought on foot. Fighting mounted foes would be brutal, a slaughter if not handled with care. They needed Sigrun and his Hammer of Mjolnir to defeat their leader and to turn the tide.

Again, Sigrun paced Joseyrr Castle restlessly, but no battle came, and the massive cavalry army departed.

“A bad harvest on the plains,” the wizard explained to Sigrun, his voice calm as a still pond. “We gave them two hundred barrels of small beer, and they departed. We have plenty to spare.”

“You fed the enemy?” Sigrun bellowed, his face reddening like a bellows fed fire. “You surrendered.” He smashed Mjolnir onto the stone floor, and the entire castle trembled, cracks forming from the impact. “How dare you barter away our honor?”

Eldric raised his staff, the neon gem at its tip glowing with light. “Restrain yourself,” he hissed. “I saved lives where your hammer would spill blood.”

Sigrun bit back his rage, but his seed of distrust grew.

Months passed in uneasy quiet. Then, another pigeon perched in his garden, its golden thread now a harbinger of disgust.

Sigrun knew how this would end—the world was changing, and the wizard would use his magic to have him locked up, have him done away with as a symbol of the valley’s old barbaric ways.

He donned his best chain mail and strode to the keep, Mjolnir humming in his grip. At least he would put up a fight.

Inside the keep’s hall, the wizard stood alone. His face looked pale and drawn.

“I used to rule the valley,” Eldric said, almost in a whisper, leaning on his staff. “See everything with my magic. But a wizard doesn't live forever. The poison damp of the Hidden Brook is in my veins.”

Sigrun lowered his hammer. “Why summon me, then? To strike me dead before your end?”

Eldric shook his head. “No. Our people need to fight without me, or you, at their backs. The cavalry from the plains brought news. A vast army approaches, led by Valthor the Conqueror from the Southern Empire. He plans to steal our Draumfyr, the eternal flame that powers the Valley of Mimir. The source of our magic, our strength, our lifeblood.”

The Draumfyr burned in the heart of the Temple of Heroes, a mystical fire said to be the breath of a dragon, granting the valley its fertile soils, protective mists, and unbreakable warriors.

“But our soldiers are a rabble of discontented youth,” Eldric continued. “Unskilled young warriors, more interested in songs and wine than battle.”

Sigrun's eyes narrowed. “What would you have me do?”

“You must be their taskmaster,” Eldric said. “Forge them with stone and cold. Teach them as you were taught.”

As Eldric slumped weakly into his chair, Sigrun felt the weight of history settle on him. The taskmaster. A many hated by many, respected by some, but feared by all. He would become taskmaster to forge an army able to save the Valley of Mimir. He couldn’t defeat Valthor the Conqueror’s army alone.

On the second fortnight, the wizard gathered the young soldiers of the valley. Three thousand, they barely looked like warriors. In the grand courtyard of Joseyrr Castle, they giggled and jostled each other as Eldric told them of the danger threatening from the south.

Sigrun smashed Mjolnir down, the boom silencing the crowd like a thunderclap. “Silence!” Fire and rage burned in Sigrun’s eyes. The young warriors straightened, gazing at their new taskmaster with a mix of fear and awe.

Sigrun presented the Medal of the Dragons—a gleaming medallion shaped like a coiled serpent—to the hero who had slain the last Djaur worm with a palladium crossbow. “Eternal glory is what awaits the worthy,” he declared.

In his mind, he saw the training they would endure–swimming Driftfjord's depths, hauling stones until their hands bled, sleeping in cold mountain perches. He will forge true warriors.

He looked out over their ranks, his heart swelling. No longer would he be proud of his own deeds; he would be proud of the army of the Valley of Heroes, rising to meet their challenge.

Among the sea of faces, Sigrun's gaze found Freyja. No longer did she look upon him with judgment. Her eyes shone with pride, and a spark of the warrior spirit the valley had kindled within her.