This is a story of a sword called Tyrfing.
The sword was created when a man named Sigrlami sneaked up on two dwarves one night and blocked their way back to the safety of their cave. He threatened to keep them trapped on the surface of the earth until the sun came up and turned them to stone, unless they agreed to forge a perfect sword for him.
The dwarves made Sigrlami a beautiful sword, but as they gave him the sword, they put a curse on it, saying that every time Tyrfing was drawn from its sheath, it must be sheathed in blood before it could be put back.
But Sigrlami was a warrior and he didn’t think that was a curse.
So his sword Tyrfing brought him great wealth and fame, because every time it was drawn, it had to spill blood.
He passed Tyrfing on to his first-born son, who won fame, then passed Tyrfing on to his first-born son, who won fame, then passed Tyrfing on to his first-born son… As the sword was passed down from father to son, the curse got stronger and stronger, and the sword spilt more and more blood.
Until the last of the line of first-born sons, Angantyr, carried Tyrfing into battle with his eleven brothers by his side, and much blood was spilled, including the life blood of all twelve brothers.
Because the sword was cursed, and because Angantyr had no sons, the sword was buried with him. Twelve brothers and their swords were all buried together on a small island.
Angantyr had no sons, but he did have a daughter. Hervor was a baby when her father and uncles died. As she grew up, she didn’t want to learn embroidery or baking or fancy ways to plait her hair. She wrestled with the local boys and learnt to fight with wooden sticks. She wanted to be a warrior and a pirate, battling and raiding, winning fame and fortune.
So when Hervor was grown, she announced that she would be a Viking, like her father and uncles, like her grandfather and great-grandfather. She announced that she would lead a shipload of warriors, she would raid the sea and the coasts, and she would bring gold and fame back home.
But no-one followed her. Why would they? She was a girl and she was unproven.
Hervor needed to prove herself. She needed to show who she was and who she could be. She needed Tyrfing, her father’s famous sword.
So she paid a boatman to take her to the island where her father’s body was buried. As they rowed nearer the island’s shore, the boatman said, “It’s almost dusk. The locals say the island is haunted at night. I’m not rowing any closer, and if you take my advice, girl, you won’t go ashore either.”
Hervor shrugged. “If it’s haunted, it’s haunted by my family.”
She leapt into the water and swam ashore.
Then she started to walk to the middle of the small island. Though it was a clear night on the water, the island was covered in fog. Knee-high fog, clammy and clinging, heavy and hard to push aside. Hervor waded through the fog and with every step she took, the fog moaned and groaned and howled around her legs.
She saw a high mound of earth ahead. It was the grave of her father and uncles. As she reached the mound, the earth burst into flames. She sprinted through the fire, her wet dress hissing round her.
She reached the top of the mound, balanced on the crumbling edge of a black pit, then jumped down and landed hard on dusty ground.
She stood up, surrounded by a circle of twelve tall pale men, each bloodied with wounds, all staring at her.
They whispered insults at her for waking them and took slow dragging steps towards her.
Hervor looked calmly around the circle. All the men had swords, but only one sword was glowing: the top of the blade of a gold-hilted, tightly sheathed sword glowed brightly in the hands of the tallest, bloodiest man.
“Father,” she called out. “Angantyr. Father. I am your daughter Hervor and I have come to claim my sword.”
The men stopped moving, but kept staring at her.
The man with the glowing sword shook his head, and his head creaked and wobbled on his shoulders. “But you are a girl. You cannot have this sword, you are not strong enough or brave enough to carry a sword with a blood curse.”
Hervor laughed. “I have swum ashore to a haunted island. I have waded through howling fog and run through grave-mound flames. I have leapt into a death pit and faced twelve bloodied ghosts. Am I not brave and strong, Father?”
Her father simply said, “If you think you want Tyrfing, then come and take it.”
Hervor stepped forward and jerked the sword out of his cold grip. “I have the sword now, I carry the responsibility of the blood curse. Now you can all lie down and go back to your long sleep.”
The men lay down, and Hervor hauled herself out of the grave, walked through the cool, clear night to the shore, then swam out to the boat waiting a safe distance away.
Hervor told the story of the grave and the sword to all who would listen, and men knew that the sword’s curse gave it power, so they followed her willingly. Hervor gathered a shipload of Vikings, she fought in many famous battles and led many successful raids. And her sword was never drawn from its sheath without being sheathed in blood. But Hervor didn’t think that was a curse, because with Tyrfing in her hand Hervor spilled the blood of enough men to became rich and respected.
When Hervor grew old she gave Tyrfing to her sons. What happened to them is another story, but it’s not a peaceful or cheerful one, because the dwarf-made sword still carried its curse…
