The Forging Of The Sword

I was told of a great chief
A man of honour and pride
He ruled the land of Gardariki
With firm and just hand.

One day deep into the forest he rode
But as the sun went down over the treetops
He saw by a huge and age-old rock
The silhouettes of two dwarves.

Sigrlami drew his sword over them
And demanded of them their names
One was Dulin, the other Dvalin
Renowned were they for their craftsmanship.

Sigrlami spoke:
“Forge me a sword that will bring victory
It shall bite iron like cloth
And never rust!”

The dwarves reluctantly accepted the task
For they held their lives dear
They went to their ancient smithy
To begin the work on the enchanted blade.

Day and night they worked
The hammers fell heavily on the anvil
And on the final day when the sword was complete
Sigrlami claimed what was rightfully his.

This curse Dvalin spoke
“May that sword be a man's bane
each time it is drawn!
It will be the death of your kin!”

Furious with this treachery
Sigrlami attacked the dwarves
But they sprang back into the rock
From whence they had come.

Sigrlami took with him the cursed blade
He gave it the name Tyrfing.

Never could Tyrfing be wielded without killing a man
Always covered in warm blood it would be sheathed.

Thus the forging of the sword came to be.