Head of the Dragon: Part II

by Cooper Heilmann, staff writer

Link to Part I: http://sturgisstormwatch.blogspot.com/2012/03/head-of-dragon-part-i.html 

The frozen grass crunched under the feet of a young boy.  The early morning sun cast its waking gaze over the twinkling grass.  The boy plodded up the hill, enjoying the warmth of the sun from the east.  When he reached the top of the hill, he was standing on the edge of a sea cliff.  To his right was the fjord that led to the docks of his village.  To the left, the untamed coast stretched south for miles.
Eric always loved to come here.  He was fifteen years old, and he stood tall and proud.  He was rather muscular for his age.  He had matted blond hair and piercing blue eyes, like the half-melted ice in the later spring months.  His thick eyebrows rested on his low forehead.  Some people said that he didn’t look at all like his father.
Eric tried not to think about his father, Hrothgar.  He had been lost at sea when Eric was only eight years old.  Other ships had returned from his father’s expedition, but every time Eric asked them what had happened, they said his ship had been caught on an iceberg.  They seemed to shun the question whenever it was asked.  When they did talk about Hrothgar, they did so in hushed voices.  Ever since the day he had awaited Hrothgar’s return on the docks, Eric had come up to this point.  Every morning, he watched the sea, as if his father’s ship would appear.
Deep inside, Eric didn’t believe that his father had hit an iceburg.  Hrothgar was the finest warrior for miles around.  He had wrestled a bear naked, driven out an enemy Viking village, and swam from the pier to the docks in the middle of winter.  He was also an excellent sailor.  Hrothgar was appointed the leader of a raid on some villages far up the north coast.  He never returned.  Eric sighed and walked back to his village.  On the way there, he met his uncle Bjorn.
“Oh hello, Eric,” he said.  “Up early again, eh?”  Eric nodded.  “I see.  By the way, the blacksmith wants you there early today, so I suggest you get going,” Bjorn said.  
“Okay, goodbye uncle,” Eric said.  He headed down the slope.
Eric’s village was at the mouth of a fjord leading into the North Sea.  On land, it was surrounded on three sides by a dense forest that the villagers called “Wolfwood”.  To the south, the faint ghost of a road wound down a cliff and disappeared into the hills.  No one ever left Eric’s village except to hunt or cut wood.  They had set up a permanent, though small, residence.
Eric worked as the blacksmith’s assistant.  He enjoyed the job.  It was hard work, but it was worth it.  He pumped the furnace and watched the flames melt and twist the hot iron into weapons and other items.  Then the blacksmith would bend and hammer, bend and hammer until the iron changed shape into tools ranging from horseshoes to swords.
As always, smoke billowed in a thick black cloud from the small building ahead of him.  Eric walked in the door and began his work.  The forge rang with the sound of strong hammers on steel, like the song of the Valkyries when the Aurora Borealis lit up the sky.