Many have heard the Song of Siegfried and how that brave warrior slew the evil dragon, Fafnir. A dragon so bloated with greed and the lust for gold, that he resorted to murder in order to curl his claws lovingly around a glittering, frigid treasure deep within the heart of the Mountain Palace.

A good song. One worthy of Siegfried. 

Unfortunately, also one woven out of nothing more reliable than pernicious rumour, and the ever-active imaginations of wispy-bearded bards hoping to ingratiate themselves with a lord in exchange for a roof over their head, and a leg of rabbit hot from the spit.

Siegfried did come, that part is true, but he never raised a hand against me. In all the hours he spent in the Mountain, drinking my mead and warming himself by my hearth, in all those hours his sword never left its sheath.

There are three Gates into the Mountain, all hidden by rock and ice, or by sea and wind. I keep the Eastern one, the lowest and most vulnerable entrance to our kingdom.

It was that Gate that Siegfried came to, seeking to decorate the tip of his sword with my blood.

I did not make him waste his time picking the Great Lock with its hundreds of springs and feathers, although I could have kept him out for months that way. I could have stood in the wide hall that houses the Gate, joking and grinning with the rest of my guards, listening to his scratchings and curses as he tried, and broke, every tool he had. Every tool he could fashion.

The truth is, The Great Lock can only be opened from the outside by one singular key: the first ray of the sun on the longest and shortest days of the year. At that moment, the huge iron bolt retracts from the dark pit in the rock were it lies sleeping for most of the year. Its springs whirl and tremble until the vibrations caused by the tickling of the slim fingers of the new sun open the Gate just a crack.

That crack is all anyone needs to find their way into our dark home. Whether by design or by accident, it makes no difference.

There are only a few individuals alive who know the correct key, and it raised my eyebrows in surprise that the one who sent Siegfried had not told him about it. Had he wanted the great hero frustrated, his bravery and renown tested? Did he want to build up the legend of Fafnir to attract more, and more self-proclaimed, heroes to my door? If the great Siegfried failed, would a hundred minor Siegfrieds eventually succeed?

As I said, I could have kept him out for months, but I chose not to. 

He came in the spring when the snows had almost melted away and laid the forecourt bare,  massive icicles hanging down like the teeth of a monster, cracking and dissipating into small streams trickling through the crevices in the rocks below.

The bronze raven I'd once fashioned as a gift for my father flew in through slits in the high Southern Gate, and was brought down to me thorough the tunnels and caverns. In the bird's limpid, glowing eyes, I saw the image of a man, tall and girded with sword and a light pack, climbing steadily towards the Eastern Gate. The runes stained into his sleeves and the mark of Thor on his brow told me who he was, but not what he wanted.

I laid aside my cup, unwound the fur blanket from my shoulders, and walked to the Eastern Gate to welcome him. I opened it for him myself, alone, a small, muscular Mountain Dwarf with blond braids and a short, blond beard gradually moulting into white. Nothing like the steam-seething worm of a dragon he was expecting, as he would later tell me, a disbelieving shake already beginning to creep into his gestures.

"Your fame proceeds you, Siegfried," I said, in a hospitable manner. "But first a question. Do you know who I am?"

Siegfried stood a good many paces away, eyeing me closely. Then, he sent his gaze on a journey beyond me to wander in a circle, taking in the Gate that had appeared out of the rock, the icicles, the thick, wooden support beams of the door and the hall beyond, the sheet rock of the forecourt, the lovely mosaic where the grey stone meets the tiles of the interior, and then back to myself.

"No," came the honest answer. "I cannot say that your fame proceeds you, friend. Although, I imagine you are the Gatekeeper here." Siegfried was at a loss for how to proceed, his eyes still watchful and unsettled. "I have been told that there is a dangerous and murdering dragon known in these parts by the name of Fafnir. It is said to have its den in this Mountain, hoarding the gold and jewels of the Mountain King for itself," he said after the span of ten breaths, weighing his words as if each one was costly and rare.

The hobgoblin that makes its home deep within me stirred ever so slightly at hearing my name spoken in that fashion. Over centuries I have painstakingly learned to control that wild goblin, keep it hidden and tame. With a firm nudge, I forced it back into its resting place and warned it to say quiet.

"I have come to challenge and defeat Fafnir", Siegfried continued. "Tell me where to find him, Gatekeeper, and I will rid you and your people of him before the day is out, if that is the will of Odin."

Odin. Of course. How could it be otherwise.

I conjured my kindest smile onto my lips and a calm tone into my voice as I gently replied to him, although gentle was the last thing I felt.

"You were informed falsely and the will of Odin has little sway in this Kingdom. There is no dragon here for you to kill, nor any treasure for you to carry back to your wife, brave Siegfried. I am King Fafnir."

Siegfried's eyes widened and his gloved hand moved automatically to the pommel of his sword.

"You are Fafnir?"

"And clearly not a dragon, so stay your sword. My curiosity is piqued. Who told you I was? Who tempted you to come all this way through the mountain ranges with the promise of as much gold as you could carry, hm? For I'm sure it was the promise of gold that kept you warm all the way here."

That was perhaps not entirely fair, but it had the desired effect. Siegfried squared his shoulders, threw back his head and declared his master.

"I was sent here by the rightful heir of King Eormarth, a wise and honourable dwarf by the name of Regin."

Of course. First Odin, then Regin. How much those two names had entangled themselves in my mind over the years. They are almost two versions of the same being to me, and I would be hard pressed to say which version I distrust more.

I shook my head, and perhaps my shoulders drooped a little. "Again, you have been falsely informed. Regin was never the rightful heir, but you couldn't know that. Enter my kingdom, Siegfried, under the sacred oath of hospitality, and I shall tell you what your wise and honourable dwarf is really like."

I turned and retreated back into the Gate's Hall without glancing behind me. I was sure he'd follow, as I'd offered him protection. And besides, for a human, it was quite cold outside.

He did hesitate, but eventually he came in and the Gate was closed behind him with a long groan.

The Mountain guards eyed Siegfried from under their helmets as he cautiously entered the first of the caverns that make up the halls of my Palace. The corners of their mouths turned down in disapproval at the sight of his sword. I knew one of them would step forward and demand it from him, guest or not. A placating gesture from me crossed their arms over their chests in reluctant obedience and they stayed silent and unmoving at the edges of the darkness.

I led Siegfried into the smallest and warmest of the guard's rooms, filling a cup for him and stoking the fire with my own hand. The room was thickly panelled in tapestries showing hunting scenes in the fjords and although dwarf weavings may not be as delicate or vibrant as the tapestries of men, they do keep out the drafts.

Siegfried eventually thawed, laying down his pack and unstrapping his sword, removing his boots and stretching out in a chair.

I have no quarrel with Siegfried. May the bards praise his name until they grow old and perish still clutching their harps. He is an honourable man with a pure heart. Too honourable to spot lies hidden under the wolfish pelt of the truth, as I learned as soon as he began to speak.

All that Regin had filled his mind with was this: Kill Fafnir, that murdering dragon who lies at the Eastern gate of the Mountain Palace. Kill him and his gold and power will be yours.

Poor Siegfried. After I'd heard his tale, I gifted him a silver brooch with a little bit of magic smithed into it. That was only so that he would not return to his own land empty handed, complaining of my austerity.

And he did give me something of great value in return: the saga my brother was in the process of weaving that would soon be sung in the halls of gold givers throughout the lands of men. The song of the evil dragon and his immeasurable treasure deep in the heart of a high, mountain fortress. The song of a dwarf who was as dark on the inside as on the outside. One who was corrupted by the love of gold until he was reduced to nothing more than a slithering, blind snake, ringing himself round and around his treasure, biting himself in his own tail so that no one could take a single ingot from him.

I did not kill our father and I have never cared much for stones or gold for their own sake. They are nothing more than pleasing decorations to me or the materials with which one can make useful things. But that was never true of Regin.

When Siegfried finished telling me his story, I refilled his cup and told him mine. Siegfried is no bard; I knew he would never relate my song to human listeners in a hall when the nights lengthened and stories of treachery, murder and gold were in high demand. He would listen and hold my words somewhere to the left of his heart, but they would not remerge from his mouth to be heard by foreign ears. 

So, it is left to me to do it.

Therefore, tilt your heads now, you mortal men who are so easily bored in the dark, frigid nights of winter. Fill your cups and listen to the Song of Fafnir the Smith, the strongest and toughest of the sons of the Mountain King.