The wind tore at his sodden hair as Sigurd lay sprawled across the frosted gorse, chest heaving, muscles twitching from cold and exertion. Under the clear night sky, the roar of the waterfall crashed into the fjord far below. Spray hissed as it rose against the craggy cliff, amidst the crackle of the bonfire within the stone-enclosed hearth and the flickering torches which encircled the tall standing stone.
The monolith jutted skyward like a sentinel, its rough surface carved with the snarling face of a savage wolf whose eyes glinted in the moonlight, dark pits daring him to venture close. Suspended on a black leather cord from its carved maw,Úlfkló—theWolfclawtalisman— rocked in the howling wind.
Sigurd slowly rose on badly shaking legs, staggering across the icy clearing and placing his numb fingers on the sacredrock. He reached up and claimed the enchanted amulet, tying it behind his neck under his long braided hair. While the wind tore across the clifftop, whipping his bearded face, a rush of power surged through his limbs as the spirit of the wolf seeped into his veins.
TheSea Wolfwarriors closed in around him, low growls of approval and acceptance rising into a feral, unified howl that echoed across the cliff and rolled over the moonlit fjord.
When the howl subsided, Hróðvarr Ironfang, the leader of the pack, approached Sigurd, lupine eyes glinting in the torchlight. “Three brutal days, three tortured nights… nine agonizing trials. You have proven yourself worthy. You are one of us now.”
Woolen tunic and breeches dripping with sea water, Sigurd knelt before Hródvarr, violently shivering in the icy wind. When he looked up, fierce pride blazed in his mentor’s feral gaze.
Ironfang unsheathed an elaborate dagger from his leather belt, ceremoniously slicing a shallow line across his palm, then another inside Sigurd’s. As their blood mingled in a firm press of hands, sealing the sacred ritual, Hródvarr’s deep voice rose above the howling wind. “You must swear a blood oath to theSjórúlfar.”
Heart hammering, throat parched, limbs shaking with exhaustion and exhilaration, Sigurd swore his solemn vow as a Sea Wolf. “I swear my blood, my fangs, and my howl to theSjórúlfar.I shall be loyal to the pack until my dying breath.”
Hróðvarr inclined his head, acknowledging Sigurd’s blood oath. He sheathed the ornate dagger, slid the embellished leather scabbard from his belt, and offered the encased weapon to Sigurd. “In addition to theÚlfklótalisman which will protect you henceforth as a wolf warrior, I hereby bestow upon you thisÚlfhjartadagger.”
Sigurd accepted theWolfheartblade whose bone hilt was intricately carved into the snarling head of a wolf. The lapis lazuli eyes of the beast glittered in the moonglow. The grey sealskin leather sheath was trimmed with wolf fur and inscribed with runes. When Sigurd withdrew the gleaming blade from the scabbard, the jagged fangs and curling waves etched along the spine shimmered with movement in the firelight. He gripped the hilt, feeling the pulse of the wolf within as Hródvarr’s deep voice floated on the howling wind.
“Made from the bones of the wolf whose fur will now cloak you as one of us.”
At their leader’s gesture, Eyvindr—theÚlfhéðinnwho had taught Sigurd to balance, command, and fight ondrakkarandsnekkjawarships—came forward with a magnificent wolfskin cloak of silvery blue fur. “Perfect for a Sea Wolf,” he quipped, his bearded face breaking into a broad grin as he handed the cloak to Hródvarr, who majestically draped it across Sigurd’s shaking shoulders.
“Three sacred items to mark you as one of King Álfr’s elite Sea Wolves.Úlfkló,the Wolfclaw talisman.Úlfhjarta,the Wolfheart dagger. AndBlárúlfr—this Bluewolf cloak. All from the same majestic animal whose essence shall imbue yours as a Sea Wolf.”
Sigurd adjusted the massive head of the blue wolf low over his own brow. The weight and warmth of the wolfskin enveloped him with the fierce spirit of the noble animal, infusing every sinew with solemn strength and sublime power.
Hastein Wolftooth, the brutal warrior who taught Sigurd to smash shields with his sword, placed a small horn of water to Sigurd’s parched lips.
He drank greedily with a grateful groan.
And when Styrkar the Beast offered him an elaborately carved elkhorn of mead, Sigurd savored the warmth as itseeped into his chilled bones, steadying his trembling limbs and pounding heart.
“Come, sit by the fire while I mark you as one of the pack.” Kveld, the Nightwolf, approached Sigurd, his black wolfskin cloak gleaming, the amber eyes of the beast atop his dark head glowing with otherworldly light.
When Sigurd lowered himself to the heathered ground, Kveld pulled up a stone and perched upon it like a stool. With a bone needle, he punctured the skin of Sigurd’s right forearm, embedding the mixture of black soot and seal oil to form the sacred wolf paw print, the distinguishing mark of theSjórúlfarSea Wolves of southern Norway.
When Kveld finished the last puncture, Sigurd’s arm burned, the ash and oil mixture stinging and warm against his frosted skin. The Nightwolf lowered the bone needle, nodding solemnly, pleased with the striking wolf paw tattoo.
While Eyvindr Waverunner distributed elkhorns to all nine members of the pack, including Sigurd, Styrkar the Beast removed the snug cap from a small wooden barrel and poured golden mead into each drinking vessel. When all were filled, Hróðvarr Ironfang raised his horn, firelight glinting off the glistening grey wolf fur of his magnificent cloak. “To Sigurd Sea Wolf!” His deep growl rolled across the clifftop, carried by the whistling wind and the roaring waterfall.
The pack echoed the toast with sharp, rising howls, a feral call that floated through the starlit night and up to the opalescent moon.
Sigurd drank deeply, the warm glow of mead and brotherhood of the wolf reviving his depleted strength and spirit.When he lowered the horn, he lifted his own voice in a raw, jubilant howl, joining the cry of his pack. The triumphant wail rose over fjord and forest, sealing him as one of theSjórúlfar— a Sea Wolf, eternally bound by blood and oath.
Chapter 2
The Sun Falcon
The jarring clang of steel rang out over the windswept courtyard of Hrafnfjall. Far below, the dark waters of the Sognefjorden churned against the towering cliffs, sending up cold mist that drifted over the imposing fortress like protective fingers from the fjord. Ravens traced circles overhead, their sharp cries piercing the clear morning sky. Brynhildr glanced up at them as she adjusted her footing. The black-winged heralds—for which herfaðirKing Budli’s royal hall was aptly named—were Odin’s watchful eyes, measuring her every deed.
Ulric Ironshield planted his heavy boots on the frosted flagstones and steadied his stance. Broad as a mountain pine with limbs as thick and solid as oak, he was a veteran of countless raids, battles, and duels. But her trainer’s breath thinned as she circled him, waiting for the right moment to strike.
Frost glimmered on the stones beneath her booted feet, glinting in the morning sun like the veins of crystal which sparkled in the cliffs below the fortress. The salty spring air tasted crisp, clean, and alive. Her pulse thrummed as her fingers tightened around the hilt of her sword. She searched Ulric’s eyes, noting the slight twitch in his shield arm.
Like a flash of sunlight across the fjord, she spun low, ducking under his shield and vaulting gracefully to the side, her sword tracing a silver arc that forced him back into adefensive shift. She whirled again, a cyclone of golden hair and flashing steel, each strike flowing seamlessly in a flurry of quick thrusts and slicing cuts. With a final spinning sweep that left the courtyard ringing, she landed a stunning blow which Ulric blocked, sending sparks skittering across the frosty stones and pain searing up her sword arm.
“Enough!” she gasped, chest heaving, the impact knocking her to the ground. “I yield.”
