It seemed that he had passed this trial.
He swung onto Grani’s back, rode downstream, and crossed the river to return to Regin. Dismounting to secureBlárúlfrwith the snarling wolf brooch, he strappedGramrat his waist and vaulted onto Grani’s broad back, the silver stallion shifting beneath him.
Together, he and Regin guided their mounts across the river and continued along the winding trail.
They arrived at a forested ledge overlooking a stark ravine choked with ominous shadows and a rancid stench. Blackened stones and shattered bones littered the bare ground where no trees, plants, or grass remained alive. A yawning hollow in the rock base of a mountain revealed the dark mouth of a cavern strewn with piles of gold dulled by grime and age. A sour, venomous odor hung in the foul air, and the sickened earth bore deep grooves where the dragon’s immense body had dragged itself to and from the sheltered hoard. Within the gloom of the cave, Fáfnir rumbled — heavy, poisonous, and alive.
“Gnitaheiðr,” Regin hissed. “Fáfnir’s hidden lair.”
Inside the shadowed hollow, Sigurd spotted the immense serpentine body coiled atop heaping piles of gold and glittering gems. Dark green scales armored its thick reptilian hide, the sharp, jagged edges tinged in shimmering gold. Along his enormous spine rose a ridge of cruel spikes, running from his massive skull to the barbed tip of his powerful tail. Pointed and peaked, his vast wings flexed against the cavern walls. Greed glowed in his emerald eyes, and a forked tongue spilled from his fanged maw. Curved claws like hooked iron raked the stone beneath him, scoring deep furrows into the rock as he shifted atop his trove. Around him lay gnawed bones and the scattered spines of fish from the nearby lake, their decay mingling with the reek of venom and rot.
“We’ll set up camp here, so you can watch his movements and decide where to dig the pit.” Regin slid from his saddle and unloaded the tent, tools, and supplies he had strapped to the pony’s back. “The horses can graze over there,” he said, indicating a nearby meadow where the grass was still green, strewn with clusters of clover and wildflowers in bloom. “Fáfnir’s poison has not touched it.”
Sigurd pitched the tent while Regin unpacked dried fish, berries, nuts, and fruit. “I can hunt a few hare and grouse in the forest. But I fear the scent of fire and roasting meat will alert Fáfnir to our presence.”
“We’ll cook at dawn and dusk,” Regin replied. “When the beast goes down to the lake.”
That evening, as the setting sun gilded the pale sky, a deep rumble shook the earth, the tremors reverberating into Sigurd’s bones as the dragon emerged from his cavernous lair.
Sigurd watched with a blend of revulsion, horror, and anticipation as the beast dragged its enormous bulk along the grooved path toward the lake beyond the base of the mountain.
Taking advantage of the dragon’s departure, Regin started a fire and roasted on wooden skewers the two grouse that Sigurd had snared in traps.When the birds were done, they ate them straight from the skewers, the crisp, browned skin sealing in the tender, juicy meat.
“At first light, I’ll dig a trench there, at the bend,” Sigurd told Regin, pointing to a curve in the furrowed path which led to the dragon’s lair. “Cover it with moss, sticks, and leaves…and hide inside. When he drags himself over me, I’ll thrustGramrinto his exposed belly.”
Regin nodded, tearing the meat from his skewer with sharp, yellowed fangs. The greedy glint in his black eyes sent a shiver of dread down Sigurd’s spine.
At dawn, when the dragon left his lair, Sigurd removedBlárúlfr,folded it with reverence, and left it on his bedroll within the tent. His wolfskin cloak was sacred—his inner spirit as a Sea Wolf—and he did not wish to soil it with filthy mud inside the pit.
He fetched an iron spade from the supplies Regin had brought and with the sharp tool, dug into the packed soil near the bend in the path. As he cast aside the heavy clods of earth,the trench grew slowly, the ground stubborn and cold, until it was finally deep enough to hold him.
He covered the shallow pit with moss, brush, and a few loose branches, leaving a narrow gap for him to slide inside. UnsheathingGramr,Sigurd carefully lowered himself into the trench, reclining on his back, the earthen walls pressing against his shoulders as he arranged the covering above him. He clutched his sword, the blade angled upward, and slowed his breath to steady his thundering heart. As the wind whistled, rustling leaves from the forested ledge, his body lurched at every slight sound.
Soon, the ground trembled under heavy thuds. Fáfnir’s powerful legs shook the earth beneath him. Sigurd clenched his jaw, adrenaline coiling through his limbs like the tense, terrible moments before battle. The oppressive air of the pit reeked of damp soil and moss, the narrow trench dark and confining as a grave.
Heart hammering, limbs shaking, Sigurd waited until Fáfnir’s immense bulk pressed upon the pit covering directly above him. With all of his strength, he thrustGramrstraight upward, driving the wolfblood-forged sword deep into the dragon’s vulnerable belly. The beast roared in agony, thrashing its spiked tail, the earth trembling beneath its fury as blood gushed from its fatal wound and drenched Sigurd.
The blood burned with frigid cold as it seeped into his skin, like fire merged with icy frost. Certain the poison would kill him, Sigurd anticipated a gruesome death. But to his astonishment, his human flesh hardened instead, as if the dragon’s strength had passed into him through its blood. On the skin above his thundering heart, theouroborosblazed like a white-hot searing brand.
In the throes of death, the dragon convulsed, rolled away from the pit, and heaved its last foul breath.
Sigurd slowly emerged from the trench, covered head to foot in dark green blood. He stood over the slain beast,Gramrin hand, limbs shaking with shock, disgust, and triumph.
From behind him, Regin rushed down from the forested ledge, his raspy voice frantic and urgent. “Cut out his heart—and give it to me!”
Though he longed to wash the gore from his body by bathing in the lake, Sigurd cut into the dragon’s enormous body with his sword. But as he sawed through the scales and removed the beast’s heart, he inadvertently sliced his thumb with the razor-sharp blade. On reflex, he popped the wounded finger into his mouth.
And at the surprisingly rich, metallic taste of the dragon’s emerald green blood, Sigurd suddenly understood the language of birds.
“The dwarf Regin plans to kill you,” warned a falcon, perched on the limb of an oak in the forested ledge behind him. “He wants the treasure for himself. Turn around quickly—his dagger is drawn!”
Just as Regin arced his blade for the killing blow, Sigurd spun with his wolfblood sword.
And severed the vile head of the traitorous dwarf.
Breath heaving, he gazed down at the wretched, wrinkled face of the Dwarven blacksmith who had betrayed him.
No wonder Regin was willing to reforge my swords. He didn’t seek vengeance for his faðir’s murder—he needed me to slay the dragon so he could claim the treasure.
