As if it knew his innermost thoughts, the treasure called to him from inside the dark cave.
Unable to resist the inexorable pull, Sigurd entered the dragon’s lair.
As he cast his awestruck gaze over the piles of silver, gold, and gleaming gems, theouroborosblazed above his poundingheart. For there—just as Brynhildr had described them—were the trio of items from herseiðrvision.
Dragon wings unfurled on either side of a molten gold helmet, its spiked crown shaped like Fáfnir’s fearsome head. The jagged maw of the roaring beast gaped open, poised to strike at anyone who dared approach. Above the noseguard, where the flared nostrils of the beast scented its petrified prey, a pair of emerald eyes burned with watchful, otherworldly fire.
At its side, a goldenbrynjaof magnificent chainmail, its countless interlocking links woven like brilliant rays of the sun, thrummed with radiant power.
And atop a wooden chest, its coiled dragon shape set with the same emerald eyes as the winged helm, lay a goldenouroborosring—the verymark of the dragonwhich bound his soul to Brynhildr. When Sigurd slid the ring onto his finger, the sudden surge ofseiðrknocked him to his knees.
Bolstered by the blood of the dragon, theouroborospulsing on his hand and upon his chest, Sigurd rose to his feet and scanned the treasure spread before him.
With this gold, I can purchase more ships, gather warriors, and sail to Sweden. Clad in the winged helm and golden brynja, wielding my faðir’s reforged sword, I shall at last avenge his death—by slaying King Lyngvi of Götaland.
Sigurd was anxious to try on the glittering armor and dragon helmet, but first, he needed to wash the sticky green gore which clung to his body.
When he returned to the tent to fetchBlárúlfrand clean clothing from his pack, Grani tossed his mane and nickered, trotting across the meadow toward Sigurd.
“I’ll be back soon,” he said, stroking the stallion’s silver muzzle. “I must wash.”
Dark eyes bright, Grani stomped the grass, as if he knew what Sigurd had done and sensed his newfound power.
Sigurd strode briskly to the sunlit lake, its cool, enticing ripples a sharp contrast to thedragonfirethat scorched his veins. Away from the beaten, barren path gouged by the dragon’s claws and mammoth body, he walked to an area where the bank grew thick and green with life. Laying his wolfskin cloak upon the grass, he immersedGramrin the cleansing water, dried the sword with a clean linen cloth, and set it down in the warm sun. He dipped the cloth in the lake, thoroughly wiped the green gore from his wolfskin scabbard, leather belt, and boots, setting them besideGramrandBlárúlfras he shed his blood-soaked clothing.
He waded into the lake, cold water biting at his bare skin, and dove beneath the surface to rinse the blood from his body, beard, and hair. When he emerged, skin tingling, he was revitalized, invigorated, and refreshed. After quickly drying off, he donned clean garments and boots, strappingGramrin the wolfskin scabbard at his hip. WithBlárúlfrfolded over his arm, he returned to the dragon’s lair, eager to try on the winged helm and golden armor.
Sigurd pulled the gleamingbrynjaover his head, smoothing the radiant metal links over his woolen tunic. He latched the dragon helm beneath his bearded chin, then securedBlárúlfrover the crown, draping it across his armored shoulders and securing it with the snarling wolf head brooch. As the blue-grey wolfskin infused him withSjórúlfarstrength, Sigurd’s Sea Wolf spirit surged.
He had reforged hisfaðir’slegendary sword withÚlfblóðr.
He’d passed a trial at the river crossing and now owned an otherworldly steed.
He’d slain the dragon Fáfnir and claimed its hoard of treasure, including the trio of enchanted items Brynhildr had foreseen in herseiðrvision.
And now, fortified bydragonblood, he had the uncanny ability to understand birds.
Returning to the forested ledge, Sigurd packed up the tent and supplies. He led Grani and the pony to the mouth of the dragon’s lair where he loaded the treasure onto their sturdy backs.
And slipping onto his silver stallion, returned to the waterfall cave.
Chapter 17
Thorn of Sleep
The otherworldly spear hurled into the grass before Brynhildr’s feet was still quivering from the jarring impact when an enormous shadow swept across the sunlit meadow ofSessrúmnir.While she stood with Freyja and the other Valkyries outside the glowing walls of the Amber Hall, a towering figure descended from the swirling clouds.
Odin emerged from the churning sky, his long woolen cloak the color of storm clouds, its pointed hood concealing his shadowed, scowling visage. Runes glimmered along the hem and sleeves, pulsing with visible power.
Wrath radiated from him like heat from a flaming forge. With a swift, deliberate jerk of his skeletal hand, he drew back his hood and fixed a single piercing eye upon her. Wrinkles ravaged his livid face, long grey hair hanging over the empty socket, stringy beard falling to the woven cord at his waist.
Brynhildr’s heart leapt to her throat.
“No Valkyrie has ever defied the web ofwyrd.” Odin’s rumble rolled like thunder. “Agnar the Bear was fated to fall, a berserker claimed for Valhalla. King Hjálmgunnar was fated to triumph. Yet you broke him upon the field.”
He grasped the quivering spear, pullingGugnirfree from the grass before Brynhildr’s shaking legs. “Of all my Valkyries,” Odin wheezed, rasping like wind though dead leaves, “youalone dared this. And for your defiance, you shall now face judgement.”
An icy wind whipped across the warm meadow ofSessrúmnir,the acrid odor of frosted iron filling the salty air. Tremors rumbled in the earth, shaking the ground beneath her booted feet.
