The Nightwolf polished the band with a soft cloth and tucked it securely inside a leather pouch belted at his waist. He looked up at Sigurd, amber eyes afire with otherworldly wisdom. “Theouroborosabove your heart will guide you to Brynhildr.” His deep, melodic voice was mellow as a lute. “The dragon’s blood of Fáfnir will shield your hardened skin from theRing of Fire. And your silver stallion will fly through the cursed flames.”
Sigurd was stunned. “But horses fear fire…”
“Grani is no ordinary horse.” A sly grin slid across the Nightwolf’s inked, bearded face. “Why do you think you encountered a one-eyed wanderer, vainly trying to cross a raging river with nine horses—along your very path to the dragon’s lair?” Kveld stood and stretched his long, lanky legs, smoothing the black wolfskin which draped his broad shoulders. His piercing stare penetrated Sigurd’s Sea Wolf soul. “You were destined to reforge yourfaðir’ssword,” he rumbled, sendingseiðrthrough Sigurd’s shaking limbs. “Fated to slay Fáfnir…find Grani…and free Brynhildr from theRing of Fire.”
Gripping both of his wolfskin-clad shoulders in fierce affection and lupine brotherhood, Kveld’s haunting gaze held Sigurd fast. “The coil of theouroborosshall soon close. And seal the wolf and falcon withdragonfire—in the Norn’s web ofwyrd.”
As the Nightwolf’s haunting words hovered in the moonglow, Sigurd remembered the night he had first become a Sea Wolf. Atop the cliff overlooking the moonlit fjord, Eldsjá—the crimson-hairedvölvawith the gold-painted face—had foreseen his fate throughfiresight.
Bronze diadem like molten copper atop her long flaming locks…gnarled black staff with the head of a raven, its amber eyes watching for Odin… her cryptic words crept into Sigurd’s reeling mind.
“In fire shall the God-sword be reforged.
Through fire shall the Wolf ride the wind-borne steed.
The Green Wyrm shall fall to the Sea Wolf.
And the coil shall seal the web of wyrd.”
As Sigurd grappled with prophecy, portents, and premonition, Hálfdan’s voice cut through the stillness of the starlit night. “Food’s ready, Sigurd. Come—eat before it goes cold.”
* * * *
Two days later, they came upon a remote monastery at the base of an alpine valley where a sparkling stream flowed down a mountain, past an enclave of small stone buildings gathered around a large cloistered chapel. As they rode down the grassy slope, a wrinkled monk—the upper half of his head shorn, a large cross hanging over his long brown robe secured with a white rope belt—came out to greet them.
At the sight of the fearsome blue and black wolfskins, Sigurd’s winged dragon helm, and the burlyhúskarlarwith gleaming chainmail armor and swords, stark terror glinted in the monk’s widened eyes.“Bonjour, messieurs,” he stammered, nearly breathless with fright.“Bienvenue à l’ Abbaye Saint Bernard de la Source.”
Sigurd glanced hopelessly at Kveld, Tryggvi, and Hálfdan. Although he understood a smattering of the Frankish tongue—enough to know the monk had greeted them—neither he nor his companions knew how to respond.
Realizing there was a language barrier, the elderly monk nodded and held up a wizened hand, as if asking them to wait. “Attendez.Je reviens tout de suite.” He disappeared into the large building and returned a few moments later accompanied by a fellow monk who bore the same partially shorn head, Christian cross, and brown woolen robe, but with Nordic runes and scrolls inked upon his wide forearms. Clearly a former Viking warrior, his right hand was gruesomely mutilated, missing all but thumb and forefinger. The fanged maw of a snarling wolf was tattooed around his thick, corded neck.
“Welcome to the Abbey of Saint Bernard of the Spring.” he greeted them in Norse. “I am Brother Pierre, formerly called Stigr. We are honored to offer you shelter. Indeed, that is our divine purpose, to welcome weary travelers… and the wounded, who seek healing from our sacred spring.” He scanned the fourmounted warriors. “Do you seek lodging for the night, or is one of you injured?”
Kveld inclined his black wolfskin-clad head. “We seek lodging for tonight, and until ourbroðirreturns…” he said, indicating Sigurd, “…with a young woman in need of healing.”
“Then you are welcome within these walls.” Blond hair framing the lower half of his head like a reverse humble crown, Brother Pierre gestured to two monks who came out of the monastery and warily approached. “Let Brother Paul and Brother Benoît tend to the horses.” He indicated the pair of reluctant friars who had joined them, “And I shall take you to your quarters.”
Sigurd, Kveld, and the twohúskarlardismounted, handing the reins to the leery monks.
Brother Pierre led them along a narrow cobbled path that wound past the large chapel, toward several small stone buildings nestled at the edge of a forested meadow splattered with white star-shaped flowers. “This cottage is for the twoÚlfhéðnar,” he grinned, nodding to Sigurd and Kveld as he unlocked the thick wooden door with a key from his belt. “Thehúskarlarare rightnext door.” He opened the heavy oak entrance to the adjacent cottage with a second key. “Simple, but warm. You will find beds, blankets, and a hearth to chase away the alpine chill. Bathe in the spring—it’s cold, but rejuvenating.” He pointed to a rustic bar of soap on the table. “Made fromedelweiss,” he said proudly, awe lacing his deep, gruff voice. “The sacred white flowers shaped like stars. Pure as the crystalline spring.”
With a gruff nod, he turned away. “I’ll leave you to get settled. When you hear the ringing of the bells, come to the refectory for dinner.” He pointed to a long stone building which abutted the chapel. “Until this evening.” Brother Pierrestrode across the sunlit grassy meadow strewn with luminousedelweiss.
Inside the rustic cottage, a stone hearth faced the entrance, flanked by a pair of long, narrow beds on opposite walls. A small window opened onto the grassy meadow, where the healing waters of the sacred spring sparkled in the sunlight.
“I’ll start a fire,” Kveld announced, retrieving thefiresteeltool from his leather belt. He struck the flint against the metal, coaxing tiny sparks into roaring flames. “I cannot wait to bathe,” he growled, hanging his black wolfskin on a hook near the oaken door. “And wash these filthy clothes.” He shed the garments he’d been wearing since they leftHeiðabýr. Although they had washed faces, hands, and teeth along the way, they had ridden hard for half a moon, not stopping to bathe or launder clothes. The Nightwolf fetched a clean tunic and breeches from his pack, laying them upon the bed he had chosen beneath the open window.
On the opposite side of the room, Sigurd did the same, hangingBlárúlfron a wooden hook beside Kveld’s black cloak, shedding his soiled garments and fetching the bar ofedelweisssoap. The light floral fragrance filled the crisp spring air.
A gentle waterfall cascaded down the craggy mountain, tumbling into a large recessed basin, where a bubbling underground spring fed a deep crystalline pool.
Sigurd’s Sea Wolf heart surged as he dove into the icy depths.
Kveld joined him, swimming beneath the surface from one side of the rock basin to another.
Sigurd removed the lapis beads from his braided hair and beard, setting them on the smooth rock edge of the pool, softened by moss and grass. The crystalline water was deep and clear, flowing over smooth stones where the underground spring met the waterfall cascade. As he lathered his blond hair andbeard, the floral scent ofedelweissfilled his lungs like the white wildflowers blooming in the dappled sun.
No wonder this is a sanctuary of healing.It’s the perfect balance of wilderness and serenity, to cleanse both body and soul.
