His gut clenched as his thoughts turned to Brynhildr, cursed by frozen sleep, trapped within theRing of Fire.
Gods willing, I shall free her—and bring her to this sheltered refuge.
The sacred spring could purify, heal, and restore her. Here, in this divine sanctuary, she would be freed from pain, darkness, and icy torment.
Tryggvi and Hálfdan emerged from their cottage and joined Sigurd and Kveld in the pool. “Loki’s balls, it feels good to wash,” Tryggvi groaned, soaping his dark blond hair and beard.
“I look forward to sleeping in a bed for a change.” Hálfdan bellowed, his guttural laugh, thick brown beard, and gruesome scars reminding Sigurd of Agnar. “My bones ache from sleeping on the cold, hard ground.”
“Do we leave at dawn?” Tryggvi’s wistful gaze swept the wildflower-strewn meadow, the bubbling spring, and the sheltered sanctuary of the serene alpine valley.
“Nei,Sigurd must ride alone.” The Nightwolf’s deep growl rumbled over the soft rush of the waterfall. Amber eyes glowing gold in the setting sun, his otherworldly lupine gaze pierced Sigurd’s soul withseiðr. “He is fated to ride through theRing of Fireand save Brynhildr. We shall remain here until his return.”
Kveld scanned the pasture, where a small herd of thick-fleeced sheep grazed, a dozen chickens pecked at insects in the grass, and two pigs in a wooden pen slopped scraps of vegetables and grain. He nodded to the crumbling stone wall which stretched from the rear of the refectory to the stone enclosure ofthe waterfall pool. “We’ll restore that wall while Sigurd is gone—to repay the monks for their kindness.”
After drying, donning fresh clothes, and braiding beads into their hair and beards, Sigurd, Kveld, and the twohúskarlarwashed their soiled clothing in the spring and laid them across rocks to dry in the sun and crisp mountain air. Just as they’d finished, the bells from the refectory rang, summoning them to dinner.
As the bells ceased their final toll, Brother Pierre strode toward them, his brown woolen robe brushing the mist-soaked grass. “The evening meal is served,” he called in Norse, his gravelly voice carrying across the meadow. “Follow me.”
He led Sigurd, Kveld, Tryggvi, and Hálfdan through the wooden door into the rectangular stone building. The last rays of the setting sun slanted through narrow windows, falling onto a long trestle table where three monks—including the elderly abbot who had first welcomed them—were already seated, hands folded, heads bowed in quiet prayer. As Brother Pierre guided Sigurd, Kveld, and thehúskarlarto a bench on one side of the table, the monks rose, murmuring greetings in the Frankish language before resuming their seats on the opposite side.
The appetizing aroma of fresh bread and simmering stew was warm and welcoming after the chill of the waterfall pool and the crisp alpine air. As he settled onto the bench next to the Nightwolf, Sigurd noted the brick oven and enormous stone hearth in the adjacent kitchen.
A monk stoked flames under simmering iron pots and metal trays lined with barley cakes. In a wooden tub on the counter, small bundles ofedelweissblossoms, harvested from the meadow, released a faint floral scent that mingled with the savory aroma of garlic, herbs, and stew. A wooden shelf held jars of honey, clusters of herbs, and assorted spoons and bowls, with bars ofedelweisssoap that the monks evidently producedthemselves. The calm rhythm of the kitchen and the gentle murmur of prayers made the refectory feel sacred, a sanctuary for the soul.
“This is Père Clément, who runs the monastery,l”Abbaye Saint Bernard de la Source.” Brother Pierre formally presented them to the elderly abbot, while the monk from the kitchen served everyone a hearty bowl of vegetable stew.
Sigurd inhaled the savory aroma of mushrooms, leeks, carrots, and fresh herbs.
“Brother Thibault is our talented cook,” Pierre continued with a grin, as the monk from the kitchen inclined his shorn head. “You met Brother Benoît and Brother Paul when you arrived.” He gestured to the two friars seated across the table, who bowed their humble heads at Pierre’s introduction. “They tend our animals and gardens, chop wood, and make our fineedelweisssoap, which we trade—along with wool from our sheep—for supplies in a nearby village.”
Pierre settled onto the bench across from Sigurd. “And I am Brother Pierre, once a fierce Danish warrior known as Stigr.” He displayed his gruesome, disfigured right hand. “I had been part of a Viking raid along the Rhine when my men and I fell to the Franks. We were taken as slaves—but when my wounds festered, my captors unchained me and left me for dead. I came to this monastery, where I was healed in the sacred spring. Because of that miracle, I was baptized a Christian—and have served here ever since.”
“Thank you for your hospitality. We are truly grateful.” Sigurd smiled warmly, washing down a mouthful of stew with a gulp of dark ale. The delicious flavor of garlic, herbs, and fresh vegetables lingered on his appreciative tongue.
“We continue the tradition of the monk who first founded this monastery— Saint Bernard de Menthon. Gravely injured, he came to drink from this sacred spring and cleanse his grievouswounds. The Virgin Mary appeared to him in the waterfall pool, and Saint Bernard was miraculously cured. That is why our spring is namedLa Fontaine de la Vierge—the Fountain of the Virgin—orLindsviðr,in the Norse tongue.Saint Bernard is now known as the patron saint of mountain travelers. And here atL’Abbaye Saint Bernard de la Source, we continue our founder’s tradition of welcoming the weary and healing the wounded in our sacred spring.”
Kveld took a long pull of bitter ale and swiped his black bearded lips with the back of an inked hand. He glanced at Sigurd, then spoke to Brother Pierre. “Sigurd Sea Wolf shall depart at first light to fetch his betrothed, who has been gravely ill and will be in desperate need of healing. My men and I would be honored to repay your generosity by repairing the damage to your stone wall while we remain here and await his return—and for the duration of the young woman’s recovery.”
The Nightwolf turned to Tryggvi and Hálfdan, seated beside him on the bench. Both nodded in solemn agreement. Redirecting his gaze to Brother Pierre, Kveld asked, “Do you have pickaxes, chisels, and hammers? We could pry stone from the mountain’s edge and rebuild what has crumbled. If you wish, we could restore the wall in its entirety.”
Brother Pierre translated into Frankish as he explained Kveld’s generous offer to the abbot.
The elderly monk’s wrinkled face spread into a glorious, grateful smile. “Que Dieu soit loué! C’est une bénédiction du ciel. Ils peuvent rester ici parmi nous aussi longtemps qu’ils le veulent.”
Pierre flashed an exuberant grin. “The abbot is delighted to accept your generous offer. You are welcome to stay as long as you wish.”
After they’d finished the simple hearty meal, Sigurd, Kveld, Tryggvi, and Hálfdan thanked the monks and retired to their respective cottages.
Kveld banked the embers in the hearth, reclined in his narrow bed, and pulled up the covers, tucking them under his bearded chin. As if reading Sigurd’s troubled mind, he murmured softly, “You shall find Brynhildr on the morrow. Theouroboroswhich binds your two soulsshall lead you directly to her. Take extra blankets and furs—she has been cursed with frozen sleep and will need them. When you return here, bathe her in the sacred spring. Then you must make love to her, Sigurd—so that thedragonfireof theouroborosburns through the frost ofOdin’s curse… and rekindles her life through theseiðrwhich binds her soul to yours.On the third day after her return, you shall understand why I crafted the ring.”
Dawn brushed the mountaintops in pale gold. In the refectory, after the monks had finished their morning prayers, Sigurd ate a simple breakfast of barley bread, bitter ale, and nutty sheep cheese. He offered a nod of farewell to Kveld, Tryggvi, and Hálfdan, and loaded extra blankets, furs, a waterskin filled from the sacred spring, and his pack of supplies onto the back of his silver stallion. With a final glance at the abbey and its sparkling sacred spring, he swung into the saddle and rode south along the mountainous path, winding toward theRing of Fire.
Chapter 19
Lindsviðr
The dawn was pale as ice over the jagged mountain peaks as Sigurd rode southeast, the biting wind whipping hisBlárúlfrcloak and blond beard, carrying the crisp scent of frost and rugged stone. Sharp alpine air stung his lungs, filling him with clarity and fire. As he passed meadows strewn withedelweiss,the pristine petals blooming despite the harsh cold, he thought of his beloved Brynhildr.
