Dragonslayer’s Valkyrie (The Legend of Sigurd and Brynhildr)

Chapter 1

The Sea Wolf

Moonlight glimmered on the icy fjord. The turbulent black surface was churned white by the thunderous waterfall which plummeted from the clifftop overhead.

The deafening roar reverberated in Sigurd’s bones, the misty spray stinging his cheeks and coating his beard with shards of ice, making his grip slick as he clung to the frostbitten stone.

Fingers numb, breath heaving, he reached for the narrow crack running beneath an outcrop in his treacherous ascent up the side of the cliff.

He pulled himself up, his boot searching for purchase, sliding against the slippery mist.

On the clifftop ledge far above, the silhouettes of the Sjórúlfar wolf warriors encircled the standing stone at the summit. The shimmering fur of their wolfskins caught the moonlight in brief flashes, reminding him that that they were all watching. And waiting.

If he succeeded in reaching the top and claiming the Wolfclaw talisman, they would welcome him into the pack. But if he fell, the fjord would swallow him whole.

As he reached for the next hold, the wind shifted. A fresh blast of water sheeted across the cliff and struck him full in the face. His frozen fingers slipped. His boot lost its perch.

He slammed into the fjord like a blacksmith’s hammer against an anvil, the searing pain ringing through his body as if he were the metal being forged.

A shock of icy needles raced up his limbs, the jarring impact crushing his breath as the world turned white.

Unable to move, paralyzed in pain, the waterfall’s current dragged him toward the jagged rocks at the base of the cliff.

With a surge of adrenaline, he forced his frigid limbs to move, to fight for survival.

When he broke through the surface, choking and half-blind, the full moon overhead hung like a beacon in a raging storm.

Sigurd swam, kicking and clawing his way along the foot of the crag until his hands grasped a barnacle-crusted shelf. He hung there, panting, limbs quivering, long hair plastered to his frosted beard.

For the past three endless days and nights, he’d undergone a series of nine trials of physical, spiritual, and mental endurance. The Wolfclaw was the very last one. If he reached the summit and claimed the talisman, he would become a Sea Wolf.

But if he failed, he would drown.

His battered body and broken spirit were utterly depleted.

He was covered with bruises, welts, and gashes from today’s earlier Blood and Breath trial, when he’d battled all eight of the Sjórúlfar, one after another without reprieve.

Last night, he’d passed the Silent Hunt—successfully eluding the pack as they stalked him like prey.

He’d undergone the Wave Trial—swimming across the tumultuous, freezing inlet in the dark.

The Binding, when they’d wrapped him in animal sinew and dropped him into a cave, testing whether he could wrest free and escape before the sun rose over the fjord.

He'd passed them all. But this last one was the most difficult. For not only was he physically exhausted, having been deprived of food and sleep, his mind was worn thin, more apt to falter in judgment.

Sigurd bent over and spewed from his wrenching belly all the salt water he’d consumed in battling the waves and the waterfall current. Choking, he wiped the frothy spittle from his frosty beard and waited to catch his breath.

Atop the rocky ledge, the wolf warriors watched in silence to see if their cub would drown or climb.

Sigurd spat brine, planted his bare palms against the slick stone, and began again.

The second attempt ended faster. Halfway up, his numb hands misjudged a ridge.

The rock peeled free under his grip, and he tumbled backward.

This time, he did not strike the water cleanly—his shoulder glanced off the cliff on the way down, sending lightning through his spine before the fjord swallowed him again.

Darkness pressed at the edges of his vision as he struggled toward the surface.

His leaden limbs shook violently. The cliff loomed over him where the standing stone and the claw talisman awaited.

He thought of the Sea Wolves watching, their cold lupine eyes judging whether he would rise in triumph or die in the depths below.

Sigurd inhaled deeply, drawing upon the four long years of training with the pack in preparation for this very moment.

Hródvarr Ironfang’s excruciating lessons of endurance. Brandúlfr Bloodaxe teaching him to fight wounded, battling beyond pain. Kveld, the Nightwolf, unveiling the spiritual path of the Sjórúlfar. And Eyvindr Waverunner, showing him how to balance on longships as they danced across the sea.

Applying all he had learned, Sigurd summoned the last of his courage from the wolf blood of Odin coursing through his Volsung veins.

Allfather, grant me the strength, endurance, and wisdom to succeed.

Above him, two ravens circled in the moonlight, their harsh croaks rising above the roar of the waterfall. From the shadowed forest atop the cliff, a lone wolf released a long, haunting howl.

The Sjórúlfar are not the only ones watching. I climb…or I die.

For the third time, Sigurd set his hands upon the slick stone.

He crawled slowly, steadying his breath, finding new holds with icy fingers and numb feet. Spray slicked his frozen hands, but he shifted his weight with the caution of a prowling wolf. His muscles burned and shook, but he climbed.

He passed the outcrop that had betrayed him before.

Pressing close to the stone, stiff shoulder scraping along the rock, he hauled himself past it with a ragged growl.

Above, the torches flickered—a ring of fire against the starlit night.

The wolf warriors were leaning forward now, silent but no longer still.

The final stretch was nearly vertical. Far below, the black fjord loomed like a dark abyss.

Sigurd dug his fingers into a fissure, heaved himself up, and flung an arm over the lip of the cliff.

For an agonizing moment he hung there, legs thrashing over the endless void.

With a final burst of strength, he hoisted himself onto the solid ground, collapsing onto hoary heather and sea-sprayed stone.

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—the Wolfclaw talisman— rocked in the howling wind.

Sigurd slowly rose on badly shaking legs, staggering across the icy clearing and placing his numb fingers on the sacred rock.

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.

The Sea Wolf warriors 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, Hróevarr 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 the Sjórúlfar.”

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 the Sjórúlfar. I shall be loyal to the pack until my dying breath.”

Hróevarr 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 the úlfkló talisman which will protect you henceforth as a wolf warrior, I hereby bestow upon you this úlfhjarta dagger.”

Sigurd accepted the Wolfheart blade 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—the úlfhéeinn who had taught Sigurd to balance, command, and fight on drakkar and snekkja warships—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. And Blárúlfr—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 it seeped 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 the Sjórúlfar Sea 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, Hróevarr 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 the Sjórúlfar — a Sea Wolf, eternally bound by blood and oath.