Chapter 13 #2
No longer hovering over the bloody battlefield, she found herself before a thunderous waterfall which plummeted from a cliff into an icy fjord.
Droplets of frosted mist enshrouded the entrance to a hidden stone cave.
Inside, a black-haired dwarf hammered a sword over an open forge, sparks flying like tiny stars.
At his side, Sigurd shaped the glowing metal with skilled, steady hands.
Sigurd bears the wolf blood of Odin, her seier whispered.
Only he may awaken the Volsung power of this sword.
Sigurd is fated to help the dwarf reforge Gramr—his faeir Sigmund’s legendary sword, the precious relic safeguarded by Queen Hjordis.
The Dwarven sword with which he will slay the emerald dragon.
Her vision altered a third time.
Sigurd stood over an enormous green dragon, its leathery scales slick with blood, the acrid air heavy with the stench of iron and smoke. Behind the slain beast lay another cave, concealing a hoard of treasure. Amongst the shining silver and glittering gems, three golden objects drew her seier gaze.
A helmet of molten gold, shaped into the snarling head of a dragon, emerald eyes ablaze with otherworldly fire, wings unfurled on either side.
A golden brynja, magnificent armor wrought like the sun itself, thrumming with potent power.
And a golden ouroboros ring— the same mark of the dragon which bound her soul to Sigurd’s—perched atop a chest of coins, its coiled dragon bearing the same emerald eyes as the helm of molten gold.
As Brynhildr beheld the dragon ring, the ouroboros mark above her breast seared with such violent intensity and blinding pain that it hurled her out of the vision and back into the chair before her burning hearth.
Her senses slowly returned.
The trio of gemstones glittered in the firelight. The crisp pine scent of juniper wafted in the herb-laced smoke. The crackle of the flames and the warmth on her cold hands were comforting and soothing.
On unsteady legs, she rose from the chair and poured the remainder of herb-laced mead into the fire.
Rinsing her silver chalice with fresh water from the pitcher on her table, she wiped her ritual dagger clean with a linen cloth and sheathed the blade in its gem-adorned scabbard.
She snuffed out the trio of candles, collected the three gems from the triangle on the floor, and returned them to the shelf beside her sacred goblet and sheathed blade.
With water she’d heated in a small pan over the fire, Brynhildr steeped a restorative brew of chamomile flowers, angelica root, and crushed yarrow leaves.
As the air in her stone cottage filled with the fragrant floral blend of cleansing herbs, she sipped from her steaming cup.
Strength slowly returned to her shaking limbs as she analyzed the seier vison.
Agnar is a berserker marked for Odin. He is fated to fall in battle to Hjálmgunnar—the brutal king wielding úlfsbani, the god-forged sword destined to shatter Sigurd’s wolf-blood blade.
Hjálmgunnar is a vassal of King Lyngvi of Gotaland, whom Sigurd must slay to avenge his faeir’s murder.
In Lyngvi’s name, Hjálmgunnar rules Lindesnes—the kingdom of Sigurd’s ancestors—which my Sea Wolf has sworn to reclaim.
Though Sigurd has amassed an army, he will need Agnar’s aid to defeat Lyngvi, avenge his faeir, and reclaim his rightful realm.
I have foreseen Sigurd’s fate.
úlfblóer will shatter, but his móeir, Queen Hjordis, retains the remnants of his faeir’s legendary sword Gramr. Sigurd must find the dwarf’s waterfall cave—and reforge Gramr to rekindle its Volsung power.
Brynhildr finished her restorative herbal tonic and set her cup on the wooden table. She opened her shuttered window and deeply inhaled the fresh saline breeze blowing in from the Mirrored Sea. Dread and resolve clamped her heart at the thought of defying the web of wyrd.
In my vision, I marked Hjálmgunnar for Odin instead of Agnar. By claiming Hjálmgunnar for Valhalla, I ensure that Agnar wins the Battle of Bjarkholm. He will then aid Sigurd in reclaiming the kingdom of Lindesnes and defeat the remaining vassals of King Lyngvi.
The image of úlfblóer shattering clenched her heart. The priceless blade was forged in the blood of the great blue wolf Blárúlfr whose spirit Sigurd embodied as a Sea Wolf. She pictured the scene of him toiling over the forge with the Dwarven blacksmith in the hidden waterfall cave.
Sigurd does not yet know that his móeir holds the fragments of his faeir’s broken sword Gramr—nor that he must help the dwarf reforge the blade to awaken its dormant Volsung power.
I have foreseen that Sigurd shall slay a dragon and claim its trove of treasure, including a trinity of priceless enchanted objects.
The winged helm, golden armor, and ouroboros ring.
The very same mark of the dragon which binds our souls through seier.
Brynhildr knew she must to speak to Sigurd once she ensured Agnar’s victory at the Battle of Bjarkholm. But to do so, she would have to assume human form.
Freyja’s warning floated into her mind. “Seier may bend the web of wyrd, but only at terrible cost. The threads of your fate are tightly entwined with your Sea Wolf. Indeed, that is why you have risen as a Valkyrie. But be careful, kaera mín. Neither the Norns nor the gods are forgiving.”
Smoothing her gown to summon her strength, Brynhildr lifted her chin, left her cottage, and headed toward Kára’s oaken door.