Chapter 15 #2
While raucous revelry, feasting, and lively music continued in the festive Great Hall, she led him down a quiet corridor to her own private quarters where a pair of armored guards flanked the heavy oaken door.
When they stepped aside to grant her entry, the queen retrieved a key from the belt at her waist and unlocked the iron bolt.
Inside her royal chambers, banked embers glowed in the stone hearth.
Embroidered tapestries lined the wooden walls, and from an open window overlooking the fjord, the last rays of the setting sun basked the room in glorious golden light.
Atop her smooth wooden table, in a large bowl of hammered bronze, clusters of wild pink roses emitted a soft floral scent that reminded Sigurd of the thorn-covered hidden stairwell at the base of Brynhildr’s private tower.
Where we sealed our blood oath in seier and starlight.
Sorrow gripped his grieving heart.
From beneath a bench at the foot of her fur-covered bed, Hjordis withdrew a narrow chest, the aged oak carved with rose blossoms, swirling vines, and etched runes. Smooth oval moonstones, glimmering like opalescent pearls, lined the curved hatch.
With a smaller key from the ring on her belt, his móeir unlocked the trunk and raised the rounded lid. Inside lay a large parcel, wrapped in dark brown elkskin leather, bound with braided blue cord.
She reverently lifted the parcel from the trunk and laid it on the soft furs covering her bed. When she unwrapped the elkskin, the broken shards of Gramr— his faeir’s god-forged blade—glinted like frosted steel.
“I have kept these to honor his valorous death.” A tremor shook her soft voice.
“Sigmund would want you to have them.” With meticulous care, she rewrapped the broken sword, tied the braided cord, and placed the elkskin parcel in his shaking hands.
Tears welled in her wide, expressive eyes.
“Reforge Gramr with úlfblóer,” she whispered with vehemence.
“And avenge your faeir’s death with his legendary sword. ”
Sigurd’s throat constricted with conflicting emotions—gratitude, vengeance, humility, and honor.
He clutched Gramr to his hammering heart and bowed his head before the woman who had borne both him and the loss of her beloved husband.
“I swear it,” he vowed. “I shall slay King Lyngvi of Gotaland. And when I return, I shall reclaim the Volsung kingdom of Lindesnes.”
* * * *
In the dim light of dawn, while Sigurd loaded the elkskin parcel, the wolf hide scabbard, and a few supplies into the faeringr—the small boat he would row north to find Regin’s cave—Kveld Nightwolf knelt at the prow.
Black wolfskin cloak shimmering against the still fjord, he meticulously carved a bindrune into the polished pine.
With slow, scraping strokes of his wolf head dagger, he murmured a low incantation, leaving a swirl of pale shavings that drifted onto the dark waters like curls of cold mist.
“Raido, to guide your journey.” The Nightwolf sheathed his dagger and rose, carefully making his way from prow to stern.
“Algiz, to protect you from harm.” He stepped lightly onto the pebbled shore as Sigurd settled onto the bench, adjusted his Blárúlfr cloak, and took up the oars.
“And Laguz, for the sea which binds you to Brynhildr.”
The inked runes on Kveld’s scarred, bearded face glinted in the rising sun. He ducked his black wolfskin-clad head and shoved the faering into the fjord. “May your Valkyrie’s seier vision lead you to the dwarf’s hidden cave.”
Sigurd hugged the base of the towering cliffs, following the fjord north, its fresh, tangy scent mingling with the brine of the sea.
High above, gannets, gulls, and guillemots soared in the pale spring sky.
He faced the prow, where the Nightwolf’s bindrune glinted in the rising sun.
With alternating strokes on either side of the faeringr, he rowed forward, feral eyes scanning for the glimmer of frosty mist, lupine ears straining for the telltale roar of the waterfall which concealed the dwarf’s hidden cave.
After seemingly endless curves of the sinuous fjord, the ouroboros above his pounding heart burned as a thunderous roar rolled over the sunlit waters and echoed off the windswept cliffs.
Sigurd’s muscles tensed as the salty air grew damp and cold, the pungent scent of mist and moss sharp in his flared nostrils.
Ahead, pale vapor curled over a shadowed inlet.
Seier surged in his Sea Wolf veins, steering him toward the sheltered cove.
Droplets of frosted mist swirled in the chilled air, sprayed from a deafening cascade which plummeted from the top of a craggy bluff. Behind the enormous wall of tumbling water, carved into the sheer rock face of the cliff, a stone ledge jutted from the open mouth of a hidden cave.
As if he had been expecting Sigurd, the dwarf appeared on the concealed ledge.
Wiry black hair sprouted from his head, framing his wrinkled, weathered face like unruly bristles of a willow broom.
His beady black eyes glinted with malice, sending a shiver of seier into Sigurd through the ouroboros.
Amber beads glowed in Regin’s long, braided black beard.
Tooled with intricate runes and scorched with burns, the leather of his apron was coated with thick black soot.
His pockets overflowed with tongs, chisels, and tools.
And in his meaty fist, the Dwarven blacksmith clutched a huge hammer, heavy with menace and magic.
He grinned at the sight of Sigurd, revealing a revolting array of yellowed fangs and blackened teeth.
“At long last, you have come.” His deep grunt rumbled, gravelly and rough.
“Tie your boat to a willow,” he barked, indicating a copse of gnarled trees whose roots clutched the stones along the rocky shore like jagged claws of an ancient beast. “Watch your step when you climb the stairs. The mist makes the stones slick.”
Sigurd moored the faeringr, hoisted his leather pack over his shoulder, and lifted the remnants of both broken swords from the back of the boat.
As the waterfall thundered in his ears and the icy mist sprayed his beard, he carefully climbed the slippery stones to the craggy ledge where the dwarf awaited.
“Welkominn, Sigurd Sigmundsson. Long have I waited for you to find me. Come inside… to share mead and meal.” The dwarf pushed open a heavy oaken door carved with ancient runes, its crescent moon-shaped arch molded to fit the curved mouth of the cave.
Inside Regin’s dwelling, a fire crackled in the stone hearth of a large central room.
The appetizing aroma of fresh fish, garlic, mushrooms, and wild thyme simmered from a copper pot hanging on an iron hook over the flames.
Ravenous after a morning of hard rowing, Sigurd’s mouth watered in eager anticipation.
“Set your parcels down there,” the dwarf grumbled, indicating a side table, “and hang your cloak on a hook. We’ll eat first, then reforge your faeir’s sword—if you agree to my price.”
Kveld Nightwolf’s warning floated into Sigurd’s mind as he hung Blárúlfr on a peg near the entrance door.
Regin will reforge your faeir’s Volsung sword, strengthening it with the Sjórúfar spirit and Sea Wolf blood of úlfblóer. But beware…he shall expect something in return. A price that only you can pay.
While Sigurd laid the elkskin parcel and the wolfskin scabbard on the table —stunned that the dwarf not only knew why he had come, but that he had long expected his arrival—Regin ladled the steaming stew into two birchwood bowls, which he set upon his oak trestle table alongside two carved spoons.
He poured mead into a pair of thick mugs and handed one to Sigurd.
“To the son of Sigmund,” he roared, raising his goblet high, “who shall reforge the Volsung sword. Skál!”
The tender morsels of haddock melted in his mouth, the buttery broth rich with fresh herbs, garlic, mushrooms, and leeks.
Sigurd sopped up the last drops with a hunk of barley bread, washing it down with golden mead.
“You are a fine cook, Regin,” he said with a grin.
“Thank you for sharing this stew. I was hungry as a wolf.”
Regin rumbled with guttural laughter. “Sigurd Sea Wolf,” he quipped, swiping his tunic over his bearded lips and refilling the mugs. His gaze slid to the two wrapped parcels lying on the side table. “You wish to reforge your broken sword with Gramr.”
“I do. That is why I have come.” Sigurd met the dwarf’s shrewd black eyes.
“One who sees the threads of fate told me to find you. That the two swords must be forged together, their power merged as one.” He downed the rest of his mead and wiped his blond beard with the back of his hand.
“Tell me, Regin. What is your price for reforging them?”
“You must slay the dragon Fáfnir.” Anger flared in Regin’s riveting gaze.
“He was once a dwarf like me. But when he robbed and murdered my father Hreiemarr, evil and greed twisted him into a dark green dragon.” Regin took a long pull from his wooden mug, fixing Sigurd with a resolute stare.
“I wish to avenge my faeir’s death. Though I can forge a mighty sword, I cannot wield one.
I want you to slay Fáfnir, cut out his treacherous heart, and bring it to me. ”
Sigurd remembered Brynhildr’s words when she told him of her seier vision.
With your faeir’s reforged blade, strengthened by úlfblóer’s blood-forged steel…you, my beloved Sea Wolf… shall slay a dragon.
But how could he slay a fire-breathing beast, even with a god-forged sword?
“I know not how to slay a dragon.” Sigurd searched the dwarf’s weathered, wrinkled face.
“Each day, Fáfnir drags himself down to a lake to drink. Dig a trench in his path and hide within it. When he crawls over you on his return, drive your blade into the soft underside of his belly. Then cut out his heart for me.”
“You know the location of his lair.”
“I do. And I shall take you there once we reforge the sword.”