Chapter 16
Blood of the Dragon
“To reach Fáfnir’s lair, you’ll need your own horse.
” Regin sat astride a sturdy pony, leading Sigurd on foot along a narrow mountain trail behind his hidden cave.
The roar of the waterfall faded as they followed a path slick with mist and scattered stones.
“The land grows wild ahead,” the dwarf grumbled.
“Rivers rage and cliffs crumble. No ordinary horse can carry a man through this jagged valley. You need a steed worthy of your steel.”
Sigurd adjusted his Blárúlfr cloak, Gramr securely sheathed in the wolfskin scabbard at his hip. “Where can we find such a horse?”
Regin’s black eyes glinted. “There are tests in these wilds, Sea Wolf. Follow me.”
Winding through the dense forest, they descended toward a wide river snaking through the gorge below. The rushing water thundered over jutting rocks, frothing into foamy white torrents.
To Sigurd’s astonishment, an old man with long grey hair and beard was leaning on a gnarled wooden staff at the edge of the grassy riverbank, shouting in frustration at nine horses straining against the strong current. When he spotted Sigurd and Regin, he hollered for help.
“If you can get these beasts across the river,” he called as they approached to lend a hand, “you may choose whichever one you wish as your reward.”
Sigurd noticed that only one eye gleamed from beneath the hood of the wanderer’s woolen cloak, the other hidden in shadow.
The ouroboros beneath Sigurd’s chainmail burned hot as Regin’s forge.
“The Norns are weaving their web of wyrd,” Regin snickered. “Here is your chance to find a horse. Choose wisely, Sigurd Sea Wolf.”
A bitter wind whipped down the mountain, tearing across the turbulent river and biting at his beard.
“I will guide them,” he told the old man, turning back to Regin, still astride his mount.
“If my wolfskin gets soaked, it will weigh me down. And I don’t want Gramr to get wet, either.
Guard these for me.” Sigurd unfastened Blárúlfr and laid it on the grass.
He unstrapped his sword and placed the wolfskin scabbard atop his cloak.
Inhaling deeply to summon his strength, he waded into the frothy current.
One by one, he led the bridled horses across the treacherous rocks and up onto the opposite riverbank.
When Sigurd returned to fetch the last horse, he noted how the silver stallion stood calmly in the current, rushing water rippling his solid flanks.
Long, sleek mane shimmering like starlit frost, he met Sigurd’s rapt gaze.
Otherworldly intelligence gleamed in his dark eyes, sending seier through Sigurd’s Sea Wolf veins.
The magnificent stallion came willingly to his outstretched hand, and Sigurd led him across the river. Now that the nine horses were safely across, Sigurd returned to help the old man.
Despite his feeble appearance, the mysterious one-eyed wanderer crossed easily, using his staff to brace his bold, steady steps while securely grasping Sigurd’s arm.
When they reached solid ground, he nodded in gratitude and swept a cloaked hand toward the grazing beasts.
“Choose any,” he said, his one eye glinting in the pale sun.
Sigurd strode to the silver stallion, who tossed his mane and nickered at his approach. “This one,” he said, affectionately stroking the smooth muzzle.
A broad grin broke across the old man’s bearded face. “Grani,” he murmured, pride lacing his haunting voice. “Named for the pale grey light of dawn. Descended from Sleipnir, Odin’s own steed. Ride him well, Sea Wolf—for he shall carry you far to face your fate.”
Grani snorted, stamping the ground with powerful black hooves. Luminous coat gleaming like moonlight on an icy fjord, the stallion lowered his head and nudged Sigurd’s hand, as if recognizing his Sea Wolf spirit.
The ouroboros in Sigurd’s skin flared in response. Like the wolf blood flowing in his Volsung veins, Grani was a divine gift from Odin.
Bound to him by fate.
The hooded wanderer gathered the bridles of the remaining horses. “Far tú vel,” he said, mounting one of the steeds. “May the gods guide you on your journey.” Spurring his mount with a flick of his heels, he and the horses thundered off, toward the forested mountain.
Sigurd noted a stretch downstream where the river was calmer and more shallow, with rocks breaking the surface like stepping stones. He wondered why the old man had not tried to ford the river there.
Regin’s words floated into his mind. There are tests in these wilds, Sigurd Sea Wolf.
It seemed that he had passed this trial.
He swung onto Grani’s back, rode downstream, and crossed the river to return to Regin. Dismounting to secure Blárúlfr with the snarling wolf brooch, he strapped Gramr at his waist and vaulted onto Grani’s broad back, the silver stallion shifting beneath him.
Together, he and Regin guided their mounts across the river and continued along the winding trail.
They arrived at a forested ledge overlooking a stark ravine choked with ominous shadows and a rancid stench.
Blackened stones and shattered bones littered the bare ground where no trees, plants, or grass remained alive.
A yawning hollow in the rock base of a mountain revealed the dark mouth of a cavern strewn with piles of gold dulled by grime and age.
A sour, venomous odor hung in the foul air, and the sickened earth bore deep grooves where the dragon’s immense body had dragged itself to and from the sheltered hoard.
Within the gloom of the cave, Fáfnir rumbled — heavy, poisonous, and alive.
“Gnitaheier,” Regin hissed. “Fáfnir’s hidden lair.”
Inside the shadowed hollow, Sigurd spotted the immense serpentine body coiled atop heaping piles of gold and glittering gems. Dark green scales armored its thick reptilian hide, the sharp, jagged edges tinged in shimmering gold.
Along his enormous spine rose a ridge of cruel spikes, running from his massive skull to the barbed tip of his powerful tail.
Pointed and peaked, his vast wings flexed against the cavern walls.
Greed glowed in his emerald eyes, and a forked tongue spilled from his fanged maw.
Curved claws like hooked iron raked the stone beneath him, scoring deep furrows into the rock as he shifted atop his trove.
Around him lay gnawed bones and the scattered spines of fish from the nearby lake, their decay mingling with the reek of venom and rot.
“We’ll set up camp here, so you can watch his movements and decide where to dig the pit.
” Regin slid from his saddle and unloaded the tent, tools, and supplies he had strapped to the pony’s back.
“The horses can graze over there,” he said, indicating a nearby meadow where the grass was still green, strewn with clusters of clover and wildflowers in bloom. “Fáfnir’s poison has not touched it.”
Sigurd pitched the tent while Regin unpacked dried fish, berries, nuts, and fruit. “I can hunt a few hare and grouse in the forest. But I fear the scent of fire and roasting meat will alert Fáfnir to our presence.”
“We’ll cook at dawn and dusk,” Regin replied. “When the beast goes down to the lake.”
That evening, as the setting sun gilded the pale sky, a deep rumble shook the earth, the tremors reverberating into Sigurd’s bones as the dragon emerged from his cavernous lair.
Sigurd watched with a blend of revulsion, horror, and anticipation as the beast dragged its enormous bulk along the grooved path toward the lake beyond the base of the mountain.
Taking advantage of the dragon’s departure, Regin started a fire and roasted on wooden skewers the two grouse that Sigurd had snared in traps. When the birds were done, they ate them straight from the skewers, the crisp, browned skin sealing in the tender, juicy meat.
“At first light, I’ll dig a trench there, at the bend,” Sigurd told Regin, pointing to a curve in the furrowed path which led to the dragon’s lair. “Cover it with moss, sticks, and leaves…and hide inside. When he drags himself over me, I’ll thrust Gramr into his exposed belly.”
Regin nodded, tearing the meat from his skewer with sharp, yellowed fangs. The greedy glint in his black eyes sent a shiver of dread down Sigurd’s spine.
At dawn, when the dragon left his lair, Sigurd removed Blárúlfr, folded it with reverence, and left it on his bedroll within the tent. His wolfskin cloak was sacred—his inner spirit as a Sea Wolf—and he did not wish to soil it with filthy mud inside the pit.
He fetched an iron spade from the supplies Regin had brought and with the sharp tool, dug into the packed soil near the bend in the path. As he cast aside the heavy clods of earth, the trench grew slowly, the ground stubborn and cold, until it was finally deep enough to hold him.
He covered the shallow pit with moss, brush, and a few loose branches, leaving a narrow gap for him to slide inside.
Unsheathing Gramr, Sigurd carefully lowered himself into the trench, reclining on his back, the earthen walls pressing against his shoulders as he arranged the covering above him.
He clutched his sword, the blade angled upward, and slowed his breath to steady his thundering heart.
As the wind whistled, rustling leaves from the forested ledge, his body lurched at every slight sound.
Soon, the ground trembled under heavy thuds.
Fáfnir’s powerful legs shook the earth beneath him.
Sigurd clenched his jaw, adrenaline coiling through his limbs like the tense, terrible moments before battle.
The oppressive air of the pit reeked of damp soil and moss, the narrow trench dark and confining as a grave.