Chapter 16 #2
Heart hammering, limbs shaking, Sigurd waited until Fáfnir’s immense bulk pressed upon the pit covering directly above him.
With all of his strength, he thrust Gramr straight upward, driving the wolfblood-forged sword deep into the dragon’s vulnerable belly.
The beast roared in agony, thrashing its spiked tail, the earth trembling beneath its fury as blood gushed from its fatal wound and drenched Sigurd.
The blood burned with frigid cold as it seeped into his skin, like fire merged with icy frost. Certain the poison would kill him, Sigurd anticipated a gruesome death.
But to his astonishment, his human flesh hardened instead, as if the dragon’s strength had passed into him through its blood.
On the skin above his thundering heart, the ouroboros blazed like a white-hot searing brand.
In the throes of death, the dragon convulsed, rolled away from the pit, and heaved its last foul breath.
Sigurd slowly emerged from the trench, covered head to foot in dark green blood. He stood over the slain beast, Gramr in hand, limbs shaking with shock, disgust, and triumph.
From behind him, Regin rushed down from the forested ledge, his raspy voice frantic and urgent. “Cut out his heart—and give it to me!”
Though he longed to wash the gore from his body by bathing in the lake, Sigurd cut into the dragon’s enormous body with his sword.
But as he sawed through the scales and removed the beast’s heart, he inadvertently sliced his thumb with the razor-sharp blade.
On reflex, he popped the wounded finger into his mouth.
And at the surprisingly rich, metallic taste of the dragon’s emerald green blood, Sigurd suddenly understood the language of birds.
“The dwarf Regin plans to kill you,” warned a falcon, perched on the limb of an oak in the forested ledge behind him. “He wants the treasure for himself. Turn around quickly—his dagger is drawn!”
Just as Regin arced his blade for the killing blow, Sigurd spun with his wolfblood sword.
And severed the vile head of the traitorous dwarf.
Breath heaving, he gazed down at the wretched, wrinkled face of the Dwarven blacksmith who had betrayed him.
No wonder Regin was willing to reforge my swords. He didn’t seek vengeance for his faeir’s murder—he needed me to slay the dragon so he could claim the treasure.
As if it knew his innermost thoughts, the treasure called to him from inside the dark cave.
Unable to resist the inexorable pull, Sigurd entered the dragon’s lair.
As he cast his awestruck gaze over the piles of silver, gold, and gleaming gems, the ouroboros blazed above his pounding heart. For there—just as Brynhildr had described them—were the trio of items from her seier vision.
Dragon wings unfurled on either side of a molten gold helmet, its spiked crown shaped like Fáfnir’s fearsome head.
The jagged maw of the roaring beast gaped open, poised to strike at anyone who dared approach.
Above the noseguard, where the flared nostrils of the beast scented its petrified prey, a pair of emerald eyes burned with watchful, otherworldly fire.
At its side, a golden brynja of magnificent chainmail, its countless interlocking links woven like brilliant rays of the sun, thrummed with radiant power.
And atop a wooden chest, its coiled dragon shape set with the same emerald eyes as the winged helm, lay a golden ouroboros ring—the very mark of the dragon which bound his soul to Brynhildr. When Sigurd slid the ring onto his finger, the sudden surge of seier knocked him to his knees.
Bolstered by the blood of the dragon, the ouroboros pulsing on his hand and upon his chest, Sigurd rose to his feet and scanned the treasure spread before him.
With this gold, I can purchase more ships, gather warriors, and sail to Sweden. Clad in the winged helm and golden brynja, wielding my faeir’s reforged sword, I shall at last avenge his death—by slaying King Lyngvi of Gotaland.
Sigurd was anxious to try on the glittering armor and dragon helmet, but first, he needed to wash the sticky green gore which clung to his body.
When he returned to the tent to fetch Blárúlfr and clean clothing from his pack, Grani tossed his mane and nickered, trotting across the meadow toward Sigurd.
“I’ll be back soon,” he said, stroking the stallion’s silver muzzle. “I must wash.”
Dark eyes bright, Grani stomped the grass, as if he knew what Sigurd had done and sensed his newfound power.
Sigurd strode briskly to the sunlit lake, its cool, enticing ripples a sharp contrast to the dragonfire that scorched his veins.
Away from the beaten, barren path gouged by the dragon’s claws and mammoth body, he walked to an area where the bank grew thick and green with life.
Laying his wolfskin cloak upon the grass, he immersed Gramr in the cleansing water, dried the sword with a clean linen cloth, and set it down in the warm sun.
He dipped the cloth in the lake, thoroughly wiped the green gore from his wolfskin scabbard, leather belt, and boots, setting them beside Gramr and Blárúlfr as he shed his blood-soaked clothing.
He waded into the lake, cold water biting at his bare skin, and dove beneath the surface to rinse the blood from his body, beard, and hair.
When he emerged, skin tingling, he was revitalized, invigorated, and refreshed.
After quickly drying off, he donned clean garments and boots, strapping Gramr in the wolfskin scabbard at his hip.
With Blárúlfr folded over his arm, he returned to the dragon’s lair, eager to try on the winged helm and golden armor.
Sigurd pulled the gleaming brynja over his head, smoothing the radiant metal links over his woolen tunic.
He latched the dragon helm beneath his bearded chin, then secured Blárúlfr over the crown, draping it across his armored shoulders and securing it with the snarling wolf head brooch.
As the blue-grey wolfskin infused him with Sjórúlfar strength, Sigurd’s Sea Wolf spirit surged.
He had reforged his faeir’s legendary sword with úlfblóer.
He’d passed a trial at the river crossing and now owned an otherworldly steed.
He’d slain the dragon Fáfnir and claimed its hoard of treasure, including the trio of enchanted items Brynhildr had foreseen in her seier vision.
And now, fortified by dragonblood, he had the uncanny ability to understand birds.
Returning to the forested ledge, Sigurd packed up the tent and supplies. He led Grani and the pony to the mouth of the dragon’s lair where he loaded the treasure onto their sturdy backs.
And slipping onto his silver stallion, returned to the waterfall cave.