Chapter 18
L’Abbaye Saint Bernard de la Source
For half a moon, Sigurd and Kveld Nightwolf rode south from the Danish port of Heieabyr with Tryggvi and Hálfdan, Sigurd’s two most trusted húskarlar.
They’d brought Sigurd’s silver stallion Grani, Kveld’s black stallion, Skug, and two magnificent warhorses on a sturdy knarr, along with weapons and supplies.
Each night, they slept on bedrolls around a campfire, draping tarps across branches of fir and spruce for shelter from intermittent rain. As they now set up camp in a rugged alpine valley, moonlight poured over the jagged peaks of the mountains that loomed ahead.
The resinous scent of pine, the earthy tang of rich soil, and the sweet aroma of melting frost mingled with woodsmoke from the fire as Sigurd poured handfuls of oats for the horses onto pine needles scattered atop the patches of snow.
He’d tethered them to spruce trees near a rushing stream, where they could dip their muzzles into the icy water which rippled in the moonlight.
Tryggvi had hunted eight hares, scraping the skins to save the valuable pelts and skewering the meat over the fire.
Hálfdan simmered a pot of barley porridge, into which he tossed crushed hazelnuts and bilberries, with a small dollop of honey.
The fire crackled and hissed as fat from the roasting meat sizzled, sending small sparks dancing into the starry night sky.
Sigurd’s empty belly growled at the rich, meaty scent.
He spotted Kveld Nightwolf seated upon a flat stone, his black wolfskin gleaming in the moonglow. Cradled in his scarred, inked hand was a golden ring, set with three glinting gems. With the sharp tip of his stylus, the vitki carved runes inside the gilded band.
Adjusting Blárúlfr on his shoulders and Gramr at his hip, Sigurd strode across the campsite, heavy boots crunching the crusty snow. “You’ve been working on that every night since we left Denmark,” he remarked to the Nightwolf. “What are you crafting… a talisman?”
Kveld concentrated on tracing runes with careful precision. “Of sorts,” he growled, working ashes into the etched lines and blowing the excess away with black bearded lips. Amber eyes gleaming like the black wolf’s atop his head, the vitki examined his meticulous work and handed the ring to Sigurd.
Carved into the gold were the intricate images of a wolf, falcon, and dragon, with a glistening gem set between each beast. Lapis lazuli, emerald, and amber glittered in the moonglow and starlight.
Inside the band, Sigurd noted the same trinity of runes that the Nightwolf had carved into the deck of úlfalkr.
Gebo, Raido, and Kaun--the triple bindrune which bound Sigurd and Brynhildr to each other, the ship, and the sea.
When Kveld held out his tattooed hand, Sigurd placed the gold band back into his palm. “Is the ring a talisman, to guide me to Brynhildr? And shield me through the Ring of Fire?”
The Nightwolf polished the band with a soft cloth and tucked it securely inside a leather pouch belted at his waist. He looked up at Sigurd, amber eyes afire with otherworldly wisdom.
“The ouroboros above your heart will guide you to Brynhildr.” His deep, melodic voice was mellow as a lute.
“The dragon’s blood of Fáfnir will shield your hardened skin from the Ring of Fire.
And your silver stallion will fly through the cursed flames. ”
Sigurd was stunned. “But horses fear fire…”
“Grani is no ordinary horse.” A sly grin slid across the Nightwolf’s inked, bearded face.
“Why do you think you encountered a one-eyed wanderer, vainly trying to cross a raging river with nine horses—along your very path to the dragon’s lair?
” Kveld stood and stretched his long, lanky legs, smoothing the black wolfskin which draped his broad shoulders.
His piercing stare penetrated Sigurd’s Sea Wolf soul.
“You were destined to reforge your faeir’s sword,” he rumbled, sending seier through Sigurd’s shaking limbs.
“Fated to slay Fáfnir…find Grani…and free Brynhildr from the Ring of Fire.”
Gripping both of his wolfskin-clad shoulders in fierce affection and lupine brotherhood, Kveld’s haunting gaze held Sigurd fast. “The coil of the ouroboros shall soon close. And seal the wolf and falcon with dragonfire—in the Norn’s web of wyrd.”
As the Nightwolf’s haunting words hovered in the moonglow, Sigurd remembered the night he had first become a Sea Wolf. Atop the cliff overlooking the moonlit fjord, Eldsjá—the crimson-haired volva with the gold-painted face—had foreseen his fate through firesight.
Bronze diadem like molten copper atop her long flaming locks…gnarled black staff with the head of a raven, its amber eyes watching for Odin… her cryptic words crept into Sigurd’s reeling mind.
“In fire shall the God-sword be reforged.
Through fire shall the Wolf ride the wind-borne steed.
The Green Wyrm shall fall to the Sea Wolf.
And the coil shall seal the web of wyrd.”
As Sigurd grappled with prophecy, portents, and premonition, Hálfdan’s voice cut through the stillness of the starlit night. “Food’s ready, Sigurd. Come—eat before it goes cold.”
* * * *
Two days later, they came upon a remote monastery at the base of an alpine valley where a sparkling stream flowed down a mountain, past an enclave of small stone buildings gathered around a large cloistered chapel.
As they rode down the grassy slope, a wrinkled monk—the upper half of his head shorn, a large cross hanging over his long brown robe secured with a white rope belt—came out to greet them.
At the sight of the fearsome blue and black wolfskins, Sigurd’s winged dragon helm, and the burly húskarlar with gleaming chainmail armor and swords, stark terror glinted in the monk’s widened eyes.
“Bonjour, messieurs,” he stammered, nearly breathless with fright.
“Bienvenue à l’ Abbaye Saint Bernard de la Source. ”
Sigurd glanced hopelessly at Kveld, Tryggvi, and Hálfdan. Although he understood a smattering of the Frankish tongue—enough to know the monk had greeted them—neither he nor his companions knew how to respond.
Realizing there was a language barrier, the elderly monk nodded and held up a wizened hand, as if asking them to wait.
“Attendez. Je reviens tout de suite.” He disappeared into the large building and returned a few moments later accompanied by a fellow monk who bore the same partially shorn head, Christian cross, and brown woolen robe, but with Nordic runes and scrolls inked upon his wide forearms. Clearly a former Viking warrior, his right hand was gruesomely mutilated, missing all but thumb and forefinger.
The fanged maw of a snarling wolf was tattooed around his thick, corded neck.
“Welcome to the Abbey of Saint Bernard of the Spring.” he greeted them in Norse.
“I am Brother Pierre, formerly called Stigr. We are honored to offer you shelter. Indeed, that is our divine purpose, to welcome weary travelers… and the wounded, who seek healing from our sacred spring.” He scanned the four mounted warriors.
“Do you seek lodging for the night, or is one of you injured?”
Kveld inclined his black wolfskin-clad head. “We seek lodging for tonight, and until our broeir returns…” he said, indicating Sigurd, “…with a young woman in need of healing.”
“Then you are welcome within these walls.” Blond hair framing the lower half of his head like a reverse humble crown, Brother Pierre gestured to two monks who came out of the monastery and warily approached.
“Let Brother Paul and Brother Beno?t tend to the horses.” He indicated the pair of reluctant friars who had joined them, “And I shall take you to your quarters.”
Sigurd, Kveld, and the two húskarlar dismounted, handing the reins to the leery monks.
Brother Pierre led them along a narrow cobbled path that wound past the large chapel, toward several small stone buildings nestled at the edge of a forested meadow splattered with white star-shaped flowers.
“This cottage is for the two úlfhéenar,” he grinned, nodding to Sigurd and Kveld as he unlocked the thick wooden door with a key from his belt.
“The húskarlar are right next door.” He opened the heavy oak entrance to the adjacent cottage with a second key.
“Simple, but warm. You will find beds, blankets, and a hearth to chase away the alpine chill. Bathe in the spring—it’s cold, but rejuvenating.
” He pointed to a rustic bar of soap on the table.
“Made from edelweiss,” he said proudly, awe lacing his deep, gruff voice.
“The sacred white flowers shaped like stars. Pure as the crystalline spring.”
With a gruff nod, he turned away. “I’ll leave you to get settled.
When you hear the ringing of the bells, come to the refectory for dinner.
” He pointed to a long stone building which abutted the chapel.
“Until this evening.” Brother Pierre strode across the sunlit grassy meadow strewn with luminous edelweiss.
Inside the rustic cottage, a stone hearth faced the entrance, flanked by a pair of long, narrow beds on opposite walls. A small window opened onto the grassy meadow, where the healing waters of the sacred spring sparkled in the sunlight.
“I’ll start a fire,” Kveld announced, retrieving the firesteel tool from his leather belt.
He struck the flint against the metal, coaxing tiny sparks into roaring flames.
“I cannot wait to bathe,” he growled, hanging his black wolfskin on a hook near the oaken door.
“And wash these filthy clothes.” He shed the garments he’d been wearing since they left Heieabyr.
Although they had washed faces, hands, and teeth along the way, they had ridden hard for half a moon, not stopping to bathe or launder clothes.
The Nightwolf fetched a clean tunic and breeches from his pack, laying them upon the bed he had chosen beneath the open window.