Chapter 19
Lindsvier
The dawn was pale as ice over the jagged mountain peaks as Sigurd rode southeast, the biting wind whipping his Blárúlfr cloak and blond beard, carrying the crisp scent of frost and rugged stone.
Sharp alpine air stung his lungs, filling him with clarity and fire.
As he passed meadows strewn with edelweiss, the pristine petals blooming despite the harsh cold, he thought of his beloved Brynhildr.
Like the edelweiss, she clings to life through the bitter frost.
The ouroboros above his heart—and the ring upon his hand—pulsed warmer as he approached the ice-capped mountain which rose ahead, its craggy peak crowned with frost and jagged stone.
A scorching blaze seared his skin at the sight of the golden glow radiating from the summit, shimmering like molten sunlight trapped in shards of ice.
As Grani steadily climbed the treacherous mountainous path, falcons circled overhead, screeching warnings, alerting Sigurd to loose rocks, hidden fissures, and slippery ground.
His silver stallion’s hooves rang against rock, splintering stone as he bounded across narrow ledges and leapt crevices where shadow and snow clung like claws.
The nearer they came to the Ring of Fire, the hotter the ouroboros blazed against Sigurd’s thundering chest. In Fáfnir’s ring upon his finger, the emerald eyes of the dragon pulsed and glowed, as if the heart of the mountain carried him upward, driving him inexorably toward his fate.
When they finally crested the summit, a towering wall of golden flames the height of three men stretched before them, roaring like the bellows of a fire giant’s forge.
Heat rolled outward in visible waves, slamming against Sigurd’s golden brynja, singeing the tips of Blárúlfr’s blue fur, and scorching the ends of his braided beard.
Sparks hissed and leapt from the scorched stone. Flames swirled and surged toward the pale wintry sky, writhing like molten serpents. The acrid stench of smoke and burnt rock stung his nostrils, sharp as a spear.
A violent rumble shook the frozen ground beneath him.
As if the mountain recognized the pulse of the ouroboros above Sigurd’s Sea Wolf heart, the towering flames parted, revealing a corridor of golden light.
Although the molten walls blazed and twirled skyward, a luminous path stretched before them, beckoning both horse and rider.
Silver mane gleaming in the infernal glow, Grani soared, hooves pounding the scorched stone as he raced between the searing flames.
Sparks rained around them, hissing and curling from the molten blaze, but none touched Sigurd or his sublime stallion.
As they passed through the Ring of Fire, the leaping flames retracted into glowing embers, faded to smoldering ash, and died, leaving only a scorched ring of charred, blackened stone.
And there—at the heart of the Ring of Fire—lay Brynhildr, reclining as if upon a funeral pyre.
The golden corslet of her Valkyrie armor gleamed like frozen sunlight.
Gloved hands and vambrace-clad forearms were folded over the glorious Sun Falcon emblem emblazoned upon her breastplate.
Sheathed in its amber-embellished scabbard at her hip, the Sólfalkr sword glimmered with golden fire.
At her side lay the shield Falkskjoldr, the unfurled wings of the falcon in flight soaring before a radiant sunburst.
Eyes closed, lashes and lips rimmed in rime, she was a golden goddess, frozen in icy fire.
Waiting for Sigurd the Dragonslayer.
Her Sea Wolf soulbound mate.
Grani sank gracefully onto his forelegs as Sigurd slipped from the saddle.
He unloaded the woolen blankets and furs he’d brought to warm her, grasping the leather skin which contained the healing waters of the Lindsvier spring. Kneeling carefully at Brynhildr’s side, Sigurd lowered his warm loving lips to hers.
As the ouroboros blazed above his pounding heart, he poured sizzling seier into her frozen body through their soulbound rune.
She stirred, lashes fluttering as she struggled to open her eyes. When at last she saw him, a radiant smile dawned on her beautiful, frosted lips.
“Sigurd…” she breathed, “I’m so cold…”
He slid his hand beneath her luminous golden hair and gently lifted her head. “Drink,” he urged softly, bringing the waterskin to her blue puckered lips. “The sacred water will cleanse you.”
She swallowed three sips and succumbed to numbing sleep once again.
I must get her down the mountain as quickly as possible—and back to the monastery, where I can bathe her in the sacred spring.
Wrapping her first in wolfskins, then in woolen blankets, Sigurd lifted her off the frozen, scorched ground.
When Grani lowered his forelegs once again, Sigurd cradled Brynhildr against his chest as he swung into the saddle and settled her before him.
Wrapping Blárúlfr around his frozen falcon, Sigurd nudged Grani’s flanks and headed back down the icy mountain.
They arrived at the monastery as the pale moon rose, spilling liquid silver light over the sacred spring. Sigurd guided Grani down the winding cobblestone path, the cold alpine wind crisp against his frosted beard. The sweet floral scent of edelweiss filled the starry night air.
As if he had sensed their arrival, Kveld appeared, helping Sigurd ease Brynhildr from the saddle while Hálfdan unloaded the packs and Tryggvi tended Grani.
He helped Sigurd carry her to the edge of the waterfall pool, laying her gently upon the meadow strewn with edelweiss blossoms. The Nightwolf went into their cottage and returned with a bar of soap and two swathes of linen to use as drying cloths.
“I’ll stoke the fire, lay extra blankets and furs upon your bed.
I’ll sleep in the cottage with Tryggvi and Hálfdan, to give you privacy with her. ”
When Kveld, Tryggvi, and Hálfdan had retired to the húskarlar’s cottage, Sigurd knelt beside Brynhildr and tenderly eased the golden corslet and amber leather from her frozen form.
He laid each piece on the soft grass, intending to clean and restore her armor, shield, and sword once she was safe and warm.
He laid Blárúlfr next to her armor before shedding his winged helm, golden brynja, woolen tunic, boots, and breeches. Gathering Brynhildr in his arms, he pressed her cold nude body against his naked chest and eased them both into the luminous pool
Moonglow and starlight glimmered like crystals on the sacred spring as the healing waters lapped against her frosty form.
Sigurd poured the shimmering liquid over her golden hair, massaging the fragrant edelweiss soap through the strands, rinsing away ash, soot, and charred ice.
He washed her cold skin with pure lather, the floral essence mingling with the healing waters of the sacred spring.
When he kissed her icy lips, she stirred in his embrace, the ouroboros searing Odin’s frozen curse with the seier of dragonfire.
She wrapped her arms around his neck and returned his kiss. Startled, she opened her eyes and took in her surroundings. “Where are we?”
“In an alpine valley, at the monastery of Saint Bernard of the Spring,” he murmured, cradling her close. “This water—the Lindsvier sacred spring—has miraculous healing powers.” Scooping a handful from the waterfall, he offered it to her lips. “Drink. It will restore you.”
She drank eagerly, then cupped her own palms to swallow more. “It is delicious—earthy and rich, like fertile soil.”
Sigurd stroked her long golden hair. “Kveld says I must bathe you here for three nights, to purify your body.” He flashed her a wolfish grin. “And that I must make love to you each night as well—for the ouroboros to burn away all traces of Odin’s frozen curse.”
The radiance of her smile dazzled Sigurd’s Sea Wolf soul.
“Come, let me dry you and bring you inside.” He lifted her from the pool, wrapped her in a linen cloth, and carried her into the cottage at the edge of the dense forest.
The sweet scent of edelweiss lingered in the starry night air.
He laid her on his bed, covered her with blankets and furs, and leaned down to kiss her once. “I’ll be right back,” he whispered into her parted lips. “I need to bring our swords and armor—and Blárúlfr—inside the cottage.”
Returning to the edge of the waterfall pool, he gathered her golden corslet and amber leather armor, her sheathed sword and shield, carrying them into the cottage and laying them carefully on a wooden chest at the foot of the bed.
He flashed her a reassuring grin, enormously pleased and relieved to see her awake and the warm color returning to her pale cheeks.
Dashing back outside, the brisk night air biting at his bare skin, he quickly retrieved his winged helm, golden brynja, sheathed sword Gramr, and wolfskin cloak, racing back into the warmth of the cottage.
And his beloved Brynhildr.
She sat up in bed, clutching the furs around her, eyes wide with wonder at the sight of his dragon-shaped helmet, golden chainmail, and sheathed sword. “Just as I glimpsed in my vision.” She stretched her hand out, longing to touch them.
Sigurd reverently laid the items on the bed before her.
“They gleam with dragonfire…” she whispered in awe, tracing the emerald eyes of the fierce dragon in the winged helm. Her hand flew to the mark of the dragon which glowed above her bare breast. “And the ouroboros blazes in response…”
He showed her the golden band upon his finger. “The same as the emerald eyes of Fáfnir’s ring…and the soulbound rune above my own heart. Indeed, they guided me to you in the Ring of Fire.”
She gasped at the sight of his sheathed sword.
“You reforged your faeir’s sword Gramr with úlfblóer—and kept the wolf head hilt intact.
” Her fingertip traced the snarling wolf, its lapis lazuli eyes glinting in the firelight.
At the pommel, the golden threads of the larger lapis gem blazed with deep blue fire, echoing the wolf’s searing gaze.