Chapter 1
The Sea Wolf
Moonlight glimmered on the icy fjord. The turbulent black surface was churned white by the thunderous waterfall which plummeted from the clifftop overhead. The deafening roar reverberated in Sigurd’s bones, the misty spray stinging his cheeks and coating his beard with shards of ice, making his grip slick as he clung to the frostbitten stone. Fingers numb, breath heaving, he reached for the narrow crack running beneath an outcrop in his treacherous ascent up the side of the cliff. He pulled himself up, his boot searching for purchase, sliding against the slippery mist.
On the clifftop ledge far above, the silhouettes of theSjórúlfarwolf warriorsencircled the standing stone at the summit. The shimmering fur of their wolfskins caught the moonlight in brief flashes, reminding him that that they were all watching. And waiting.
If he succeeded in reaching the top and claiming theWolfclawtalisman, they would welcome him into the pack. But if he fell, the fjord would swallow him whole.
As he reached for the next hold, the wind shifted. A fresh blast of water sheeted across the cliff and struck him full in the face. His frozen fingers slipped. His boot lost its perch.
He slammed into the fjord like a blacksmith’s hammer against an anvil, the searing pain ringing through his body as if he were the metal being forged.
A shock of icy needles raced up his limbs, the jarring impact crushing his breath as the world turned white. Unable to move, paralyzed in pain, the waterfall’s current dragged him toward the jagged rocks at the base of the cliff. With a surge of adrenaline, he forced his frigid limbs to move, to fight for survival. When he broke through the surface, choking and half-blind, the full moon overhead hung like a beacon in a raging storm.
Sigurd swam, kicking and clawing his way along the foot of the crag until his hands grasped a barnacle-crusted shelf. He hung there, panting, limbs quivering, long hair plastered to his frosted beard.
For the past three endless days and nights, he’d undergone a series of nine trials of physical, spiritual, and mental endurance. TheWolfclawwas the very last one. If he reached the summit and claimed the talisman, he would become a Sea Wolf.
But if he failed, he would drown.
His battered body and broken spirit were utterly depleted.
He was covered with bruises, welts, and gashes from today’s earlierBlood and Breathtrial, when he’d battled all eight of theSjórúlfar, one after another without reprieve. Last night, he’d passed theSilent Hunt—successfully eluding the pack as they stalked him like prey. He’d undergone theWave Trial—swimming across the tumultuous, freezing inlet in the dark. TheBinding, when they’d wrapped him in animal sinew and dropped him into a cave, testing whether he could wrest free and escape before the sun rose over the fjord.
He'd passed them all. But this last one was the most difficult. For not only was he physically exhausted, having been deprived of food and sleep, his mind was worn thin, more apt to falter in judgment.
Sigurd bent over and spewed from his wrenching belly all the salt water he’d consumed in battling the waves and thewaterfall current. Choking, he wiped the frothy spittle from his frosty beard and waited to catch his breath.
Atop the rocky ledge, the wolf warriors watched in silence to see if their cub would drown or climb.
Sigurd spat brine, planted his bare palms against the slick stone, and began again.
The second attempt ended faster. Halfway up, his numb hands misjudged a ridge. The rock peeled free under his grip, and he tumbled backward. This time, he did not strike the water cleanly—his shoulder glanced off the cliff on the way down, sending lightning through his spine before the fjord swallowed him again.
Darkness pressed at the edges of his vision as he struggled toward the surface. His leaden limbs shook violently. The cliff loomed over him where the standing stone and the claw talisman awaited. He thought of the Sea Wolves watching, their cold lupine eyes judging whether he would rise in triumph or die in the depths below.
Sigurd inhaled deeply, drawing upon the four long years of training with the pack in preparation for this very moment.
Hródvarr Ironfang’s excruciating lessons of endurance. Brandúlfr Bloodaxe teaching him to fight wounded, battling beyond pain. Kveld, the Nightwolf, unveiling the spiritual path of theSjórúlfar. And Eyvindr Waverunner, showing him how to balance on longships as they danced across the sea.
Applying all he had learned, Sigurd summoned the last of his courage from the wolf blood of Odin coursing through his Völsung veins.
Allfather, grant me the strength, endurance, and wisdom to succeed.
Above him, two ravens circled in the moonlight, their harsh croaks rising above the roar of the waterfall. From the shadowed forest atop the cliff, a lone wolf released a long, haunting howl.
The Sjórúlfar are not the only ones watching. I climb…or I die.
For the third time, Sigurd set his hands upon the slick stone.
He crawled slowly, steadying his breath, finding new holds with icy fingers and numb feet. Spray slicked his frozen hands, but he shifted his weight with the caution of a prowling wolf. His muscles burned and shook, but he climbed.
He passed the outcrop that had betrayed him before. Pressing close to the stone, stiff shoulder scraping along the rock, he hauled himself past it with a ragged growl. Above, the torches flickered—a ring of fire against the starlit night. The wolf warriors were leaning forward now, silent but no longer still.
The final stretch was nearly vertical. Far below, the black fjord loomed like a dark abyss.
Sigurd dug his fingers into a fissure, heaved himself up, and flung an arm over the lip of the cliff. For an agonizing moment he hung there, legs thrashing over the endless void. With a final burst of strength, he hoisted himself onto the solid ground, collapsing onto hoary heather and sea-sprayed stone.
