“Take it,” Regin grumbled.
Sigurd closed his hand around the grip.
The Völsung steel andÚlfblóðr’sspirit sang to his Sea Wolf blood.
As he lifted the sword, the blade darkened and brightened in shifting patterns. Wolves and waves rose from the steel, called forth by breath and blood.
Hisfaðir’sblade blended with his.
Renewed. Reawakened. Reforged.
“Wolf blood reborn in Dwarven fire.” Regin’s beady eyes glinted like black obsidian. “Its power responds to your touch.” Weathered skin scorched like his sooty leather apron, the dwarf grinned at Sigurd. “Now that the wolf blade is reborn, you’re ready to slay the dragon.”
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 hisBlárúlfrcloak,Gramrsecurely 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.
Theouroborosbeneath Sigurd’s chainmailburned hot as Regin’s forge.
“The Norns are weaving their web ofwyrd,”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 wolfskingets soaked, it will weigh me down. And I don’t wantGramrto get wet, either. Guard these for me.” Sigurd unfastenedBlárúlfrand 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, sendingseiðrthrough 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.
Theouroborosin Sigurd’s skin flared in response. Like the wolf blood flowing in his Völsung veins, Grani was a divine gift from Odin.
Bound to him by fate.
The hooded wanderer gathered the bridles of the remaining horses. “Far þú 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.
