The youth stood quietly in the dim pre-dawn light, naked from the waist up, the morning chill making his skin tingle. This was the day. The snow on the nearby trees sparkled harshly in the youth’s eyes, but he paid the glare little attention. His mother was chanting slowly in the distance, her long hair braided into a single cord down her back. She sang a song of protection, a simple prayer to the gods, beseeching them to keep her son safe.

The youth looked to his father, gazed upon the scarred, leathery skin of the man’s face. His father dabbed a boar-hair brush into a small bowl, then applied it to the youth’s chest, drawing the first of a set of tribal runes.

“I paint you with the blood of our Brother Wolf. Like the wolf, be swift. Bite hard. Do not let go.”

The youth nodded. His father had made this trek, years ago, and before him, his grandfather had done the same. The wolf’s blood, mixed with herbs and sap of the Isoldo tree, was sticky on his chest; the pungent smell of it made his head swim, but he knew it would protect him.

His father finished painting the runes on him, then turned. The youth’s eyes followed his father’s gaze. Three elders stood quietly on the hill, their long beards braided on their chests, decorated with ornaments. Each bore a weapon: the first, a heavy club carved from the thigh bone of a giant bear; the second, the spear that slew the Priestking of the south, its stone head still tinged red; the third, a dagger carved from the rock that fell from the sky, a gift from the gods.

“You, boy, have seen the Deep Winter, and spoken with your ancestors,” his father said, intoning the words of the rite. “You have gone on the Great Hunt, where you and your brothers slew Thoth, the frost boar. Today, you face a Child of Jormundgand. The serpent will try to crush you with its gaze. Do not look. It will try to bite you with its fangs. Do not let it. It will try to lick you with its flames. If they touch you, you die. Today, you are a nameless boy. Return to me, and you may become my son and earn your name.”

The youth nodded slowly. A quiet moment passed between the boy and his father, neither speaking, then the old man stepped out of the way, turning to face the elders once more.

“The boy is ready! Lead him, Old Ones, that he may see the path we each have taken!” he cried. The three elders nodded, then turned without a word, and began walking towards the north.

“Go, boy. Return to me when you have earned yourself a name.” The youth took a deep breath, then set off after the three old men, jogging until he caught up with them. The movement made his cold muscles ache.

He knew better than to ask where he was being led. Until he had completed the task, he was forbidden to speak. Children ask questions. If he were to become a man and take his place as a leader of the tribe, he would have to learn how to learn on his own.

They soon left the path, trudging through a thin blanket of snow. He could feel the ground beneath his booted feet becoming rockier, and their journey began to carry them uphill. The tall trees, their countless needles glistening with ice, stared down at him; more and more of them appeared as they walked. Somewhere in the sky overhead, a hawk cried out in the silence. Everything watched him. The trees watched him, as did the hawk. The old men would watch him. All of them would watch, to see if the boy was worthy of a name.

They came finally to the foot of the mountain. The youth gazed up at the snow-crusted peak at the mountain’s head. That is where he would face the Child of Jormundgand.

The three elders stopped, and turned to face the boy.

“We go no further,” one said.

“Behind the hill lies a cave. Enter, and follow it to your test.”

“Have faith, and the gods will protect you.”

The youth’s eyes flicked up at the peak once more, then met the eyes of the men.

“I am the son of Erik Wolfrider, son of Bartus Hunts-with-Boars. I will face the Serpent’s Spawn this day, and earn my place.” The reply was a ritual. His father had made him recite it a thousand times before he was sure it was perfect.

“The Great Wolf Fenris watches you, as will we. Pluck a scale from the serpent, and return to us. That is all you need do,” one said.

“I give you Erik Wolfrider’s cudgel, which slew five warriors of the Bear Clan. It will keep you strong.” The elder pushed the bear-bone club into the youth’s hand. The boy hung the club at his belt.

“I give you the spear of Bartus Hunts-with-Boars, carved from a branch of the Runetree. It will guide your path.” The second elder handed the spear over.

“I give you the dagger of Hjalm Godforger, sent to us on the moon of your birth. It will keep you safe.” The boy tucked the dagger into his boot. The first elder nodded.

“We give you these three tokens, infused with the spirits of your ancestors. They will help you, but they will not do the task for you. Go now, and be dead to us. If you return, we will know you are a man.”

The elders turned their backs to him. The youth glanced back up to the mountain’s crest, then set off. He rounded the hill and looked down into the cave, its great mouth ready to swallow him whole. He took a deep breath, steadied himself, and stepped into the darkness. The air was colder here in the shadow of the mountain; a chill washed over his bare chest.

A thousand men or more had wandered this tunnel at one time or another. Each of them had taken this walk of ritual and tradition. Each of them had faced the serpent at the end, and some of them had returned men. Those that were lost to the serpent were forgotten. He felt his way along in the dark, one hand on his spear, the other feeling the cavern’s stone wall.

The tunnel branched; a forked tongue, like the tongue that would taste him. His hand found the guiding sigils: ancient runes, carved into the stone long ago, that told him the correct path led to the left. The cave began to wind upwards, towards the mountain’s summit. Gravel crunched too loudly under his feet. A steady rhythmic breath pulsed through the cave; the breeze was warm and moist.

“Fryss Wyrmslayer, give me strength,” he whispered.

A serpentine voice hissed at the back of his consciousness: I know your blood, Boy of the Wolf Tribe.

The youth froze, his grip tightening around the spear’s shaft. He peered silently into the dark, searching for the voice’s source.

“Show yourself, serpent.” His voice sounded weaker than he would have liked it.

The voice in his head laughed. Come, Boy of the Wolf Tribe. I will feast on you. Do not keep me waiting.

The boy took in a shaky breath, released it slowly, and continued through the tunnel. A glaring circle of light appeared as he rounded a bend, and the stone here was smoother beneath his fingertips. In the new light, he studied the cave’s walls. They had the consistency of melted candles. The smell of sulphur and ash floating on the wind burned his nostrils.

“The serpent’s fire can turn stone to water,” he whispered to himself, reminding himself of the stories his father used to tell him.

He paused at the cave’s exit, peering out into the open. No snow lingered here. Bones and old weapons littered the blackened ground. He saw no sight of the serpent and slowly stepped out into the open.

“I am the son of Erik Wolfrider, son of Bartus-”

“Silence your ritualistic babble, Boy.”

The youth whirled, readying his spear. The dragon sat perched on the rock above the cave’s entrance, its muscular forelegs tucked under its body. It was vaguely feline in form, sheathed from head to toe in glistening ruby scales. Great spiraling horns curved upwards from its head, and the vertical slits of its eyes pierced through him. A snake-like tongue darted out occasionally, tasting the air. The beast flexed its withered wings, long since useless for flight.

“You’ve come to fight me, to prove your worth?”

“I will become a man.”

“Then you will die.”

The dragon’s spiked tail whipped about its body, slamming into the stone at the boy’s feet. The rock shattered, and the force of the blow threw the youth to the ground. He rolled to his feet, bracing himself into a crouch, spear held defensively in front of him.

“I took your father’s eye. Your grandfather’s brother fell to my fangs, and his uncle to my claws. How should I mark you, manling?”

The dragon sauntered off of its perch, stalking slowly around the boy. The rocks shook with each of its footfalls, and he could smell its smoky breath. The serpent’s head lifted, its lips curling back to reveal a mouth full of razor sharp daggers.

“I will kill you, Child of Jormundgand.”

“No nameless boy can kill me,” the dragon snapped, a growl on its voice. “What is your name, boy?” Even as it spoke, the dragon lunged, its fangs snapped at the air; the boy scrambled back away from them, only to be struck by a swipe of the wyrm’s powerful forepaw. The blow sent him reeling, and he hugged the ribs along his right side as he pulled himself to his feet, steadying himself with his spear.

“I am stronger than you, boy. Faster than you. Fight me!” The dragon pressed the advantage, lunging forward with its fangs. The youth rolled to the side, bringing up the spear to stab at the side of the serpent’s face. The sharp spear scraped harmlessly against the scales, and the dragon thrashed its massive head about, tearing the weapon from the boy’s grasp; the spear clattered uselessly to the ground nearby.

The dragon slunk around the boy, stalking like a cat, as the youth fought to free the bear-bone club from his belt.

“Your weapons are useless against me, Boy of the Wolf Tribe. Your club will shatter against my scales.”

“I must become a man.”

The dragon whirled around far faster than its great bulk would suggest, its spiked tail aiming for the boy’s head. The youth threw himself to the ground to avoid the deadly flail, then found himself pinned to the ground by one of the dragon’s massive claws. The serpent’s head hovered over his, its thick smoky breath hot on his face. Its fangs glistened with saliva as it spoke.

“You are just a manling.”

It reared up its head to bite at the boy, but the youth drew his dagger quickly, thrusting it deep into the tender flesh of the dragon’s paw. The beast reared up on its hind legs, shrieking in pain and rage. The boy scrambled to his feet, and struck at the beast’s leg with his club; the cudgel clattered loudly against the steel-hard scales, but the dragon did not seem to feel the blow. It let itself fall to the ground, however, seeking to crush the boy beneath its weight. The youth threw himself out of the way as the dragon’s bulky frame came crashing down; he rolled to his feet, finding himself without a weapon-his dagger still lodged firmly in the dragon’s hand, his club dropped carelessly, now crushed beneath the dragon.

The wyrm rose to its full height once more, looming overhead; its chest began to swell with a mammoth intake of breath, thin wisps of smoke curling from its nostrils. It will try to lick you with its flames. If they touch you, you die. His father’s words returned to him. The boy looked around frantically; his eyes latched onto the sight of his spear, lying on the ground on the dragon’s far side. If only he could reach it. He broke into a run.

A wave of flames burst from the dragon’s throat, accompanied by a bestial shriek; a line of fire traced the boy’s path, the flames licking at his heels, but never touching him-he ran too quickly, darting around the dragon. In mid-run, he snatched up his spear, and whirled on his heel, hurling the spear will all his might into the dragon’s eye. The great beast tottered, its fiery breath abruptly cut short. Its claws swatted frantically at the barb stuck in its eye, succeeding only in snapping the shaft in half. Its form came crashing down once more, and it struggled to lift its head.

“I have tread on your flames, dragon, and I have taken your eye as you have taken the eye of my father. Give me one of your scales, and I will not kill you.” The boy approached the serpentine figure, standing dangerously close to the dragon’s fangs.

“You have no name, Boy of the Wolf Tribe!” The dragon’s voice was strained, full of anger and pain and frustration.

“Then name me, serpent!” the boy shouted back, pounding a fist against his painted chest.

A quiet moment passed between them; only the dragon’s labored breathing broke the silence.

“They will know you as Calgor, He Who Walks on Fire,” the dragon finally replied. The boy nodded, contemplating the name. When he spoke again, his voice was soft.

“May I have one of your scales, Dragon of the Mountain?”

The dragon seemed to consider this a moment, then shook its head violently, scraping one of its horns against its forearm, peeling back a ruby-red scale; it fell at the boy’s feet.

“Take it, Boy of the Wolf Tribe, and leave me to my wounds,” the dragon growled. The boy snatched up the scale, and bowed, then sprinted towards the cave. He paused momentarily, glancing back at the fallen beast.

“What is your name, dragon?”

“Ninguno.”