Chapter 3 #2
As her arms slipped from the golden corslet, Brynhildr seethed with a contradictory blend of anger, awe, and anguish.
How could Yrsa have withheld such an important truth?
“You have known since my birth that Freyja is my móeir—and yet you never told me?” Limbs shaking, heart thundering, her voice quavered with overwhelming emotion.
Yrsa’s deep blue gaze was as profound as the icy fjord.
“Freyja forbade me from revealing the truth of your birth. It was essential that you be raised in the realm of humans, and that you knew nothing of your divine heritage.” She took hold of Brynhildr’s cold hands, the soothing warmth a welcome comfort.
“The goddess showed me your future as the Sun Falcon shieldmaiden. A Valkyrie clad in golden armor, wielding enchanted weapons, and deciding who will triumph on the fields of battle.” She meticulously wrapped the golden corslet in the pale linen, then folded the amber leather leggings, vambraces, gloves, and boots in separate swathes of soft cloth.
Pulse still pounding in her ears, Brynhildr stood in her linen shift, watching in stunned silence as she grappled with the enormity of Freyja’s revelation.
“Save the enchanted armor and weapons for the Sólhjarta Tournament,” Yrsa advised, carefully storing the wrapped items in the large wooden trunk at the foot of Brynhildr’s fur-lined bed.
“The shield will fit in here as well,” she said, indicating that there was sufficient room for Falkskjoldr inside the enormous chest. “But wrap it inside that deerskin first.” Yrsa pointed to a large hide, folded upon a wooden shelf.
Brynhildr tucked the soft leather around her enchanted shield, carried it across the pinewood floor, and laid it beside the wrapped corslet inside the trunk. “I’ll hang Sólfalkr from this peg.” She looped the elaborate sheath which encased her magnificent sword onto the wooden stud.
Yrsa wiped her brow with a soft cloth tucked at her waist. She smiled reassuringly at Brynhildr, her blue eyes glinting like the sunlit sea.
“Back into your green gown,” she murmured, fetching the garment she had carried upstairs from the seier chamber on the floor below.
She helped Brynhildr pull the gown over her shoulders, lacing the bodice up the back.
“Now, we shall meet Inga and Astrid in the weaving room and go together to the Great Hall for dagmál. You can tell your faeir that you will obey him—and wed the champion of the Summer Solstice Tournament.” She flashed a mischievous smile. “If he can best you in battle.”
* * * *
Four armored warriors, clad in chain mail brynja and conical helmets with nose guards, flanked the double oaken entrance doors intricately carved with ravens and runes.
Bearded axes and belted swords were strapped at their sinewy waists, spears and shields—painted with a black raven in flight upon a field of deep blue— clutched in their gloved hands.
As Brynhildr and Yrsa approached with Inga and Astrid, the guards stepped aside to allow the women through the wide open doors which led into the glorious Great Hall of Hrafnfjall.
Inside the vast chamber, flames roared in the central hearth which spanned the length of the royal longhouse.
Vaulted timber beams peaked overhead, allowing smoke to exit through a narrow roof ridge.
Bright blue shields with soaring ravens lined the wooden walls, banners with the black birds flapping like wings from the carved posts and broad crossbeams. At the far end of the enormous hall, King Budli sat in his ondvegi upon an elevated wooden dais, the bronze inlays and carved ravens along the arms of the elaborate throne glinting in the sunlight that slanted through the narrow cliffside windows.
A Viking redbeard of fierce renown, Budli was clad in a woolen cloak of deep blue, the silver fox fur along the collar brushing his oxlike neck.
A wide leather belt, adorned with ravens and runes, cinched the grey tunic at his waist, holding a sheath for Hrafntonn, his majestic sword carved with head of a raven in the ornate hilt.
Black breeches were tucked into his rugged boots, the reindeer hide lined with fur and scarred from years of warfare.
A silver brooch etched with the head of a raven fastened his fox-trimmed cloak, glinting atop his left shoulder.
Budli’s long red beard was braided with lapis lazuli beads, the same gems that gleamed in the eyes of the ravens which adorned his throne, wooden posts, and massive silver.
brooch. Swept back from his scarred, savage face, the king’s long red hair was braided with blue beads like his thick copper beard.
As Brynhildr entered the room with Yrsa, her royal faeir rose from his throne to greet them, as did the húskarlar—the elite warriors who defended the Raven King and his clifftop fortress of Hrafnfjall.
She spotted Ulric Ironshield at the high table, waiting for her.
On his other side, her faeir’s skáld Kjartan tapped a rhythm against his wooden cup, keen eyes calculating clever kennings and heiti metaphors for his entertaining poetic verse.
Budli’s bellow reverberated through the vast hall. “Welcome, dóttir and Yrsa, respected volva. Come join me. Now that you have arrived, we may eat.”
As Astrid led Brynhildr to the high table and Inga escorted Yrsa, servants moved swiftly, setting down bowls of steaming oat porridge with tart lingonberries, platters of grilled cod, loaves of freshly baked barley bread, wedges of soft goat cheese topped with hazelnuts and honey, and mugs of ale for all, with mead reserved for the king and his high table.
Brynhildr bowed slightly to her faeir, as did Yrsa, Inga, and Astrid, before the four women climbed up the three small steps of the dais to the high table.
At the king’s gesture, Brynhildr took her seat, with Yrsa at her side.
Astrid and Inga, as personal servants to Brynhildr and the volva, stood behind them and waited until they were served before descending the stairs and taking their place at a small nearby table.
A servant offered Brynhildr an elkhorn of mead, which she sipped while waiting for her faeir to speak.
“I have sent heralds to neighboring kingdoms, announcing the Sólhjarta Tournament, which will commence the first of June and culminate on the Summer Solstice.” Budli downed a long pull of mead and swiped his bristled lips with the sleeve of his linen tunic.
“There will be ten intense competitions, with finalists dueling for your coveted hand. I expect there will be at dozens of entrants, for many noble warriors are eager to wed the beautiful Brynhildr, Princess of Hrafnfjall.” A boastful grin broke Budli’s thick red beard.
He raised his elkhorn and nodded to Brynhildr. “You shall wed the champion. A warrior worthy of my shieldmaiden dóttir.”
Brynhildr inclined her head and raised her own elkhorn of mead. “I shall obey my faeir and king,” she murmured as she sipped from her horn. “But I wish to propose a challenge.”
A thrill raced up her spine at the intense spark of interest in Budli’s glinting gaze.
“I shall indeed marry the champion of the Sólhjarta Tournament—but only if he is a warrior who can defeat me.” She grinned slyly at her intrigued faeir.
“Let it be known that the champion will earn the right to challenge the Sun Falcon shieldmaiden in a single combat swordfight. Should he prevail, I shall wed him. But if he fails, the Sun Falcon shall be the winner of the Summer Solstice Tournament.”
Budli bellowed with laughter and raised his horn high.
“So be it, dóttir min. My Sun Falcon shieldmaiden shall challenge the Sólhjarta champion in single combat.” He downed his mead and swiped a swarthy hand across his bristled lips.
“You will gain a worthy husband…or attract the attention of the Allfather. Either outcome honors us both.”
Brynhildr’s heart soared like the ravens over Hrafnfjall.