Chapter 4
Three Gifts for the Sea Wolf
Lively notes from lyres and lutes floated through the festive air of Sjóbjorg, King álfr’s magnificent royal hall perched atop the cliff overlooking the dark waters of úlffjorden, the Wolf Fjord named for his renowned Sea Wolves.
Beneath the high peaked ceiling of the majestic longhouse, rows of round oaken shields painted blue with fierce faces of snarling grey wolves lined the timbered walls.
A roaring fire blazed in the central hearth which spanned the length of the enormous hall.
Warriors, nobles, and honored guests sat at trestle tables on either side of the flickering flames, the tantalizing aromas of roasted boar dripping with honey, grilled haddock, steamed clams, and fresh barley bread mingling with the salty scent of the sea.
At the far end of the jubilant hall, the resplendent king sat upon an elevated dais in his ondvegi, a towering chair of elaborately engraved, polished oak.
Its high back rose above the king’s crowned head, carved with the snarling visage of a great wolf, its feral eyes set with glittering lapis lazuli gems that glistened in the firelight.
The armrests of the oaken throne were also carved with wolf motifs, the curves of lupine paws and sharp curled claws entwined with intricate Nordic knotwork and interwoven runes.
Silver streaked King álfr’s long dark hair and braided beard.
His deep grey woolen cloak was lined with wolf fur, the silvery pelt shimmering like the elegant embroidery at the collar, sleeves, and hem.
An enormous silver brooch with the head of a wolf and eyes of lapis lazuli clasped the cloak at the king’s broad shoulder.
The fine wool and thick fur draped over the ondvegi throne and complemented the rich blue of his tunic, a glorious tribute to the sea and the wolves he both ruled.
At King álfr’s left sat Sigurd’s móeir, Queen Hjordis, her deep blue gown as striking as the lapis gems which glittered in the silver crown atop her intricate blonde braids.
On álfr’s right, in the place of honor, King Rognvaldr of Rauevik wore a crimson cloak trimmed with ermine fur, a silver crown adorned with blood-red garnets atop his white hair, scarlet gems braided into his long white beard.
Beside the majestic king of Rauevik—named for the red sandstone cliffs of his kingdom along the Skagerrak in southern Norway—his seeress Eldsjá blazed with fiery brilliance.
The volva’s hauntingly beautiful face was painted gold with shimmering ochre.
Black runes and swirling flames were inked along her swanlike throat, slender hands, and across the pale skin above the curved neckline of her gathered crimson gown.
A bronze diadem upon her flaming red hair was embellished with a trio of enchanted stones—amethyst, amber, and garnet— which glittered in the golden sun streaming through the narrow windows in the wooden walls.
Raven feathers, bone fragments, and rune-engraved silver charms adorned her long black cloak.
Atop her gnarled staff of blackened wood carved with arcane runes sat a raven’s skull whose amber eyes glowed with otherworldly light.
Sigurd sat among the Sea Wolves at the table of honor near the royal dais.
The grey-blue wolfskin cloak Blárúlfr draped his shoulders, the úlfkló talisman was tucked beneath his chain mail brynja, and the úlfhjarta dagger was sheathed at his waist. He swallowed a mouthful of roasted boar and washed it down with a long pull of mead, the contrast of salt and sweet dancing on his appreciative tongue.
A thrill rippled up his spine as he glanced around the joyous hall.
Tonight’s celebration was to honor him for becoming one of the nine Sjórúlfar—the elite úlfhéenar wolfskin warriors sworn to guard the fjords and maritime kingdom of his foster faeir, King álfr.
Sigurd grinned at his beautiful móeir, Queen Hjordis, seated beside her royal husband in an elegantly carved high-backed chair. Her throne bore the same wolf image as the king’s ondvegi, but was smaller, with curling floral vines as a tribute to her beauty.
Hjordis had been carrying Sigurd in her womb when her first husband Sigmund was ambushed, betrayed, and slain by the treacherous King Lyngvi of Sweden.
Blood brother and sworn ally of Sigmund, King álfr had promised his dying friend that he would wed Hjordis and raise her unborn son as his own.
And now, though Sigurd did not share his foster faeir’s blood, he had been raised in the clifftop royal fortress of Sjóborg with all the privileges, upbringing, and elite training as the powerful Wolf King’s son.
Silken gown shimmering like the deep blue fjord, blonde braids woven around the glittering crown atop her noble head, his móeir returned Sigurd’s smile, anticipation and delight gleaming in her bright gaze.
She had hinted to him that King álfr intended to bestow a trinity of gifts tonight at the celebratory feast, and Sigurd’s knee bounced restlessly beneath the table, drumming with excitement at the prospect.
Now that the feast had finished, King álfr rose from his ondvegi, the silver rim of the elaborate elkhorn clutched in his hand etched with runes and embedded with lapis lazuli gems. Since it was late spring, the evening sun had not fully set, despite the late hour, and the last rays streaming through the narrow windows gilded the sigils and jewels of his elkhorn and elegant crown with glorious golden light.
The king’s booming voice bellowed through the jubilant hall.
“Tonight we honor not only my foster son Sigurd, newly sworn among the Sjórúlfar, but also the noble guests who have traveled from distant fjords, kingdoms, and halls to witness this triumph. Let all who behold Sigurd’s glory raise their cups in respect for valor, strength, and victory! ”
The rapt crowd erupted in riotous cheers. Warriors slammed their fists on tables, horns lifted high, and voices thundered in unison. “To Sigurd Sea Wolf! Skál!”
When the shouts subsided, the visiting jarls rose from their seats, their fine woolen cloaks trimmed with fur and fastened with elaborate silver brooches, armbands glinting in the golden light.
One by one, they approached Sigurd, seated among the Sjórúlfar, nodding respectfully to King álfr on the dais before presenting their prestigious gifts.
Jarl Hróald of Bj?rndal offered Sigurd a silver ring with the head of a wolf and blue eyes of lapis lazuli. “For courage and cunning,” he murmured, a broad smile breaking his braided, silver-streaked beard.
Sigurd inclined his head with reverence and gratitude as he slipped the ring on the first finger of his left hand. “I shall honor it always.”
Next came Jarl Thorfinn of Skjoldheim, who presented a wooden cask of rare cloudberry mead, carried by two strong attendants.
Bjarki of Skógvik offered an ashwood shield, a snarling wolf etched into the polished bronze boss, while Jarl Siggtryg of ?rnesund knelt to offer a bundle of exotic northern furs, shimmering softly in the firelight.
With the Blárúlfr wolfskin cloak wrapped securely around his broad shoulders, its fierce lupine head resting snugly atop his own, Sigurd stood and accepted each gift with honor as the crowd rumbled with raucous cheers.
When the jarls returned to their respective seats, leaving him glowing with glorious pride, Sigurd sat back down amongst the Sjórúlfar, who grinned and growled in appreciation and admiration of the magnificent gifts.
The royal longhouse fell into hushed reverence as King álfr rose to address the crowd once again.
“Noble jarls and esteemed guests, your gifts honor not only Sigurd but the courage, loyalty, and spirit of all the Sjórúlfar. May these offerings stand as symbols of your generosity and the enduring bond between our halls.”
At the king’s words, festive guests raised carved elkhorns and pewter goblets, golden mead glinting in the firelight. While thunderous shouts of “Skál!” rippled through the throng, Sigurd drank deeply, reveling in the fierce fellowship of warriors and the tribute to his triumph.
álfr raised a regal hand, and silence fell over the expectant hall.
The king lifted his carved elkhorn, the blackened runes and lapis gems glittering in the golden sun.
Nodding to the crimson-clad king seated at the high table, álfr introduced his honored royal guest. “Warriors and kin of Sjóborg, I present King Rognvaldr of Rauevik, who brings a noble gift to honor Sigurd Sea Wolf.”
As álfr resumed his seat upon the elaborate ondvegi, King Rognvaldr rose and inclined his head in respectful deference to his royal host. He motioned to an awaiting attendant, who strode across the gleaming pinewood floor, carrying a ceremonial spear upright in his outstretched arms.
Carved along the pale ashwood shaft, snarling wolves and rolling waves were imbued with deep blue woad.
A black leather sheath covered the blade, and a matching grip encircled the shaft near the center.
Embroidered in shimmering silver thread, wolves and waves adorned both black leather sheath and grip.
At the base of the hooded blade, a lapis lazuli gem gleamed, encased in etched silver where the spearhead met the pale ash shaft.
King Rognvaldr’s regal voice rose above the murmured din. “Sigurd Sea Wolf, this spear is forged for one who walks with wolves and rides with waves. May it serve you well, as the Norns weave glory and valor into your wyrd.”
Sigurd accepted the spear with both hands, bowing his wolfskin-clad head to King Rognvaldr upon the dais.
The hall hushed, the lapis gem near the sheathed blade sparkling like the sunlit fjord.
Pride and resolve in his reverent voice, Sigurd solemnly addressed the crimson-cloaked king.
“I shall wield it with honor, King Rognvaldr. May its steel bring glory to us both.”