Chapter 4 #2
King Rognvaldr acknowledged the expression of gratitude with a slight incline of his crowned white head before sitting back down beside the flame-haired volva who observed Sigurd with far-seeing amber eyes.
álfr rose again, his regal voice ringing over the rapt throng. “Let all here lift horn and heart to King Rognvaldr of Rauevik, who honors Sigurd, Sea Wolf of Sjóborg, with this noble spear. May it serve my foster son well, and may the bond between our houses endure as steadfast as its steel blade.”
After another riotous round of cheers, the king raised his bejeweled hand to command silence.
“And now, before warriors, wolves, welcome allies, and worthy kin gathered tonight in the clifftop fortress of Sjóborg… I proclaim that I, too, have a trinity of gifts to bestow upon Sigurd the Sea Wolf.” álfr gestured for Sigurd to approach the high table.
Heart hammering, legs shaking with adrenaline, Sigurd rose from his seat among the Sjórúlfar and strode across the polished floor.
He mounted the steps of the elevated wooden dais upon which the king stood before the ornate ondvegi, the entire hall utterly silent as Sigurd approached the elaborate throne.
There, beneath the towering pillars carved with runes and wolves, he sank to one knee before the majestic monarch.
álfr motioned to one of his húskarlar standing at attention along the wall, who brought forth an intricately detailed silver armband resting upon a dark wolfskin.
The thick torc displayed a snarling wolf head with bared fangs and lapis lazuli eyes, glittering like the icy fjord.
At the opposite end of the arm ring, a thick tail etched with runes rested above sharp, curved claws.
The king’s commanding voice echoed off the timbered walls.
“For enduring the brutal trial of three endless days and arduous nights, for braving death and demonstrating your prowess and valor, I hereby bestow upon you the úlfhringr, identifying symbol of the Sea Wolves. Rise, Sigurd, and take your place among the Sjórúlfar, bound in brotherhood, blood, and blade.” When Sigurd rose on unsteady legs, the king fitted the silver torc firmly around his upper right arm.
At the nearby table of honor where Sigurd had been seated, the eight remaining Sjólrúlfar shot to their feet, holding their own arm rings high.
In a feral, unified howl that shook the rafters, rumbled across the clifftop, and rippled out over the icy fjord, they hailed Sigurd as a Sea Wolf warrior of the maritime kingdom of Sjóborg.
The hall thundered with frenzied shouts of “Skál!” at the guttural salute of the Sjórúlfar.
When the exuberant cheering subsided, álfr’s proud, generous gaze swept over Sigurd.
With a flick of bejeweled fingers, he beckoned an armored attendant forward, who carried a shining silver platter, the gleaming edges etched with blackened runes and embellished with glittering blue gems. Draped across the ornate silver tray was a large dark wolfskin, and laid across the luxurious grey fur was a magnificent sheathed sword.
“To honor your triumph in becoming a member of the Sjórúlfar, I present úlfblóer, forged in the same blood of the great blue wolf whose cloak now wraps you in his fierce spirit and infuses you with indomitable strength. May this wolf blade always strike true, lead you to victory over your enemies, and defend you with the blood of Blárúlfr.” álfr lifted the sheathed blade from the silver platter and reverently offered it to Sigurd.
“The scabbard is crafted from the same leather and fur as your cloak, adorned with lapis lazuli to mirror the sword. As the sacred wolfskin strengthens your Sjórulfar spirit, so may the sheath guard your lupine blade.”
The úlfblóer sword gleamed in the glorious golden light.
Within the intricate pommel, a large lapis lazuli gem glistened like the deep blue sea.
The crossguard curved elegantly into the shape of a snarling wolf head, its feral eyes set with smaller lapis stones threaded with gold that blazed with inner fire.
Sigurd humbly accepted the sheathed sword, reverence and awe tightening his proud chest. Shifting the scabbard to his left hand, he wrapped his fingers around the leather throat and slowly withdrew the blade with his right.
Steel whispered free in a long, ringing breath.
Wolves etched along the blade glimmered as if alive, their strength surging up his sword arm and sizzling into his skin. At the base of the elaborate hilt, a trio of runes glinted in the setting sun.
Algiz, for protection.
Tiwaz, for victory and valor.
And Ansuz, for divine guidance and wolf wisdom from Odin.
Sigurd tested the balance of úlfblóer with a carefully controlled arc, marveling at how the sword felt eager in his grip.
Murmurs of awe rippled through the hall as he stood poised before the king, the weight of the emblazoned blade in one hand and the embellished scabbard in the other.
Every detail in sword and sheath alike imbued the bond between Sigurd and Blárúlfr, the fierce spirit of the blue wolf whose blood had tempered the blade, and the brotherhood of the Sjórúlfar that Sigurd now embodied.
He lowered the gleaming sword, breath still heaving from the sudden surge of power. With deliberate care, he deftly guided úlfblóer back into its embellished scabbard. Sigurd clutched the sheathed blade to his chest and bowed deeply before his foster faeir.
“My king.” His head remained lowered, his deep voice quavering with emotion. “Your gifts honor me beyond words. I will bear them with loyalty, courage, and the spirit of the Sjórúlfar.”
At Sigurd’s table, the eight Sea Wolves slammed fists to their armored chests, wolfskins gleaming in the firelight. They unleashed another fierce, echoing howl, the triumphant bellow rolling over the raucous crowd and out over the icy fjord.
When the king raised his hand once more, a hush of anticipation swept across the silent hall.
An eager gleam glinted in King álfr’s royal gaze. “For the presentation of my final gift,” he boomed, a fierce grin splitting his silver-streaked dark beard. “We shall assemble around the bonfire at the edge of the cliff where the goei will make an offering to the gods.”
* * * *
Fiery hues of molten gold, crimson, and violet streaked the evening sky as the setting sun slid low over the horizon.
A crisp, salty wind whipped across the restless fjord, the briny tang of the sea mingling with the piney scent of juniper and burning herbs as guests gathered around the roaring bonfire at the top of the cliff.
Far below, at the base of the rocky outcrop which curved around a sheltered inlet, dozens of King álfr’s impressive fleet of drakkar and snekkja longships were beached along the pebbled shore.
Sails furled and tied to the masts, the fierce dragon prows gleamed in the brilliant golden light.
The goei stood before the stone-enclosed flames, the antlers of his elaborate headpiece carved with wolves, runes, and waves.
Grey wolf fur lined his black cloak, the ornate clasp at his shoulder engraved with a snarling wolf whose lapis lazuli eyes glimmered like the silver threads embroidered at the hem of his deep blue tunic.
Beads, bones, and fangs dangled beneath his long silver beard, and pouches of herbs hung from the leather belt where a gem-adorned dagger was sheathed at his waist. His weathered face was painted white with chalk, black runes lining his wrinkled cheeks and crinkled brow.
Clutched in his skeletal hands, the sacred silver bowl of sacrificial blood was etched with runes and embellished with lapis gems, glittering like captured stars.
Sigurd stood among the Sjórúlfar, heart thundering, limbs quavering, the blue grey fur of his Blárúlfr cloak shimmering like the silver torc on his arm and the gleaming sword at his hip.
King álfr led Queen Hjordis toward the fire and joined King Rognvaldr and Eldsjá, the flame-haired volva, before turning to face the gathered throng. His rich, regal voice rippled across the windswept cliff.
“Warriors, wolves, and kin of Sjóborg! Tonight, we honor Sigurd Sea Wolf, who triumphed in the perilous Wolf’s Trial and now stands among my nine Sjórúlfar.”
Cold wind whipping his blond hair, braided beard, and wolfskin cloak, Sigurd shivered, a thrill rippling up his spine, as the Wolf King spoke directly to him.
“Upon your sword arm, úlfhringr marks you as a Sea Wolf.” The jewels on King álfr’s royal fingers glittered in the firelight as he gestured to Sigurd’s glistening silver torc.
“Sheathed in wolfskin at your hip, the sword úlfblóer bears the blood of the wolf whose blue pelt cloaks you with the spirit of Blárúlfr.” A fierce grin lit álfr’s bearded face as he raised his royal voice to address the gathered throng.
“For my third gift to Sigurd Sea Wolf— follow me to the edge of the cliff.”
Amidst murmurs of excitement and anticipation, the eager crowd followed the king, who majestically led Queen Hjordis, King Rognvaldr, and the fiery volva to join the guests gathered along the heathered meadow at the edge of the cliff.
Far below, the swirling waters of the úlffjorden were gilded bronze in the gold and crimson light.
The goei lingered quietly beside álfr, patiently awaiting his king’s signal to summon the gods.
Heart pounding as if it would soar out of his chest, Sigurd stood at the edge of the cliff, surrounded by the wolfskin-clad Sjórúlar, gazing down at the sheltered inlet of the shimmering fjord.
Among the drakkar warships beached along the pebbled shore far below the jutting cliff, one stood apart from all the rest, for two of the king’s húskarlar bearing torches held vigil upon its wooden deck.