Chapter 4 #3
While the other ships lay bare, their shields having been removed and stowed away, the lone drakkar displayed blue shields along its gunwales, each painted with the head of a snarling silver wolf which glinted in the dying sun.
As Sigurd watched with bated breath, two other húskarlar unfurled the blue linen sail, hoisting it to the mast. From its folds emerged the fierce head of an enormous wolf, silver streaks in its grey fur and deep blue eyes snapping in the bronze sunlight, alive in the salty wind.
At the prow loomed a deep blue dragon, its massive head rising in a sinuous arc, a curved crest of ridges lining the serpentine neck.
Amber eyes aglow in the golden sun, its fanged maw, sharp claws, and spiked wings were etched with silver runes and snarling wolves, a sea-borne creature of legendary menace and might.
“úlfdreki.” álfr’s resonant voice echoed across the craggy cliff and out over the glistening fjord. “May it carry you across wind and wave into skáldic song.”
Sigurd’s legs shook as he stood upon the cliff, the wind whipping his wolfskin cloak.
With this dragon ship, I can sail to Sweden and avenge my faeir Sigmund’s death—by slaying the traitorous King Lyngvi!
As thoughts of victory and valor filled his vengeful heart, the king’s deep voice pulled Sigurd back to the clifftop overlooking the fjord.
“And now, the goei shall invoke the gods to bless the Sea Wolf and his ship.”
At King álfr’s nod, the chalk-faced priest led the enthralled crowd back toward the bonfire, where they formed a circle around the enclosed hearth.
From a leather pouch belted at his waist, the goei tossed a resinous chunk of myrrh into the flames.
The thick, cloying scent of exotic spice mingled with the fresh tang of the fjord and the saline bite of the sea as he chanted an invocation.
“O Njorer, God of the Sea, accept this offering of myrrh and grant safe passage over wind and wave to Sigurd Sea Wolf and his drakkar ship, úlfdreki.”
The silver bowl of sacrificial blood rested upon a flat hearthstone beside a silver chalice of mead. In the crimson light of the setting sun and the golden hue of the flickering flames, the lapis gems and etched runes in the ritual vessels glittered like the emerging stars.
Raising the silver chalice toward the twilit sky, the goei continued his reverent incantation and poured some of the golden mead into the fire.
As it sizzled and snapped, the sweet scent of honey wafted into the wind with the aroma of myrrh.
“Thor, God of Thunder, we offer golden mead. Grant your strength and vigor to Sigurd and lead him to victory in battle.” The priest lifted the chalice to Sigurd’s parched lips.
Pulse pounding, Sigurd drank. As he shared the mead offering with the Norse god, Thor’s blessing coursed through him with the thunderous might of Mjollnir.
The goei set the chalice down upon the flat stone and lifted the silver bowl toward the crimson-streaked sky.
The lapis stones threaded with gold sparkled with blue fire as the melodic chant floated over the heathered moor and across the coppery fjord.
Bowing his antler-adorned head, the pagan priest poured some of the sacrificial blood of the boar, consumed at the feast, into the herb-laced flames.
“Odin, accept this sacred blood and grant your wisdom and guidance to Sigurd Sea Wolf as he sails úlfdreki to face his fate.”
Dipping a sacred ash twig into the silver bowl, the goei anointed Sigurd’s brow with sacrificial blood, bestowing the divine blessing of the Allfather.
The chalk-painted priest retrieved the silver chalice of mead from the hearthstone and turned to address Sigurd and the Sea Wolves.
In the molten gold of the sun and the copper flames of the fire, the eyes in the fierce wolfskins atop their human heads glimmered with otherworldly light.
“The Sjórúlfar will follow me down to the beach for the blessing of the Wolfdragon ship.”
Clutching both the silver bowl with sacrificial blood and the sacred chalice with golden mead, the goei led Sigurd and the Sea Wolves from the heathered moor at the top of the cliff down the stone stairs carved into the sheer rock face of the crag.
On the beach below, while the chalk-painted priest chanted an invocation, Kveld—the Nightwolf and spiritual vitki of the Sjórúlfar— carved a trio of runes into the sand, murmuring an incantation of his own.
Black wolfskin cloak over his long black hair, black beard braided with bones and beads, the dark Nightwolf stood in stark contrast to the opalescent goei.
Sigurd recognized the trinity of runes in the sand from Kveld’s intense lessons.
Algiz, the elk, for Njorer’s protection on the seas.
Ansuz, the god-rune of Odin, for divine wisdom and guidance.
And Thurisaz, Thor’s thorn rune, to grant him the Thunder God’s strength while binding Sigurd to the ship, the gods, and the sea.
As King álfr, Queen Hjordis, and the noble guests from the feast watched in wonder from above, the goei’s haunting voice floated on the briny breeze. “Sigurd Sea Wolf, hand me your úlfhjarta dagger.”
Mouth dry, limbs shaking, Sigurd unsheathed the wolf blade from the belt at his waist and handed it to the moon-faced priest.
With ritual precision to accompany his melodic, rhythmic chant, the chalk-faced goei meticulously sliced Sigurd’s palm, letting three drops of blood fall into the sacred triad of runes carved into the soft sand.
Next, he poured three droplets of mead into the same runes, followed by three drops of sacrificial blood from the silver bowl, all the while chanting his incantation.
“Three drops of blood… into the triad of runes… for a trinity of gods. With this sacred number nine, I bind Sigurd Sea Wolf to úlfdreki.”
Dipping the ash twig first into the chalice of mead, then into the silver bowl, and finally touching it to Sigurd’s bloodied palm, the goei strode across the pebbled shore and anointed the dragon prow, murmuring the binding spell.
When he had finished, he poured the remainder of the sacrificial blood and mead into the sea, along with a lump of myrrh.
“With blood, mead, and myrrh, I bind Sigurd to úlfdreki, the gods, and the sea.”
Gold and crimson like the glorious sky, the blood, myrrh, and mead were swallowed by the swirling waves, as if gods accepted the trio of sacred offerings and bestowed their divine blessing.
Sigurd drew a shuddering breath, adrenaline surging through his veins as he waded out into the icy fjord.
Above the row of painted shields, he gripped the sturdy gunwale and hoisted himself onto the deck of úlfdreki.
The fierce wolf head on the sail snapped in the blustery wind, while the deep blue dragon prow—with snarling wolves, ridged spine, and spiked wings—roared against the copper glow of the gloaming.
The Sjórúlfar followed close behind, their fierce eyes reflecting the molten gold of the setting sun and the shimmer on the rippled fjord. Forming a circle around Sigurd aboard his new drakkar, they lifted lupine faces to the twilit sky and howled their Sea Wolf blessing.
Hackles rising on the nape of his neck as the wild, primal call rippled through him, Sigurd raised his raw voice to the wind and howled with his Sjórúlfar pack.
The wolf brothers thumped his shoulders and grasped his forearms to acknowledge King álfr’s generous gift, striding across the deck to admire the Wolfdragon ship.
Pride surged as Sigurd’s fingers brushed the blue-grey fur of his Blárúlfr cloak, the silver torc úlfhringr upon his right arm, and the wolf head hilt of the úlfblódr sword sheathed at his hip. Armed with magnificent wolf weapons and a warship, he was eager to avenge his faeir’s heinous death.
In a low, reverent voice, he spoke to his mentor Hródvarr and the Night Wolf Kveld who stood at his side. “The gods have bound me to this ship. With úlfdreki, I shall sail to Sweden and avenge my faeir Sigmund’s death by slaying the traitor, King Lyngvi of Gotaland.”
Hródvarr’s response rumbled over the creaking timbers.
“Lust for vengeance is not enough, Sigurd Sea Wolf. One ship is a mighty gift, but a single drakkar cannot challenge a king. Reputation must be earned through victory and valor, allies won with gold and glory. You would do well to temper wrath with patience.”
Kveld’s feral eyes gleamed beneath the fierce lupine head of his black wolfskin cloak. “The runes bind you to the gods, but even they favor cunning as much as strength. Let the storm of your vengeance build, and strike when the tides are in your favor.”
Sigurd nodded, gripping the rail as the wailing wind tore through his hair and cloak. The fiery light of the setting sun glinted off the silver inlays of the dragon prow and the snarling wolves painted on shields along the gunwales.
Bound by the gods, the Sjórúlfar, and the ship itself, Sigurd’s wyrd was tightly interwoven by the Norns.
He gazed at the golden sun low on the horizon, deeply inhaling the salty scent of the sea.
He would heed his mentors’ sage advice and bide his time before seeking vengeance.
But glory would one day be his.
For úlfdreki was more than a mere vessel.
She would carry him across wind and wave to face his fate.