Chapter 5
Fate by Firelight
Cheers echoed across the fjord from the top of the cliff as Gunni, one of King álfr’s húskarlar on the deck of úlfdreki, gripped Sigurd’s forearms in tribute. “She’s a fine ship, Sigurd Sea Wolf. May úlfdreki carry you into legend.”
Hákon, another of the king’s highest-ranking men, approached Sigurd with a hearty grin. “We’ll furl the sail, stow the shields, and meet you on the cliff by the fire.” He handed Sigurd a lit torch. “To light your way along the stairs.”
Sigurd nodded and accepted the flame. “Takk. The Sjórúlfar will go back to the feast with the goei. See you soon.”
Leaping from the deck of his ship into the white-capped waves which lapped at the clinkered hull, Sigurd led Hródvarr, Kveld, Eyvindr, and the other Sea Wolves back onto the pebbled shore where the goei awaited.
The pale crescent moon rose above the glimmering fjord, echoing the curve of the sheltered inlet, bathing his chalk-painted face in shimmering silver light.
The Sjórúlfar followed the pagan priest across the beach and up the narrow stone stairwell. When they reached the clifftop, King álfr lifted his elaborate elkhorn high and hollered, “To Sigurd Sea Wolf and the Sjórúlfar!”
The crowd erupted in frenzied cheers.
While the Sea Wolves had been down on the beach for the blood blessing of the ship, servants had carried the king’s ondvegi and the queen’s high-backed throne, along with elegantly carved chairs for King Rognvaldr and his volva Eldsjá from the royal hall, centering them near the bonfire.
A special seat draped with the rare pelt of a white wolf had been placed for Sigurd beside his móeir the queen, with a bench clad in grey wolf fur for the Sjórúlfar on Sigurd’s other side.
Behind them, a long seat laid with sleek sealskin was reserved for the visiting jarls, with remaining guests standing in a semi-circle behind the monarchs, Sea Wolves, and honored noble chieftains.
King álfr’s shout rose above the jubilant din. “Gather now around the bonfire. A trinity of skálds shall entertain us with saga and song!”
As servants refilled horns and pewter goblets with golden mead, and guests flocked around the fire, mellow notes of a lute floated in the salty breeze.
Dagfinn—Jarl Hróald’s skáld from Bj?rndal— strode across the heathered meadow and settled onto a large, flat stone in front of the gathered throng.
Tall, strong, and burly, the warrior poet wore a silver circlet upon his blond head and a deep green tunic embellished with shimmering silver thread.
In his song, Waves of Wyrd, the skáld wove a tale of Norse heroes and drakkar ships tossed by stormy seas.
As the flowing melody of his lute evoked rolling waves, he praised the prowess of the Sjórúlfar and the glory of Sigurd Sea Wolf.
King álfr rose from his ondvegi, the lapis gems, etched runes, and engraved wolves in his silver crown glinting in the moonglow.
“Dagfinn of Bj?rndal, skáld of Jarl Hróald, your song carries the fury of the sea and the courage of wolves. Accept this gift as honor for your skill—and for the praise you have brought to my Sjórúlfar!” With a glorious smile, the generous king proudly presented a silver armband, intricately etched with waves and wolves.
Dagfinn bowed before the Wolf King, accepted the prestigious gift, and slid the torc over his brawny arm to raucous cheers, warriors striking fists against their armored chests in thunderous tribute.
After Dagfinn joined the crowd and accepted a horn of mead, King Rognvaldr’s skáld Eilifr took his place upon the large stone before the fire.
Unlike Dagfinn, Eilifr was lean and lanky, with rich marten fur lining his chestnut cloak, fastened at the shoulder with an ornate bronze brooch set with an enormous oval garnet.
A bronze circlet with glittering garnets crowned his long dark hair, and more of the blood-red gems were braided into his deep brown beard.
His scarlet tunic matched the elegant cloak of his wealthy king and the gathered silk gown of the exotic volva, whose ochre-painted face and bronze diadem completed the trio of crimson and gold drawn from the red stone cliffs of Rauevik.
Eilifr’s deep voice, feral and fierce, rose in a rhythmic chant as he sang The Wolf Spear, his skáldic song celebrating the exquisite gift which his powerful king had bestowed upon Sigurd.
The savage skáld cradled a large frame drum against his seated lap, the pale reindeer hide tooled with blackened runes and curling flames, its bronze rim adorned with glittering garnets which blazed like sparks in the bonfire’s golden glow.
Each strike of the skáld’s deliberate palms thundered across the heathered moor, mingling with the crackle of flames and the whispered murmurs of the enthralled throng.
His sinewy body swayed with the pulsing rhythm, intense eyes dark beneath the bronze circlet, the garnets braided into his beard sparkling in the firelight like the gems along the rim of his pounding drum.
Caught in the hypnotic chant and thumping beat, the nobles, warriors, and Sea Wolves leaned in, lulled by the pulse which rose and fell like rolling waves crashing against the cliffs of Rauevik.
When the last echoes of Eilifr’s chant faded over the fjord, King álfr rose from his ondvegi.
With a reverent nod to his royal guest and the regal volva, he stepped forward to praise the splendid poet.
“Eilifr, skáld of King Rognvaldr, your song The Wolf Spear honors Sigurd and celebrates the courage and loyalty of the Sjórúlfar. Receive this gift as tribute to your skill, to the glory you have brought upon this hall and to the bonds between our kingdoms!” In recognition of Eilifr’s status as a royal skáld, álfr personally fastened an engraved silver torc upon his right arm, its shimmering surface etched with wolves and waves.
Amidst another round of clinking horns and riotous cheers of “Skál!”, King álfr resumed his seat on the ondvegi while his own royal skáld Skúli settled onto the flat stone before the roaring fire.
A wreath of sacred rowan, interwoven with silver threads and wolf fur, rested atop his golden brown mane.
Deep blue lapis gems, glittering in the moonglow, were braided into his gilded hair and glistening brown beard.
Grey wolf fur trimmed his indigo woolen cloak, clasped at the left shoulder with an elaborate silver brooch shaped like a snarling wolf whose feral eyes were glinting lapis gems.
In contrast with Eilifr’s raw, primal chant, Skúli softly strummed a wooden lyre, the melodic notes floating over the rapt crowd like waves flowing across the moonlit fjord.
His heroic song, The Saga of Sigurd Sea Wolf, recounted the three arduous days and agonizing nights of the perilous Wolf Trial, in which Sigurd’s courage, strength, and final triumph had placed him among the nine elite Sjórúlfar.
When the final notes of Skúli’s song wafted away on the salty wind, King álfr rose from his carved throne to bestow a majestic gift.
Pride, honor, and gratitude shone in his regal gaze and rang out in his royal voice.
“Skúli, venerable skáld of the Wolf King, your song honors both Sigurd and my Sjórúlfar. To reward your incomparable skill, I present this elegantly carved whalebone flute. Its sheath is crafted from sleek sealskin—etched with runes, trimmed with wolf fur, and adorned with lapis lazuli gems set in precious silver.”
The king handed the prestigious gift to his awestruck skáld, who accepted it with reverence and a formal bow of gratitude. “May its sublime music carry the deeds of Sigurd Sea Wolf, the Sjórúlfar, and the warriors of Sjóborg into legend with your skáldic song.”
As cheers thundered across the meadow and out over the fjord, King álfr raised his elkhorn in tribute to the trio of skálds.
“To Dagfinn, Eilifr, and Skúli! May your songs ever honor Sigurd Sea Wolf and the Sjórúlfar!” He lifted the elkhorn high, the etched runes and lapis gems in the silver rim sparkling in the starlight.
“Let the halls of Sjóborg resound with their skill, as the cliffs echo the song of the sea!”
When everyone had toasted the trinity of skálds—and the Sjórúlfar had howled in raucous, riotous tribute—álfr turned toward King Rognvaldr of Rauevik, whose crimson-clad, golden-faced volva shimmered in the firelight at his royal side.
álfr’s gaze sharpened with solemnity. “And now, noble king, I call upon your volva, Eldsjá—named for her gift of Firesight. May she wield her seier magic of prophecy and foresee the fate of Sigurd Sea Wolf in the flames which dance before us.”
His long white hair and braided beard aglow in the moonlight, King Rognvaldr inclined his crowned head toward the seeress, silently conveying his royal command for her to grant King álfr’s request.
Eldsjá gracefully rose from her ornate chair which was draped in luxurious lynx fur.
The black tips of the tawny golden pelt echoed the ochre paint of her hauntingly beautiful face and the black runes inked along her slender throat and across her luminous skin.
Amber eyes aglow like molten gold, her flaming hair tumbled in wild waves to her narrow waist as she inclined her crowned head to King Rognvaldr first as her sovereign monarch, then to King álfr as their royal host, and to Queen Hjordis, shimmering in blue silk like the sea, seated at the Wolf King’s side.
A brief, respectful nod acknowledged Sigurd Sea Wolf, whose fate she would now divine in the flickering flames.