Chapter 5 #2
She slowly circled the stone-enclosed bonfire, the salty wind from the fjord billowing across the heathered clifftop, whipping her fiery hair as smoke curled around her like a sinuous cloak.
The seeress rhythmically thumped her gnarled black staff onto the grassy ground, the amber eyes of the raven skull perched at its peak glinting in the firelight.
Black catskin gloves covered her skeletal hands, and from small leather pouches hanging at her woven belt, she withdrew a trio of berries whose vibrant colors matched the glittering gems in the coppery diadem atop her long crimson locks.
Deep violet like the dark purple amethysts, three juniper berries fell into the fire. As they crackled and popped, releasing a crisp piney scent, Eldsjá inhaled the herb-laced smoke.
Next she cast a trio of elderberries into the flames, their deep red hue mirroring the garnets in her bronze crown and the crimson of her silken gown. As they snapped, sending sparks toward the stars overhead, the volva drew in the sweet, pungent scent.
Eldsjá flung three rowan berries into the fire, the vibrant orange reminiscent of the amber gems in her bronze diadem and the glowing eyes of the raven atop her long, twisted staff. The sharp, bitter tang of the sacred tree’s fruit mingled with the sweet, spicy smoke.
In rhythm with the thumping of her gnarled black stave, the volva’s strident voice wafted on the wind and flowed over the fjord, her haunting melody edged with sharp cries like a raven. The varelokkur chant floated in the salty breeze, spiraling toward the stars on swirls of smoke.
“A trinity of three I cast to the fire—nine berries, the sacred number I offer the Norns.
As Odin hung nine nights upon Yggdrasil, and nine realms lie bound to the World Tree, so let fate be revealed in firesight, as I wield seier to see Sigurd’s wyrd in the flames.”
Her bronze circlet glowed like molten copper, the trio of gems glittering atop her flame-colored hair.
Ochre face shimmering with golden fire, Eldsjá raised her black staff in slow arcs, tracing the twisting, coiling threads of fate.
The fragrant flames leapt in response, casting shadows like raven wings over the clifftop.
Cryptic and haunting, the volva’s otherworldly voice crept up Sigurd’s spine.
“The sons of kings shall be sworn in blood.
The Wolf’s defeat shall blaze as triumph.
In fire shall the God-sword be reforged.
Through fire shall the Wolf ride the wind-borne steed.
The Green Wyrm shall fall to the Sea Wolf.
And the Coil shall close the web of wyrd.
But the Dragon’s flames shall ward the Daughter,
Born of the Dwarven Curse.”
As the final words of her eerie prophecy echoed across the hushed throng and out over the starlit fjord, Eldsjá lowered her ebony staff, resting it against the lynx fur which adorned her ornate chair.
She bowed first to the awestruck kings and queen, then lingered in a silent, mesmerizing stare before slowly inclining her crowned head to Sigurd.
Behind her, the bonfire roared, sending swirling sparks and fragrant smoke skyward, as if the flames themselves bore witness to the seier vision revealed in firesight.
While Sigurd pondered the puzzling prophecy, and Eldsjá returned to her fur-draped seat, King álfr stood, his majestic wolf head brooch sparkling in the starlight.
The Wolf King’s deep, reverent voice rang out across the heathered moor.
“Let the halls and cliffs of Sjóborg honor the volva who has foreseen Sigurd’s fate in flames.
” He nodded to Queen Hjordis, who rose from her elaborate throne draped with wolf fur, an intricately etched bronze bowl gleaming in her pale hands.
Sigurd recognized the trinity of runes inscribed on the ceremonial bowl. Ansuz, for divine wisdom. Kaun, for fire, illumination, and revelation. And Gebo, the gift offered by his móeir the gracious queen.
A trio of glittering gems—amethysts, garnets, and amber, the same stones which adorned the volva’s bronze crown—embellished the bejeweled bowl. Amid rolling waves, a triad of snarling wolves was engraved.
Threefold in runes, threefold in gems, threefold in wolves—nine, the number sacred to the Norns who revealed the threads of fate to the volva through her seier visions in flames.
His móeir’s lyrical voice flowed like the waters of the starlit fjord.
“To Eldsjá, whose Firesight guides the hearts of kings. Accept this token, in reverence and gratitude, for your wisdom and vision.” Inclining her intricately braided blonde head, silver crown glistening in the moonlight, Queen Hjordis presented the embellished bronze bowl to the gold and crimson volva.
With a dignified nod to acknowledge the esteemed royal gift, Eldsjá accepted the ornate ritual vessel.
The runes, gems, and wolves danced in the fiery flames.
Sigurd gazed at the Sjórúlfar seated on the bench at his side.
In the moonlight, the lupine eyes of the wolfskins glowed as if alive.
The salty wind whipping across the cliff ruffled the thick fur of their magnificent cloaks.
As a broad grin broke across Hródvarr’s scarred, bearded face, a wave of pride surged through Sigurd like the starlit sea swelling the windswept fjord.
King álfr’s deep voice resounded over the festive crowd as he rose again from the ondvegi, ornate elkhorn held high.
“Tonight, we honor Sigurd Sea Wolf, newly sworn among the Sjórúlfar. May the songs of skálds, the bestowal of gifts, and the volva’s vision mingle in our hearts, leaving wisdom and wonder to guide us until dagmál greets the dawn. ”
As the last sparks spiraled into the night sky, guests murmured their goodnights and drifted toward their quarters, tents, huts, and longhouses.
His Sjórúlfar spirit stirred by the skálds’ songs, the royal gifts, and the volva’s prophecy, Sigurd eagerly anticipated two more days of feasting before the warriors and rulers returned to their respective kingdoms and jarldoms.
And tomorrow, the mock battles would begin.
* * * *
Seated for dagmál in the Great Hall among the Sjórúlfar, Sigurd savored the flavors of grilled salmon, salted boar, barley porridge with lingonberries, oatcakes topped with hazelnuts and honey, and rich, creamy skyr. As he drained his pewter mug, he pondered the volva’s baffling prophecy.
“The sons of kings shall be sworn in blood…the Wolf’s defeat shall blaze as triumph.”
Surely, I am the Wolf in her vision. But how can my defeat blaze as triumph?
Washing down a mouthful of salmon with a hearty gulp of ale, Sigurd’s racing thoughts ran through the mock battles of the previous day.
Not only had he won the spear-hurling event with the Wolf Spear gifted from King Rognvaldr, he’d also defeated Eyvindr Waverunner in an intense sword fight.
Although they had fought with controlled strikes, and neither Sea Wolf had been harmed, the thrill of combat still pulsed through him.
Eyvindr’s fierce parries and agile feints had forced Sigurd to push úlfblóer to its limits, every calculated strike scoring points rather than drawing blood. The clang of weapons, the cheers of the Sjórúlfar, and the smell of sweat and pine from the training yard lingered in his mind.
As if reading his thoughts, Eyvindr flashed him a wolfish grin from across the table. “You wielded úlfblóer as well as Arfinn yesterday. The swordmaster’s training has proven its worth.”
“And that Wolf Spear—King Rognvaldr’s gift—flew true as Odin’s Gungnir in your Sea Wolf hands!” Strykar the Beast thwacked Sigurd’s back, making him choke on his ale.
While the Sjórúlfar rumbled with raucous laughter, the blare of a trumpet echoed through the Great Hall. The clarion cut through the clatter of pewter mugs and the chatter of exuberant guests, and an expectant hush swept over the silent hall.
All eyes turned toward the wide double doors, where a tall figure clad in a magnificent black cloak adorned with raven feathers entered Sjóborg, flanked by two royal heralds and escorted by King álfr’s armored guards.
In his gloved hand, the dark, mysterious messenger carried a folded scroll sealed with a raven in flight.
The courier’s keen gaze swept the stunned crowd as he strode briskly across the polished pinewood floor to deliver the message to the seated king.
The hollow thud of his heavy boots pulsed in rhythm with Sigurd’s pounding heart.
King álfr straightened in the ondvegi, his royal gaze sharp as steel while the hushed hall waited in tense anticipation.
The raven-cloaked messenger knelt before the Wolf King, bare head bowed as he offered the scroll with both outstretched arms.
Taking the rolled parchment, King álfr pressed his thumb into the raven-sealed wax until it cracked. Shrewd eyes moving swiftly over the runes, he inclined his crowned head and handed the scroll back to the raven messenger, granting royal permission for it to be read aloud.
“From the clifftop fortress of Hrafnfjall,” the herald intoned, his deep voice booming across the rapt crowd.
“A challenge to all unmarried warriors of noble birth and courageous heart. The Sólhjarta Tournament is hereby proclaimed by King Budli. The competition shall commence on the first day of June and culminate on the Summer Solstice, when the champion shall earn the right to fight for the royal hand of the Raven King’s dóttir Brynhildr, known as the Sun Falcon Shieldmaiden.
The victor of the Sólhjarta Tournament shall compete in a single combat against Brynhildr, who has sworn to wed the champion who can defeat her in battle.
May all who seek glory and renown come forth.
May wyrd decide the worthy beneath the watchful eyes of the gods. ”
A shiver rippled down Sigurd’s spine, as if the Norns were weaving the threads of his fate.
He glanced at the golden-faced, crimson-haired volva.
Her amber eyes blazed like the flames in the hearth.