Chapter 6
The Sólhjarta Tournament
Brynhildr stood on the balcony of her private chambers, gazing at the dozens of ships lining the shore of the fjord in the sheltered inlet below her faeir’s clifftop fortress.
Along with the Wolf King álfr of Sjóborg and his wife, Queen Hjordis—who had arrived with the nine elite Sjórúlfar, clad in their fearsome wolfskin cloaks—several neighboring jarls had sailed to Hrafnfjall, their karvi and snekkja longships loaded with warriors to compete in the Sólhjarta Summer Solstice Tournament.
As the setting sun lit the evening sky and glistening fjord with brilliant shades of crimson fire, Brynhildr’s gaze wandered to the drakkar ship whose fierce blue dragon prow was etched with snarling silver wolves.
That is his ship. The fearsome warrior known as Sigurd Sea Wolf.
He’d caught her attention the very first day of the competition, for not only did he stand half a head taller than all the other warriors, his blue grey wolfskin cloak, shimmering in the summer sun, had given him the otherworldly air of a god.
Deep blue gems glittered in his braided blond hair, pulled back from his rugged face and tied with leather at the nape of his corded neck.
Lapis lazuli stones glinted in his golden beard, braided like his long thick hair.
As Brynhildr had sat beside her faeir on the elevated dais to watch the competition, a sizzle of seier had shivered up her spine when he’d removed his wolfskin cloak and tunic.
Dark blond hair and blue tattoos covered his rippled chest, and for the first time in her entire life, Brynhildr had shared Astrid’s fascination for the spear-throwing event.
Even his spear had caught her attention.
The pale wood of his impressive weapon had been painted with blue swirling waves and silver snarling wolves, like his magnificent drakkar longship.
And when he’d hurled the spear farther than any other competitor, a thrill of triumph had coursed through her veins, as if she had thrown the weapon herself.
That night, at the feast, her searching gaze had found him seated among the Sjórúlfar, the firelight in her faeir’s royal hall wreathing Sigurd’s wolfskin cloak in shimmery sapphire. He’d pierced her with fierce lupine eyes and seared her soul with a scorching smile.
All week long, she’d watched him. He ran more swiftly and swam more surely than the other warriors, as if he were indeed a Sea Wolf.
Tonight, at the feast, her faeir would present gifts to the ten competitors—including Sigurd from Sjóborg—who had won the preliminary trials and would therefore advance to the next round of events in the Summer Solstice Tournament.
There would be a thrilling competition of three skálds, each vying for the prestigious title of Skáld of the Sólhjarta Tournament.
And after the bountiful feast, guests would dance around a bonfire beneath the stars.
Brynhildr’s legs trembled under her silk gown at the thought of being in the Sea Wolf’s arms.
If just looking at him sends shivers of seier up my spine, what will it be like to touch him?
A shudder of anticipation shook her whole body.
“A silver circlet embedded with emeralds, to match your gown.” Astrid’s velvety voice interrupted Brynhildr’s reverie and brought her back to the balcony overlooking the sunlit fjord.
Her smiling maid placed the slender crown atop Brynhildr’s intricately braided blonde locks.
“This silk is the same color as your eyes,” Astrid whispered with wonder, indicating the glorious hue of the elaborate gown.
“Neither blue nor green, but a blend of both—the fjord and the forest combined.”
“You’ll turn the heads of all warriors tonight in that sumptuous silk.” Yrsa entered the room from the door behind them, Inga close at her side.
As Brynhildr spun toward the volva, the bright blue woad paint on Yrsa’s striking face was all the more startling in the brilliant sunlight which streamed through the open balcony doors.
Black runes were etched along her neck, her black cloak adorned with raven feathers, glittering beads, and polished bones.
Yrsa’s midnight blue gown shimmered with silver threads, and black gloves covered her long arms. Atop her dark hair rested a thin silver coronet, etched with ravens and runes and embellished with a single lapis gem.
In the volva’s gloved hand, the amber stone encased in bronze filigree glowed golden atop her gnarled ashwood staff.
A sly grin curved Yrsa’s painted lips, the white of her teeth a stark contrast to the deep blue which covered her intriguing face. “Are you ready? It’s time for the feast.”
Pulse pounding, mouth parched, Brynhildr inhaled deeply to calm her jagged nerves. As Astrid closed the doors on the balcony, she nodded.
And led them all out the carved oaken door.
* * * *
They descended the stairs from Brynhildr’s private quarters on the third level of the tower to the ground floor where a stone passage led to the clifftop fortress. Four armored guards awaited, ready to escort them through the covered walkway and into the Great Hall where the feast was being held.
The emerald silk of her gown shimmered in the golden sun as they passed the courtyard where she trained each day with Ulric. Soon it would be alive with music and motion, as skálds performed, harpists played, and guests danced around the bonfire after the bountiful feast.
A shiver of anticipation rippled up Brynhildr’s spine.
Tonight, I shall dance with him.
When Brynhildr, Yrsa, Inga, and Astrid paused at the double entrance doors opened wide onto the festive Great Hall, a royal herald, clad in her faeir’s sigil colors of black, blue, and silver, strode into the center of the teeming throng to publicly announce her arrival.
Escorted by four armored royal guards, his deep, resonant voice boomed, echoing off the wooden walls.
“All hail Brynhildr Budladóttir, Sun Falcon Shieldmaiden of Hrafnfjall! And with her, the volva Yrsa. The seer who walks between realms!”
At the high table, King Budli majestically rose, his thick red hair and russet beard braided with blue beads which glinted in the golden sun.
Atop his regal head, the silver crown glistened like the fox fur trim of his black cloak and the raven hilt of his sword Hrafntonn, sheathed at his belted waist.
King álfr and Queen Hjordis, clad in grey wolf fur and deep blue silk, their silver crowns set with waves, wolves, and sparkling lapis gems, rose at Budli’s royal side.
King Eirikr of Ryfylke and Princess Dagny, the lovely, dark-haired dóttir he had brought to the Summer Solstice Tournament with the hopes of enticing the widowed Raven King, stood to welcome Brynhildr as well.
Chainmail brynjas gleaming in the evening sunlight, their magnificent cloaks fastened with enormous silver raven brooches whose lapis eyes flickered with streaks of gold, the húskarlar approached to escort Brynhildr and Yrsa to the high table.
Two guards flanking each woman, they ushered Brynhildr first, followed by Yrsa, across the pinewood floor and up the wooden steps of the elevated dais, where the standing monarchs awaited.
Pausing before her faeir, Brynhildr lowered her crowned head in deference to him as the royal host.
Budli placed a bejeweled hand upon her shoulder, acknowledging her as his dóttir and honoring her as the highlight of the feast. He nodded respectfully to Yrsa, recognizing her as a revered volva.
The four húskarlar withdrew the ornate chairs carved with ravens, runes, and sunbursts, seating Brynhildr beside her faeir and Yrsa upon her right.
Inga and Astrid, who had followed Brynhildr and Yrsa across the hall, slipped quietly to the small table assigned to them nearby.
Once Brynhildr and Yrsa were seated, Budli sank back onto his ondvegi throne, and the remaining monarchs resumed their places at the royal table.
Amid the scraping of benches and the murmuring of the crowd, servants circulated among the guests, offering pewter goblets of mead.
Elaborate elkhorns were presented to the ten champions at the table of honor, the elite Sjórulfar in their imposing wolfskin cloaks, the visiting jarls and their beautiful dóttirs, and finally the high table, reserved for the king and royal guests.
His regal gaze scanning the crowd, Budli stood when everyone had been served.
As a hush of anticipation swept across the expectant hall, his thunderous voice boomed like a heavy bronze bell.
“Hear me, honored guests of Hrafnfjall!”
A broad grin stretched across his bearded face as his gaze raked the rapt throng.
“Before kings and jarls… before gods and men… tonight we honor the ten warriors who triumphed in the first trials of the Sólhjarta Tournament.”
He raised his elkhorn high, the ravens, runes, and embedded gems gilded by the golden sun. “Let us drink in their honor. Skál!”
Riotous cheers rippled through the hall, fists hammering against armored chests and thumping on wooden shields.
At their private table, the Sjórulfar rose as one, wolfskins draped over broad shoulders, lupine eyes agleam with an otherworldly glow. A low growl rumbled through their throats, swelling into a single, thunderous howl that echoed off the rafters and out over the fjord.
An icy shiver shook Brynhildr’s trembling limbs.
Silence stretched across the stunned hall, soon replaced by raucous laughter, hearty cheers, and the clash of clinking cups.
Wiping mead from his thick red beard, Budli bellowed to the ten warriors seated at the table of honor, centered on the floor directly in front of his own.
“Champions of the first trials—rise and receive a gift of silver to reward your impressive feats. Stand before the Raven King of Hrafnfjall and his Sun Falcon Shielmaiden dóttir. Let all see that courage and valor are honored in the Sólhjarta Tournament!”