Chapter 6 #2
While the ten champions rose from the table and lined up before the dais, Brynhildr’s heart fluttered like the raven wings in her faeir’s flapping banners as Sigurd’s penetrating gaze pierced hers.
The massive head of the blue grey wolf, snugly perched atop his own, gleamed in the golden sunlight, the glorious pelt glimmering with sapphire sheen.
Sigurd stood in the center of the warriors, near her booted feet.
As seier sparked in her veins and scorched her trembling limbs, she suppressed the overwhelming urge to touch him by swallowing a mouthful of mead.
His fierce, feral eyes never left hers.
King Budli motioned to two of his trusted húskarlar standing at attention along a side wall.
Each armored guard held a silver platter draped with shimmering black silk, upon which rested five thick silver torcs, embellished with amber beads set like sunbursts, radiant rays etched with ravens and runes.
Silver crown glinting atop his thick red hair, blue beads glistening in his braided copper beard, Budli majestically descended the steps of the elevated wooden dais and halted before the ten competitors who had triumphed in the first round of trials.
One by one, the Raven King personally placed a silver torc upon the right arm of each warrior, murmuring private words of praise as he secured the prize of tribute.
When he affixed the wide band upon Sigurd’s brawny arm, a thrill rippled through Brynhildr, as if the gift were meant for her.
As her faeir proceeded to reward the next warrior, Sigurd’s intense gaze—as deep and blue as the sea—flooded her like the sunlit fjord flowing beneath the cliff.
While her legs quivered under her emerald gown, and her riveted gaze remained transfixed on Sigurd Sea Wolf, King Budli’s booming voice reverberated through the hall.
“Champions of the first round in the Sólhjarta Tournament! Turn now to face the crowd who witness your glory in the Great Hall of Hrafnfjall. Honored guests, raise your horns! Let us drink in tribute to those whose deeds will echo in skáldic song!”
Everyone in the hall—visiting jarls, monarchs, warriors, and skálds—raised their horns and shouted, “Skál!”
When the ten warriors returned to their table of honor, Budli invited the standing guests to be seated. Once everyone had complied, he shouted, “Let the mead flow, the musicians play…and may the feast begin!”
Bustling servants appeared, laden with sumptuous platters heaped with roasted boar, grilled salmon, steaming scallops, oysters, and crab. The aroma of fresh vegetables—carrots, turnips, and leeks, seasoned with fragrant herbs and melted butter—mingled with the salty scent of the nearby sea.
Attendants served the high table first, then the ten champions, followed by the vising jarls and the Sjórúlfar, and finally the remainder of the assembled guests. Festive notes of lyres and lutes wafted softly on the sunlit breeze.
“Your Sjórúlfar are a fearsome sight in their wolfskins," Budli remarked to King álfr at his side, his appraising gaze scanning the fearsome warriors of Sjóborg.
"And among them, your foster son, Sigurd Sea Wolf, has proven himself peerless among the champions.
I have not seen such prowess and courage in any other warrior here.
Truly, his deeds shall be sung into legend. "
Another thrill rippled through Brynhildr at the mention of the great blue Sea Wolf.
As she sipped from her horn of mead, her admiring eyes sought his.
And found, to her utter delight, his feral gaze fixed fiercely upon her.
With a disarming smile and a slight nod of his wolfskin-clad head, he raised his ornate horn in a private shared tribute to her. When he lifted the elkhorn to his blond bearded lips, seier sparked up her spine.
Mead sloshed as she raised a trembling hand to her own parched lips. She drained her horn, set it carefully down beside her raven-etched silver plate, and returned his smile, unable to tear her gaze away from his.
Yrsa leaned close, her velvety voice a hushed whisper. “The Sea Wolf only has eyes for you.” Raising her horn to smirking lips, the volva’s white teeth flashed like pearls against the deep blue of her woad-painted face. “And you seem as smitten as he.”
Heat flared in Brynhildr’s cheeks.
She was indeed smitten.
And scorched— smoldering with seier, unlike anything she’d ever experienced before.
King Eirikr’s smooth voice brought Brynhildr back to the royal table as he addressed her faeir. “A dóttir of Ryfylke is no small treasure, Raven King,” he quipped, referring to the lovely Dagny at his royal side. “I trust she finds favor in your hallowed hall.”
Budli’s russet beard blazed in the setting sun as he lifted his elkhorn in a slow, deliberate salute.
“Princess Dagny graces Hrafnfjall with beauty worthy of saga and song.” Deep voice mellow as mead, he smiled, a twinkle of youth in his appreciative gaze.
“I am honored by her presence… and I look forward to dancing with her beneath the stars.”
Brynhildr knew that her faeir had been urged to wed ever since her broeir Atli had been slain in a raid two summers past.
Princess Dagny is young and can bear him more sons. An heir to rule Hrafnfjall after him. All the more reason to offer my hand as a royal prize for this tournament. With me given to the winner, my future is secured. And Faeir is free to wed a young bride.
Once again, the thought of being handed over like a sack of silver made Brynhildr seethe. But when her gaze found Sigurd—who was intently watching her—her fury melted into molten embers.
And seier smoldered up her spine.
Throughout the feast, each time she glanced up, his scorching gaze was upon her, flooding her with warmth.
And each time, Brynhildr felt the Norns tightly tugging the threads of fate, entwining her wyrd with Sigurd Sea Wolf.
After everyone had finished the sumptuous desserts—solstice honey cakes with elder flowers, apple tarts with cinnamon and walnuts, and imported dried figs, stuffed with goat cheese and crushed hazelnuts—King Budli rose again to announce the competition of skálds.
“Tonight, for our entertainment, a trio of skálds shall compete, and the winner shall be named Skáld of the Sólhjarta Tournament.” Budli gestured to a bench near the jarls’ table of honor where three poets sat, musical instruments resting across their laps, held in ready hands.
The oaken bench was angled so that the skálds faced not only the royal table and the ten champions seated below the dais, but also the Sjórúlfar in their fearsome wolfskin cloaks, the visiting jarls, and the honored guests gathered in the Great Hall.
King Budli’s commanding voice echoed off the timbered walls. “Raise your cups and welcome the first competitor, Vigleik, royal skáld of King Eirikr of Ryfylke!”
As the crowd roared, the slender skáld, clad in violet and gold like King Eirikr and his royal dóttir, inclined his head respectfully to King Budli and positioned his harp close to his chest. When a hush swept across the enthralled throng, Vigleik’s lyrical voice floated on the mellow notes of The Drápa of Dagny, his glorious tribute to the alluring princess whose beauty caught the admiring eye of Budli, the Raven King of Hrafnfjall.
Amid thunderous applause, Budli nodded to the skáld and boomed, “Well sung, Vigleik of Ryfylke.” Brynhildr’s faeir rose from the ondvegi, a bejeweled hand resting on the carved arm of his ornate throne.
He raised his elkhorn high, the gems and runes glittering in the golden light of the late setting sun.
“Now let us hear Skúli, royal skáld to King Alfr, the Wolf King of Sjóborg.”
Raucous cheers, the thunder of fists on shields, and appreciative howls rolled through the riotous hall as the second skáld seated on the bench softly strummed his lyre.
Unlike the bare heads of the other two poets, Skúli’s tribal wreath of rowan, woven with grey wolf fur, marked him as skáld to the Wolf King… the feral Sjórúlfar…
And Sigurd Sea Wolf.
As Brynhildr listened to the haunting song, Ravens over Hrafnfjall, she sensed Huginn and Muninn—the ever-watchful eyes of Odin—circling over her faeir’s clifftop fortress.
The strings of the lyre trembled like wings, echoing Budli’s raven banners as they flapped in the salty breeze along the wooden walls.
She felt the tug of threads as the Norns tightly wove the web of wyrd, binding her fate to Sigurd.
While the wolf skáld sang of watchful ravens, Brynhildr’s gaze instinctively sought the Sea Wolf…
and found his mesmerizing eyes fixed upon her.
Once again, sparks of seier sizzled up her limbs, searing her shieldmaiden soul.
Copper hair and beard aflame in the fiery setting sun, Budli nodded to Skúli, ravens and runes etched in his crown gleaming in the golden light.
“Well played, wolf skáld,” he mused with a pleased grin.
Rising from his ornate ondvegi throne, he lifted his horn and bellowed, “Now let Prince Agnar’s skáld, Skallagrímr, stir our hearts with music and song. ”
Emeralds glinted in his braided blond beard and golden hair, pulled back from his rugged face and woven down his broad back.
His tunic was deep green like the forest, trimmed in brown ursine fur and embroidered with the royal bear sigil of Bjarkholm in golden thread along the sleeves and hem.
As Skallagrímr rose from the angled bench, his powerful frame moved like a predator awakened.
Inclining his head reverently to King Budli, he performed a sharp, deliberate bow before Brynhildr. When he withdrew a flute from its deep green leather case—etched with Uruz runes of raw strength—a hush of awe and anticipation fell over the Great Hall.
As radiant rays of the setting sun filtered through the west-facing windows, the pure silver of the skáld’s finely crafted flute shimmered in the golden light.