Chapter 6 #3
He began to play an ethereal melody that swirled like smoke toward the rafters, wafting like wisps through the enthralled throng.
Powerful as a lynx, he circled the central hearth with the grace of a warrior in a duel, performing The Song of the Sun Falcon Shieldmaiden, his music and movement a glorious tribute to Brynhildr.
All eyes followed the skáld’s fluid fingers as the notes flowed from his silver flute. Skallagrímr lifted his gaze to Brynhildr, his superb song evoking the sun’s brilliance and the falcon’s flight as he compared her to the golden goddess Freyja.
Pride surged through Brynhildr at the thought of her divine móeir and the memory of the trio of golden gifts which Freyja had bestowed upon her.
As she envisioned herself clad in the Falkhjarta golden corslet, wielding the Sólfalkr sword and clutching the Falksjoldr shield, the skáld suddenly swapped his melodic flute for the more vigorous, visceral lute.
Striding boldly down one side of the central hearth to the other, he strummed the taut strings, each chord as resonant and commanding as his powerful, dramatic moves.
When he finished his triumphant tribute with the last refrain of his song, Skallagrímr leapt like a lynx and landed on the floor beneath Brynhildr, brawny arms outstretched like a falcon in flight.
Sunlight gilding his golden hair, sublime music and warrior movements enthralling the rapt throng, the skáld’s incomparable song had captured the radiant glory of the Sun Falcon Shieldmaiden and the fiery heart of Sólhjarta, the Summer Solstice Tournament.
Skallagrímr inclined his braided head to Brynhildr, bowed reverently before Budli, and returned to sit upon the bench alongside the two other skálds.
While the crowd shot to its feet and erupted in cheers, adrenaline surged in Brynhildr’s veins as she pictured herself in the golden Sun Falcon armor.
I shall triumph in the final challenge. And rise to ride with the Valkyries!
As the thrill of imminent victory coursed through her, Brynhildr’s eyes were inexplicably drawn to Sigurd, who watched her with the predatory gaze of a wolf sensing its prey.
Sparks sizzled up her limbs as doubt niggled at her mind.
Sigurd had triumphed in every trial, outperforming every other competitor.
He is the son of the slain King Sigmund, a Volsung descendant of Odin. Divine blood flows in his Sea Wolf veins.
What if he defeats me in the final challenge?
I have sworn to wed the warrior who can best me in battle. Will Sigurd win my hand and destroy my dreams?
Or shall I ride with the Valkyries, as foreseen in my seier vision?
Her faeir rising from the ondvegi brought Brynhildr back to the high table. When Budli raised a royal hand, silence swept across the jubilant hall. The Raven King’s booming voice echoed off the rafters and out over the glimmering fjord.
“Honored kings, jarls, and royal guests…the Sjórúlfar wolf warriors of Sjóborg…the ten champions of the first trial…and all who have come to the Sólhjarta Tournament…” Budli raised his elkhorn high, the ravens and runes glinting in the firelight.
“Tonight, three skálds of royal courts have sung with skill, honoring valor, prowess, and beauty. Let their sublime song be rewarded with royal gold.”
Placing his elkhorn in its elegant stand on the high table, Budli majestically swept down the steps of the wooden dais toward the bench where the three skálds were seated.
He nodded to an awaiting attendant, who approached carrying a silver platter draped with deep blue silk which glistened like the sunlit waters of the fjord beneath the crystal-veined cliff.
Atop the silk rested a trinity of golden brooches, each bearing an etched raven, wings unfurled in full flight before a sunburst set with amber gems.
As Budli approached, the trio of skálds rose, humble heads bowed before the redbeard Raven King.
Budli’s deep bellow thundered through the hall like a heavy drum.
“Skálds of the Summer Solstice Tournament…I bestow these gifts of gold. By your song, you have stirred hearts and sharpened swords. Let these ravens mark you in the royal hall of Hrafnfjall and across the northern fjords as skálds of incomparable skill and unparalleled honor.”
One by one, Budli pinned the exquisite golden brooches upon the fur-trimmed cloaks of the Summer Solstice skálds.
Each bore a raven of Hrafnfjall, with lapis eyes like the Sognefjorden and an amber sunburst reminiscent of the radiant Sun Falcon Shieldmaiden.
When he’d finished pinning the final brooch, the king turned to face the enthralled crowd.
“Three voices have stirred Hrafnfjall,” he announced, a generous grin breaking his braided red beard. “But only one shall be crowned, receive the golden lyre, and ascend to the seat of honor at the high table—where kings, royal dóttirs, and the blue-faced volva shall witness his triumph and glory.”
Budli gestured to the empty reserved seat beside Yrsa.
Though not as elaborate as the king’s ondvegi, the high-backed chair of ornately carved oak bore a raven, wings unfurled before a sunburst set with amber gems. In the radiant light of the setting sun, the golden threads in the lapis lazuli eyes of the raven glowed as if alive.
Silver fox fur of his black cloak shimmering like the silver crown upon his braided copper hair, the Raven King faced the hushed crowd and proclaimed the name of the winning bard.
“Honored guests of Hrafnfjall,” he boomed over the expectant throng.
“I present to you the Skáld of the Sólhjarta Tournament—Skallagrímr, poet to Prince Agnar of Bjarkholm!”
When Skallagrímr bowed his blond head before the Raven King, Budli solemnly placed the golden circlet upon the skáld’s brow and conferred upon him the prestigious title. “I hereby crown you Skáld of the Solhjarta Tournament.”
The king motioned to another awaiting attendant.
Across the polished floor strode an armored guard, reverently holding a wooden lyre painted in shimmering gold, embellished with ravens in flight, amber sunbursts, and intricately etched Nordic runes.
Murmurs of awe rippled through the rapt throng.
“Sólfjaer,” Budli proclaimed, taking the nine-stringed instrument from the húskarl and displaying it to Skallagrímr and the astonished crowd.
“Carved from yew, like the sacred tree Yggdrasil. Etched with the ravens of Hrafnfjall. Embellished in amber sunbursts. A royal tribute to the Skáld of the Sóhjarta Tournament, who honored the Sun Falcon Shieldmaiden with glorious golden song.”
The Raven King placed the golden lyre into the skilled hands of the stunned Summer Solstice skáld.
Skallagrímr cradled Sólfjaer against his broad chest, below the gleaming raven brooch. When a long finger strummed a single string of the golden lyre, a deep, clear note floated like a falcon’s cry through the hall, across the cliff, and out over the sparkling fjord.
The skáld’s mellow voice flowed like a limpid stream. “Your gifts honor me, Raven King. May Sólfjaer ever sing for Hrafnfjall.”
Budli inclined his head in acknowledgement, swept across the gleaming wooden floor, and climbed the steps of the elevated dais.
When he returned to stand before the ornate ondvegi, he addressed the newly crowned skáld and gestured toward the reserved chair beside Yrsa.
“Skallagrímr, as Skáld of the Sóhjarta Tournament, I invite you to claim the seat of honor at my high table.”
While the two other skálds remained standing near their bench, Skallagrímr ascended the dais steps.
His golden circlet and raven brooch gleamed in the firelight, and the deep green leather of his flute was etched with glistening Uruz runes.
Clutching his lute in one hand and cradling the golden lyre Sólfjaer in the other, he bowed first to Budli, then to Brynhildr, and finally to his own monarch, Prince Agnar, the Bear of Bjarkholm..
Laying his instruments reverently beside his reserved chair, he settled into the carved oaken seat and inclined his crowned golden head to the cheering crowd.
Budli raised his elkhorn high and proposed a tribute. “Let all hearts and horns honor the Skáld of the Sólhjarta Tournament, whose golden song has glorified my beloved dóttir, the Sun Falcon Shieldmaiden of Hrafnfjall!”
As shouts of “Skál!” thundered through the hall, Brynhildr’s eyes were drawn to Sigurd.
A wolfish grin curled his blond bearded lips, the deep blue beads braided in his golden beard glittering like sunlight on the sea.
He bowed his head and tipped his horn to her, raising the golden mead to his bearded lips.
Feral eyes locked upon hers, he swallowed, sending a wave of desire through her, like the sea, the sun, and seier magic searing her soul.
As Yrsa snickered softly at her side, Budli’s booming voice bellowed through the hall. “The sun has set, and the moon is rising. Come, let us dance around the bonfire, beneath the emerging stars!”