Chapter 7
Sealed in Starlight and Seier
The waxing moon illuminated the deep violet night sky.
Beyond the flagstone courtyard where warriors trained each day, an enormous bonfire roared in a stone enclosure upon a grassy clearing, while market stalls lined the pebbled paths that led down into the village.
The aromas of sizzling meats, roasted nuts, and oatcakes spiced with cinnamon and honey mingled with the briny tang of the fjord and smoke from the festival fire.
Lively music floated in the salty breeze as musicians played and guests danced in wild abandon around the leaping flames. Sigurd lurked in a shadowed corner where the fortress wall met a stone pillar, the firelight flickering across the courtyard where he could watch her without being seen.
Flames gilded her golden hair, the emeralds in her silver crown glittering in the starlight.
Her deep green gown clung to her curves, her sinuous movements awakening his primal hunger.
As she swirled and twirled in Agnar’s arms, her bright laughter, like warm sunlight on the icy fjord, sent tight coils of restless energy seething through him.
Throughout the entire first week of events in the Sólhjarta Tournament, he’d felt her eyes upon him. Every move he’d made—every triumph, every win—had been for her.
He’d run faster, swum harder, and defeated every opponent while she watched him with her piercing falcon eyes. And when he’d hurled úlfspjót— the Wolf Spear gifted by King Rognvaldr—he’d sensed a surge of power sizzle up his arm.
As if the Sun Falcon had infused the Sea Wolf with the same seier magic that Kveld Nightwolf wielded when reading runes.
“Sulking in dark shadows while the other champions celebrate.” Kveld’s deep voice penetrated the gloom as he joined Sigurd and leaned against the stone wall.
The amber eyes of the black wolf nestled atop his human head glowed otherworldly in the moonlight.
When Kveld’s shrewd gaze found Sigurd staring at Brynhildr, the Nightwolf smirked, a corner of his scarred, bearded face curved up in a knowing grin.
“You’ve been watching her with feral hunger all week long.
Waiting for the right moment to pounce?”
Sigurd couldn’t explain it. He hadn’t even spoken to her yet, but he knew she was destined to be his. The web of wyrd flowed like wildfire through his wolf blood, igniting his Volsung veins.
When the music stopped and the dance ended, he muttered to Kveld, “Now is my chance. May Odin favor me this fateful night.”
Leaving the Nightwolf in the dark shadows, Sigurd loped across the moonlit courtyard.
* * * *
The threads of fate tugged at her spine as he slinked from the shadows, wolfish eyes locked on her like a predator sensing its prey.
The salty night air thrummed with seier, shimmering in the moonglow and starlight.
Brynhildr had danced for him all night, enticing the Sea Wolf with soft laughter and sultry movements to draw him from the darkness.
Into her alluring golden light.
“All night I have watched you dance with others. At long last, I may claim one for myself.” Grey blue wolfskin gleaming in the moonlight, feral eyes fixed upon hers, Sigurd Sea Wolf folded a brawny arm across his broad chest, bowed at the waist, and gallantly offered her a scarred hand.
As he flashed her a wolfish smile, his white teeth shone above his braided blond beard, the lapis gems woven into his golden hair glittering like the starlit sea. “Will you dance with me, my lady?”
The deep rumble of his voice reverberated into her very bones. “I would be delighted,” Brynhildr murmured, his disarming smile washing over her like the sea flooding the fjord. “All night long, I have danced for you.” When she placed her hand into his, seier scorched her skin.
The music began anew, and he swept her into his arms, cradling her against his wide chest. As he swirled her to the mellow lute and the rhythmic pounding of the drums, she inhaled his tantalizing scent of wolfskin, woodsmoke, and want.
“You are truly an exceptional warrior,” she whispered, her voice faltering in his unsettling, compelling presence.
“I have watched you triumph in every trial.” She barely resisted nuzzling the tuft of blond hair which peeked from the top of his blue tunic.
A shiver rippled up her spine at the thought of tracing her fingertips over the tattoos she’d glimpsed amidst the dark blond hair across his chest and down his rugged arms.
Instead, she traced the markings in the thick silver torc which gleamed in the firelight upon his right arm.
“The raven of Hrafnfjall…the summer solstice sun…eyes of lapis lazuli, as blue as the fjord… and the gems braided into your golden beard.” When she looked up at him, fierce pride and feral hunger warred in his warrior eyes.
“A magnificent prize for the champions in the first round of the Sólhjarta Tournament.” Legs trembling beneath her long green gown, she quavered under the intensity of his penetrating gaze.
He is the son of the slain King Sigmund, a Volsung descendant of Odin.
She thought of the trinity of gifts bestowed by Freyja—the golden corslet Falkhjarta, the magnificent sword Sólfalkr, and the enchanted shield, Falkskjoldr. Her goddess móeir had said that no mortal man could defeat her.
Yet, if Sigurd Sea Wolf had the blood of Odin coursing through his Volsung veins… Could he triumph in the final challenge?
And win the right to wed her?
His husky whisper was hot against her cheek. “A worthy tribute indeed. But I intend to claim the final prize.” Lupine eyes locked on hers, he raised her hand and lowered his bearded lips to kiss her trembling fingers. “And earn the chance to win your hand.”
While the music played, he swirled her under the stars, wrapping her possessively in his brawny arms. The side of his lip curled up into a wolfish snarl, warning other warriors that he would not share her.
As she swooned in his arms, overwhelmed by his seductive scent and the surge of seidr between them, she spotted her faeir dancing with Princess Dagny, his bearded face alight with joy.
From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed Ulric, her weapons master and mentor, dancing with the pretty daughter of a visiting jarl.
Astrid was in the arms of a handsome warrior, and Yrsa, her eerie blue face aglow in the moonlight, beckoned Brynhildr to approach the tent where the seeress was reading runes.
“Come,” Brynhildr whispered, linking her elbow through Sigurd’s and leading him toward the volva’s pavilion in the dark alcove at the base of her private tower.
A sudden thought emerged, as if whispered by the gods.
I can slip him into the hidden stairwell. The wild roses and their claw-shaped thorns will shield us from view. No one will see us slip up to my room…
A violent shiver shuddered through her.
The Norns are weaving us together in their tightly spun web of wyrd.
Sheltered in a shadowy corner near a stone wall of the fortress, the black silk of Yrsa’s tent shimmered in the moonlight.
The open entrance was draped with leather strands adorned with glimmering crystals, glistening silver talismans, bone fragments, raven feathers, and clusters of fragrant herbs.
As Brynhildr led Sigurd inside the eerie abode, the exotic aroma of myrrh burning in the brazier mingled with the saline scent of the sea.
Yrsa’s piercing eyes glowed as she rose from a low, cushioned stool.
“The threads of fate have entwined you both,” she murmured, her haunting voice a whisper of wind.
“The wolf and the falcon draw near their destined dance.” With a skeletal hand, gloved in black cat leather, she gestured to the blue silk spread across her small table.
“And now, Sun Falcon and Sea Wolf, let us see what the Norns have woven for this fateful night.”
Heart hammering, mouth parched, Brynhildr darted a glance at Sigurd, who inclined his wolfskin-clad head. “We are ready, Yrsa,” she whispered, breathless with anticipation. “Show us our destined path.”
The volva’s deep blue face gleamed in the firelight, black runes etched along her neck shimmering as if alive.
Silver threads in her indigo gown glittered like stars, the crystals and raven feathers which adorned her long black cloak glistening as she reached for her gnarled ashwood staff.
Yrsa thumped the ground rhythmically and began humming a melodic chant, withdrawing three juniper berries from a small pouch at her waist, which she cast into the fire.
As their crackle released the sharp scent of pine, the volva deeply inhaled the sweet, spicy smoke, singing a vardlokkur to invoke the three Norns.
“Urer of the deep well, where wolf’s blood flows and falcon wings beat…
Vereandi of the waking hour, where paths are hidden in the starlit night…
Skuld of bonds sworn in blood and fire, which even the gods may not break…
Unveil my volva eyes… and reveal your wyrd through my runes.”
Her chant complete, Yrsa leaned the staff back against the wall of the tent, the amber bead encased in bronze at its tip glowing in the golden flames.
She removed her black leather gloves and laid them upon the stool behind her, then unfastened a black velvet pouch from her belt, and shook it solemnly in her bare hands.
With long, slender fingers, she withdrew a trio of small oval bones, each etched with a single rune, blackened with dried blood. One by one, she laid the ivory pieces upon the deep blue silk, interpreting each rune with otherworldly seier sight.
Yrsa’s pointed fingernail traced the first rune. “Jera… symbol of eternal life. The seeds have been sown… fruit shall be borne… your two fates forever entwined.”
As if he sensed how her legs trembled beneath the emerald gown, Sigurd took hold of Brynhildr’s hand, his sizzling touch both comforting and thrilling.
When she gazed up at him, feral hunger blazed in his fierce lupine eyes.