Chapter 7 #2
The volva’s ethereal voice wafted on wisps of sweet smoke as she read the second bone rune. “Dagaz… the dawn of awakening. Thorned roses climb stones and hide the night…In darkness comes light. Tonight, the ring is revealed.”
A chill shivered through Brynhildr. Thorned roses climb stones and hide the night… the stone wall which conceals my private courtyard… the secret stairwell that leads up into the tower…
“The final mark is Kaun…the rune of fire and transformation.” Yrsa’s otherworldly gaze swept between Brynhildr and Sigurd. “Dragonfire shall sear your skin and seal your bond—which even the gods may not break.”
Fingertips touching the trio of runes, far-seeing eyes fixed on the flames, Yrsa voiced her otherworldly vision. “When the falcon cries and the wolf howls… the dragon shall leave its mark. The eternal return, a bond of blood and fire… beyond the web of wyrd.”
As her prophecy lingered in the herb-laced smoke inside the dim tent, Yrsa gathered the blood-etched bone runes and slipped them back into her black velvet pouch. “The Norns have revealed your interwoven fate. Go, Sun Falcon and Sea Wolf…and let starlight and seier guide your destined path.”
As Sigurd reverently inclined his head in gratitude to Yrsa, Brynhildr grasped his warm, calloused hand. “Follow me,” she murmured, leading him from the darkened tent and out into the starlit night.
She cast a quick glance across the courtyard and out over the wildflower-strewn meadow.
Musicians played, villagers mingled, and guests danced in raucous revelry around the roaring bonfire.
Warriors sparred in mock battles, the Sea Wolves of Sjóborg howling in approval, their wolfskin cloaks gleaming in the firelight.
In a shadowed corner of the courtyard, leaning against the castle stone, Brynhildr spotted one of the Sjórúlfar, clad in wolfskin as black as his long, wild hair and braided beard.
The amber eyes of the massive beast that crowned his human head gleamed in the moonglow.
As he watched her and Sigurd with otherworldly, knowing intent, a ripple of seier shook her trembling limbs.
Near the heart of the enormous fire, her royal faeir bellowed with laughter, dancing with a delighted Princess Dagny. Ulric Ironshield spun the lovely dóttir of Jarl Hróald from Bj?rndal, and Astrid still swirled in the brawny arms of her handsome warrior.
Brynhildr led Sigurd swiftly and silently away, toward the stone wall concealed beneath thick brambled vines of wild pink roses.
The sweet floral scent mingled with the fresh tang of the fjord and the salty brine of the sea as she whisked Sigurd around the thorn-capped rampart which sheltered her private courtyard.
Her breath hitched at a razor-sharp slice to her skin.
Sigurd’s head snapped, brow furrowed, ready to defend her. “What is wrong?” Concern, compassion, and caution warred in his wolflike gaze.
“I tore my finger on a thorn.” Dark blood, black in the moonlight, beaded on her pale skin.
He raised her wound to his bearded lips, and licked the blood with his warm lupine tongue. When he sucked her finger into his mouth, a wave of desire surged through her and pooled between her quivering thighs.
* * * *
The taste of her blood awakened his senses and stirred his soul, summoning his inner wolf. Instantly, intuitively, and inexorably, his Sea Wolf spirit knew her.
The hackles of his Blárúlfr cloak arose, shimmering in the moonlight.
At his throat, the úlfkló claw thrummed, answering her irresistible call.
And the úlfblóer sword—blood-forged and spirit-bound—sang to her from the sheath at his hip.
She tenderly touched his bearded cheek, sending sparks through his veins and igniting a fire within. When she gazed up into his eyes, rising on her toes to press soft lips to his, Sigurd was undone.
And unleashed.
He crushed her to his chest, one hand behind the small of her back, the other cradling her head, as he swooped down to deepen the kiss.
With the tip of his tongue, he parted her lips, delving and probing her depths, devouring her delicious taste.
When she melted in his arms and moaned, his knees nearly buckled with desire.
Her silver circlet toppled to the grass. He broke the kiss, gasping for air and pressing his forehead to hers. He bent to retrieve the crown and handed it to her, searching her emerald eyes for guidance.
And permission to continue.
Glittering stars winked in the deep violet sky.
Silver moonlight shone on her long blonde hair, a cascade of gold tumbling to her narrow waist. She accepted the coronet, tracing its ravens and runes, then raised her intense gaze to meet his.
“Since the moment I first saw you, I have been drawn to you… like iron to lodestone.”
Her voice was a whimpered whisper. “Throughout the tournament, each event you won… felt like a triumph of my own.” With tentative fingertips, she reached up to touch the tuft of blond hair at the base of his throat.
His entire body shook with barely restrained control.
“My gaze is inexplicably drawn to yours…and each time our eyes meet, seier sizzles up my spine.” She nuzzled the tuft of hair, deeply inhaling his scent. A soft moan escaped her parted lips.
Sigurd’s heart hammered in his constricted chest.
“The volva foretold that thorned roses climb stones and hide the night….” Brynhildr nodded toward the base of the vine-covered tower behind them. “That is a hidden stairwell…a secret escape passage from the tower. It leads up to my private chamber.”
Starlight sparkled in her wild, widened eyes. “I know, in my Sun Falcon soul, that you and I are destined to be together. I have never wanted any man the way I want you. And tonight, Sigurd Sea Wolf, I must have you.”
She rose up to press her lips against his. With a quavering smile, she grasped his hot hand.
And led him up the secret stairs.
* * * *
The circular stone stairwell led from the private courtyard to a thick oak door carved with intricate knotwork and etched with protective runes. Brynhildr fetched a key from the belt at her waist and slipped it into the heavy latch, unlocking the iron bolt.
Sigurd followed her into an expansive, circular chamber where embers banked in the stone hearth emitted a warm amber glow.
“These are my private quarters,” she said, tossing a log onto the fire in the stone hearth.
“On the level below, the volva Yrsa gives me lessons in our seier chamber.” She swept across the polished wooden floor, emerald silk rustling as she opened the double doors onto a balcony overlooking the starlit fjord.
Moonlight bathed the room in liquid silver light.
She placed her coronet on a small table beside her large, fur-covered bed. Emeralds sparkled softly in the slender silver crown.
Unsure what to do, Sigurd stood still.
Relief—and desire— flooded his veins when she opened her arms and beckoned him.
“This blue wolfskin is sublime,” she crooned, stroking the soft fur which draped his shoulders.
She unfastened the elaborate brooch, the lapis lazuli eyes of the snarling wolf gleaming in the silvery light.
With reverent care, she placed it beside her crown, then slipped the wolf cloak from his shoulders, laying it over the large wooden trunk at the foot of her sleigh- shaped bed.
She returned to his side, admiring the silver torc on his right arm which her faeir had bestowed upon him at the feast. “A worthy prize for your triumph in the first round of the Sólhjarta Tournament.” She slipped it from his arm and laid it gently beside the brooch, then lifted the hem of his blue tunic, encouraging him to disrobe.
When he complied, her breath hitched and her eyes went wide.
“You are magnificent, Sigurd Sea Wolf. I have longed to do this since I first laid eyes on you.” She ran her fingertips through the dark blond hair across his chest. With a sultry hum, she nuzzled the tuft at the base of his throat and traced a tattoo with her tongue.
The muscles in Sigurd’s belly twitched, his loins throbbing painfully, legs shaking with repressed longing. He unstrapped his sheathed sword and stood it along the wall near his Blár?lfr cloak.
“Please unlace me.” She turned her back toward him, displaying the ties of her bodice.
With trembling, awkward fingers, he unfastened the interwoven silk cords.
By the gods, I have never wanted a woman this much before. Though he had bedded several—the Sjórúlfar had insisted on making him a man as they sailed into various ports—he had never known the overwhelming sensations which now flooded him like the sea inundating the fjord.
This was much more than mere lust.
Her spirit called to his.
Heart, body, and soul.
She slid the gown down her shoulders, stepping out of it as the green silk pooled on the polished floor.
Scooping up the gown, she folded and placed it next to his tunic and cloak.
When she slipped out of her linen shift and turned to face him, her naked beauty slammed into him like a blow to the gut, stealing the breath from his lungs.
“You are a goddess,” he whispered, awed by the exquisite blend of her sleek muscles and alluring curves. He reached out to caress a strand of her golden hair. Emeralds woven into her blonde braids glittered in the moonglow and starlight.
When she grasped his hand and guided it to her breast, a guttural growl rumbled from his raspy throat.
He stroked her pale skin, rubbing his thumb over the pert peak, and lowered eager lips to suckle the irresistible pink flesh.
She whimpered, running her fingers through his hair as he feasted on both breasts.
He sampled her neck, shoulders, and chin, working his way back to her luscious lips. His tongue penetrated and probed as his eager hands roamed her supple skin. When her legs gave out beneath her, he carried her to the bed and laid her gently atop the sumptuous furs.