Chapter 8
Saga of Bear and Sea Wolf
The taste of grilled salmon and fresh herbs lingered on Sigurd’s tongue as he swallowed a mouthful of mead and gazed up at Brynhildr, glorious in a deep garnet gown that shimmered like the blood red gems of her crown.
When her gaze met his, the ouroboros ring seared the skin above his heart, as it did each time she was near.
And every night, as they shared seier in starlight upon her fur-covered bed, the mark of the dragon deepened, the fjórún entwining their souls ever more tightly. In truth, he could no longer sense where her spirit ended and his began. Their souls were now bound as one.
While musicians played in the background, and Sigurd feasted hungry eyes on Brynhildr, Agnar’s deep voice interrupted his ravenous reverie.
“You have won her already. She only has eyes for you. Everyone here knows you are lovers, that you shall triumph on the morrow…and win the hand of the Sun Falcon Shieldmaiden in the final duel on the summer solstice.”
Sigurd turned toward the formidable warrior seated beside him at the table of champions—the man he would face in the final challenge at midmorning.
Both of them had triumphed in the second round of the tournament, and now they sat together as the two finalists before the Raven King’s high table in the jubilant Great Hall of Hrafnfjall.
Before Sigurd could respond, Agnar continued, his words rising above the raucous din. “You are the son of the slain king Sigmund, son of Volsung, blessed with the wolf blood of Odin. I shall fight with honor tomorrow, Sigurd Sea Wolf. And accept whatever fate the Norns have decreed.”
With his thick brown hair and bristled beard, a bearskin cloak draped over his broad shoulders, Agnar resembled a massive bear.
Sigurd had seen him fight in the various trials.
He would prove a formidable opponent. He gazed into the warrior’s fierce dark eyes.
“You carry the blood of the bear, Agnar. Bjarkholm has long bred warriors who do not break.” He raised his horn.
“I know the bear that sleeps beneath your skin. You will not fall easily.”
A sudden silence swept the hall as King Budli arose from the high table, clad in a crimson cloak that mirrored Brynhildr’s garnet gown.
Radiant sunbursts embroidered in golden thread embellished the hem and sleeves, while raven feathers graced the wide collar, and silver fox fur lined the elegant royal mantle.
Golden crown atop his russet hair, garnets and amber gems braided into his coppery beard, Budli was indeed the fierce Viking redbeard Raven King.
The crimson-clad monarch raised his ornate elkhorn, the golden light of the setting sun gilding the etched ravens and runes.
Before the expectant crowd, Budli’s deep bellow echoed through the silent hall.
“Honored guests of Hrafnfjall, raise your cups and drink with me in honor of the two finalists who shall face each other in tomorrow’s championship of the Sólhjarta Tournament.
To Sigurd, the Sea Wolf of Sjóborg, and Agnar, the Bear of Bjarkholm! ”
While the hall thundered with clashing cups and cheers of “Skál!”, deafening howls from the wolfskin-clad Sjórúlfar rumbled through the rafters and rattled the shields lining the wooden walls.
Budli descended the steps of the dais, sunlight gleaming off the garnets in his crown and his braided russet beard.
He motioned to two attendants, each bearing a polished silver platter draped in crimson silk like the Raven King’s majestic cloak.
Upon each silver tray, an elaborate dagger was encased in a shimmering golden sheath.
Sigurd and Agnar arose from the table of champions and bowed to the Raven King as he approached and halted before them.
Budli reverently took a sheathed dagger from the first crimson-draped silver platter and presented it to Agnar. Engraved into the golden leather of the scabbard, a raven soared, wings unfurled above a radiant sunburst rising over rolling waves.
The redbeard king’s deep voice echoed over the enthralled crowd.
“Gold, for the glory you have earned as the two finalists in the Sólhjarta Tournament.” Budli indicated the trio of images carved into the gleaming leather with a bejeweled hand.
“Each scabbard bears my raven sigil, the sunburst of the summer solstice, and the waves of the Sognefjorden which flow beneath this royal hall.”
Budli then lifted the second dagger and unsheathed it, displaying the superb craftsmanship of the magnificent golden weapon.
“A triad of symbols etched along the blade,” he bellowed, his voice rich and clear.
“A wolf, a bear, and a falcon—representing the two finalists and the shieldmaiden for whom they vie.”
He brushed a regal finger over the trio of glittering gems embedded into the silver crossguard. “Amber, garnet, and lapis lazuli— the sun of the summer solstice, the blood of the championship duel, and the sea beneath the cliff of Hrafnfjall, where the Sólhjarta Tournament unfolds.”
Three runes were etched into the curved ivory of the elkhorn hilt. “Uruz, for strength. Tiwaz, for valor. And Sowilo, the sun. Three sigils, three gems, three runes—the sacred number nine of the Norns.” Budli sheathed the golden blade and solemnly presented it to Sigurd.
Addressing both finalists who bowed their heads before him, Budli proclaimed, “May these daggers honor your courage, commemorate your valor, and bear witness to your glory.”
Murmurs rippled through the throng as the Raven King swept across the gleaming pinewood floor and ascended the elevated dais to his ondvegi throne.
Sigurd and Agnar turned to face the crimson-clad king.
Budli raised his elaborate elkhorn, prompting everyone in the hall to follow his royal lead. With a hearty roar, he boomed, “To Sigurd, Sea Wolf of Sjóborg, and Agnar, the Bear of Bjarkholm! May the fiercest warrior triumph tomorrow as Champion of the Sólhjarta Tournament!”
While riotous shouts of “Skál!” rolled like thunder through the raucous hall, Sigurd and Agnar bowed before the Raven King, the royal guests at the high table, and the cheering crowd.
Brynhildr’s piercing falcon gaze sent shivers up Sigurd’s shaking limbs.
When he and Agnar returned to the table of champions and lifted their horns of mead, the ouroboros on Sigurd’s chest burned under his blue tunic. As the swallow slid down his parched throat, his eyes locked with Brynhildr’s at the high table.
Through the mark of the dragon which bound their souls, he sent her a silent message.
Soon, my love. We will share passion and seier in starlight.
Sigurd’s heart soared as the crowd roared, his body throbbing with desire under Brynhildr’s longing gaze.
When Budli raised a royal hand, a hush fell over the hall.
The Raven King’s harsh cry split the expectant silence.
“The golden daggers have been bestowed, the toasts of triumph to the two finalists complete. And now, honored guests of Hrafnfjall, let us welcome Skallagrímr, Skáld of the Sólhjarta Tournament!”
Rising majestically from his seat of honor beside the blue-faced volva at the high table, Skallagrímr slid down the steps of the elevated wooden dais like a sleek lynx.
Strumming the nine strands of his gifted golden lyre, gilded crown atop his braided blond head, golden raven brooch clasped at his broad shoulder, the warrior-poet sang a glorious song of tribute to the two finalists of the Summer Solstice Tournament.
As the golden skáld performed, “Saga of Bear and Sea Wolf”, the mellow notes of his lyre floated in the salty breeze from the sunlit fjord like the mead flowing through Sigurd’s Sea Wolf veins.
While Sigurd devoured Brynhildr with his ravenous lupine gaze, Agnar leaned close and spoke into his ear.
“Sea Wolf, the morrow’s challenge will test our valor.
At dawn’s first light, meet me at the base of Brynhildr’s tower, near the edge of the cliff overlooking the fjord.
Let us swear a blood oath of brotherhood with our golden daggers.
That whatever path the Norns lay at our feet, we shall ever be warriors bound by blood. ”
Sigurd nodded firmly and glanced at the nearby table where Kveld Nightwolf sat among the Sjórúlfar. The amber eyes of the black wolf atop his head glowed golden in the evening light of the setting sun. Sigurd lifted his horn to the vitki, dipping his head in acknowledgment and respect.
Kveld raised his horn to Sigurd and inclined his dark head, feral eyes ablaze, as if the galdrmaer—the master of reading runes—had foreseen Sigurd’s fated path.
As a shadow of unease swept through him, Sigurd returned his attention to Agnar.
“I shall bring a silver goblet, this golden dagger…” he indicated the ceremonial weapon just gifted by the Raven King, “and a container of mead. Kveld Nightwolf will carve a bindrune into the stone of the cliff. We’ll seal our oath with blood, runes, and mead…
beneath Brynhildr’s tower… in sea mist, stone, and sunlight. ”
Agnar raised his horn to Sigurd. “To brotherhood.”
Sigurd clinked his horn against Agnar’s. “To our blood oath…and the championship of the Sóhjarta Tournament. Skál!”
While Brynhildr’s watchful eyes seared the ouroboros above his thundering heart, Sigurd held Agnar’s steady gaze and swallowed the golden mead.
* * * *
The bonfire crackled, sparks soaring into the starlit sky. Jubilant guests swirled to the lively notes of lyres, lutes, tallharpas, and flutes as Brynhildr held Sigurd’s golden dagger, fingertips brushing the symbols, gemstones, and runes.
“A triad of sigils, a trinity of gems, a trio of runes…set in gold and silver, etched in bone. Truly a magnificent gift.” She reverently returned the dagger to Sigurd, who sheathed it in the golden scabbard at his hip.