Chapter 8 #3
Sigurd, like the Bear of Bjarkholm and the Night Wolf, was naked to the waist beneath his blue wolfskin cloak, his rippled torso streaked with dark blond hair, inked wolves, and the ouroboros ring, glowing with golden fire.
Forearms clasped in a warrior’s grip, the two Sólhjarta finalists looked up at her approach as Kveld chanted under his breath, his wolf dagger biting into stone.
The mark of the dragon seared her skin under Sigurd’s intense lupine gaze.
Kveld’s deep voice wafted on the wind. “The sun climbs. The stone is carved. The sea listens.” Fierce amber eyes flicked between Sigurd and Agnar. “If you would bind yourselves by blood, step forward willingly.” When the Nightwolf nodded to her, Brynhildr presented the sacred silver chalice.
“For the mead…and the blood.” Her voice quavered like her quaking limbs.
From a small wooden container carved with runes, Kveld poured golden mead into the gem-encrusted goblet as he guided them all to the edge of the cliff.
“A triple bindrune,” he murmured, indicating the carved stone.
He nodded to the golden daggers sheathed at the warriors’ waists.
“You will each cut your own palm. Let three drops of blood fall into the chalice of mead, and three more into the stone—one in each rune—as you swear your oath of brotherhood.”
Kveld pointed the tip of his wolf dagger at Agnar. “First, the Bear.”
Agnar unsheathed his blade, sliced his palm, and let three glistening drops fall into the golden mead. As a trio of droplets darkened the carved runes, he swore his blood oath.
“By my blood, blade, and breath, I bind myself to Sigurd.
My sword shall ever be his.
Whatever fate brings him, I shall not oppose.
Should the Sea Wolf of Sjóborg summon, the Bear of Bjarkholm shall come.”
Amber eyes aglow like the black wolf atop his dark human head, Kveld lowered his bearded chin to Sigurd. “Now the Wolf.”
Sigurd withdrew the golden dagger from his scabbard and sliced the palm of his left hand. He let three droplets of blood fall into the mead, then into the stone, as he voiced his solemn vow.
“By my blood, blade, and breath, I bind myself to Agnar.
My sword shall ever be his.
Whatever fate brings him, I shall not oppose.
Should the Bear of Bjarkholm summon, the Sea Wolf of Sjóborg shall come.”
Kveld flicked long, inked fingers over each rune, “Gebo, the gift of brotherhood… Tiwaz, the warrior’s valor and honor…
and Perthro, the chalice of fate.” As the blood seeped into the triple bindrune, the Nightwolf bound the solemn vow.
“A trio of runes, three drops of blood into stone, another three into the chalice of mead. A triad of trinities— nine for the Norns. Now drink …and seal the sacred oath.”
Brynhildr—who had held the chalice and caught the droplets of blood—handed the mead to Sigurd. The sweet honey scent mingled with the coppery tang of iron and the salty brine of the sea. As his feral eyes locked with hers, the ouroboros blazed above her pounding heart.
Sigurd accepted the chalice, brought it to his bearded lips, and drank. He passed it solemnly to Agnar, who swallowed the blood-infused mead.
Agnar glanced down into the goblet, then returned it to Brynhildr.
A shiver rippled up her spine, as if the Norns had tugged the threads of fate.
Kveld’s deep voice floated over the mist-shrouded fjord. “Blood in stone seals fate. Blood in mead binds the self. Let no god break this blood-bound oath.”
Sigurd and Agnar clasped their forearms again. At midmorning, they would face each other in the championship of the Sólhjarta Tournament.
Burly as his thick brown bearskin, Agnar grunted. “Soon, there will be steel between us. But we are brothers… forever bound by blood.”
Blue fur of his Blárúlfr cloak blowing in the salty breeze over his bare, tattooed chest, Sigurd growled in agreement. “Brothers… forever bound by blood.”
Black wolfskin gleaming in the rising sun, amber eyes rimmed in black glistening like molten gold, Kveld took the goblet from Brynhildr. He poured the blood-laced mead into the sea-filled fjord and concluded the sacred oath.
“You are oath bound as blood brothers. Your impending duel is not betrayal. It is a trial set before you. Face it with glory, valor, and honor.”
Sigurd caressed Brynhildr with fierce lupine eyes before walking away with Agnar. Each warrior would now prepare for the final event and face each other in the championship of the Solhjarta Tournament.
As she watched them stride across the flagstones toward their respective tents, Kveld Nightwolf wiped his dagger and sheathed it at his naked, rune-painted waist. When he handed her the silver chalice, his haunting voice echoed from the Otherworld.
“The threads of fate tighten around you, Sun Falcon Shieldmaiden. Tread carefully. The gods are watching…”
Without another word, he loped across the courtyard to the longhouse where the Sjórúlfar were lodged.
Brynhildr clutched to her breast the silver chalice slick with traces of blood and mead.
Beneath her forest green gown, the ouroboros seared the skin above her wildly thumping heart.
Deeply inhaling the crisp saline scent of the sea, she climbed the vine-covered stairs to her private chamber.