Chapter 9
Champion of the Sólhjarta Tournament
The morning sun rose softly over Hrafnfjall, pale gold spilling across the fjord far below and setting the water aflame. Gulls and ravens circled in the salty sky, their guttural caws and sharp cries echoing against the cliff beneath Brynhildr’s tower.
Within the shelter of her private courtyard, the morning was hushed.
Wild roses and thorned vines climbed the high stone walls, their leaves heavy with dew, their pink blossoms glistening in the dawn light.
The sweet floral scent of crushed petals and damp earth mingled with sea brine as Brynhildr took her stance on the worn flagstones.
Ulric Ironshield faced her, broad as an oak, braided red beard streaked with silver, leather armor gleaming in the golden light.
His wooden shield—painted with the raven sigil of Hrafnfjall—gripped in one hand, practice sword in the other, he watched her, a challenging glint in his fierce emerald gaze.
“Again,” he grumbled.
Brynhildr struck like a flash of light, steel clashing with a jarring screech.
Ulric pressed her, testing her guard, his strikes ruthless and relentless.
Breath steady, focus sharp, Brynhildr darted across the stones, boots light in the dance of battle. Ulric had seen her fall more times than she could count — bruised, frustrated, yet burning with promise.
When Ulric overextended, just barely, she saw it — the perfect moment to strike. Sliding inside his reach, she twisted her blade and struck his shield rim with a sharp crack. Before he could recover, she pivoted, hooked his leg, and drove forward.
Ulric staggered.
His shield fell.
And his sword skittered across the sunlit stone.
When he hit one knee hard against the ground, neither of them moved or spoke.
While the ravens of Hrafnfjall watched from the pale pink sky, the rose-covered courtyard held its breath.
Brynhildr stood proudly over Ulric. Breath heaving, heart hammering, she pointed the tip of her blade against his armored chest and claimed her first victory against him.
She lowered her sword and savored the sweet scent of triumph in the salty breeze.
Dawn glimmered in her golden hair. Dew on the pink roses glittered like gems. Mist over the fjord shimmered like frosted starlight.
Ulric looked up at her in stunned disbelief, then bellowed with booming laughter. He swept his empty sword arm across his broad chest and bowed his head in her honor.
“Well done, kaera min,” he proclaimed proudly, a fierce grin stretching his braided red beard. “My Sun Falcon is ready to face the Sea Wolf… in the final challenge on the summer solstice.”
Emotion tightened her throat at the mention of Sigurd.
He and Agnar would soon face each other in the championship of the Sólhjarta Tournament.
And she would battle the winner—undoubtedly Sigurd— in the final duel.
As a shiver of seier shook her limbs, Brynhildr extended her hand to Ulric.
He grasped it firmly, his grin still broad as he rose to his feet and retrieved his scattered sword.
“I must help prepare the field for the tournament,” he told her, his eyes flicking toward the distant flags and banners where servants raised elevated seating for King Budli, his royal guests, and visiting jarls, while merchants from the village opened their market stalls, the delicious scents wafting in the briny breeze.
“Sigurd Sea Wolf shall surely triumph over Agnar the Bear. But it will be a thrilling event to behold.” Ulric kissed Brynhildr’s hand, inclined his russet head, and exited her private courtyard.
Brynhildr watched her beloved mentor leave. Though the thrill of victory still coursed through her veins, dread dampened the sweet taste of triumph.
I must dress for the tournament. Faeir will wish to impress the kings and royal guests. And then…I shall watch Sigurd win the championship. As the Norns weave us ever tighter in their intricate web of wyrd.
* * * *
“I have threaded lapis lazuli gems into your braids, to match your gown…and the beads woven into Sigurd Sea Wolf’s hair and beard.
” Excitement laced Astrid’s eager voice.
She bent down to whisper into Brynhildr’s ear.
“I have seen you disappear with him into your private courtyard. I know that you have slipped him up to your chambers…and that you are lovers.”
Astrid’s eyes sparkled in the sunlight. “You must be thrilled that Sigurd will triumph in today’s tournament—and win your hand in the final duel on the summer solstice!”
Brynhildr remained silent. She did not want to face the final challenge against Sigurd.
“Why do you say nothing?” Astrid searched Brynhildr’s face, incredulous. “Are you not pleased that your lover will win the championship?”
“Of course I am.” Brynhildr brushed a braid away from her face and averted her eyes. “But it is possible that Agnar might win.”
Astrid laughed softly. “Agnar is a formidable opponent, but Sigurd is a Volsung— descended from the Allfather himself. With the divine blood of Odin in his Sea Wolf veins, he is certain to prevail…and claim you.” She kissed Brynhildr’s cheek, giddy with girlish excitement.
“Sigurd shall win your hand tomorrow, on the summer solstice—and wed you in midwinter! I cannot wait for the royal wedding!”
Beaming with pride at her handiwork, Astrid placed a silver coronet set with sapphires upon Brynhildr’s elaborate blonde braids.
When Brynhildr rose from the carved seat at her bedside table and smoothed her blue silk gown, her ebullient maid prattled over her regal appearance.
“You look like one of the nine billow maiden daughters of Rán! Sigurd Sea Wolf will smile like the sunlit fjord!”
If only you knew, dear Astrid. I am indeed the dóttir of a goddess. But Freyja is my móeir, not Rán.
At the sound of booted footsteps behind her, Brynhildr turned toward the doorway where Yrsa stood, her woad-painted face gleaming like the lapis gem in the silver diadem atop her dark brown hair.
A sly smile curled a corner of her blue lips, her opalescent teeth glistening like pearls in the sea.
Behind the volva, Inga hovered, eyes alit with anticipation like Astrid’s.
From the open doors of her balcony overlooking the fjord, a sharp horn sounded below. The brazen blare rolled up the wild rose and vine-covered stone walls of her tower like a violent clap of thunder.
Brynhildr’s breath hitched.
“It is time.” Yrsa thumped her gnarled ashwood staff on the floor.
The reverberation rattled Brynhildr’s bones.
The Sólhjarta Championship was about to begin.
* * * *
The midmorning sun glimmered on the pale flagstones as Brynhildr crossed the courtyard, escorted by four of her faeir’s royal guards clad in shining chain mail brynjas, their gleaming swords clattering with each stride as they led her, Yrsa, Astrid, and Inga toward the tournament field.
Golden light gilded the waves of the fjord below the cliff and danced along the banners that snapped in the salty breeze.
Vibrant standards of blue, gold, crimson, and white hung from tall poles lining the grassy field, each sigil a symbol of a participating jarl or visiting king.
When she spotted the snarling silver wolf atop rolling blue waves of the sea—the banner of the Wolf King álfr of Sjóborg—her heart fluttered like the wings of a falcon at the thought of Sigurd Sea Wolf.
Along the grassy meadow where fragrant wildflowers bloomed in the early summer sun, rows of carved wooden benches had been raised along the hillside for Budli’s honored guests.
Kings in gilded brooches and jarls in furs trimmed with silver sat with their lovely dóttirs, garbed in vibrant silks, their long luscious locks braided with glittering gems.
Below the seated guests, warriors and villagers lined the edges of the grassy field, craning to see the two finalists preparing to compete.
The tantalizing aromas of sizzling meat, freshly baked bread, and spiced mead drifted up from the market stalls, mingling with sea brine and the scent of dew-soaked grass.
As she approached the elevated seating where her crimson-clad faeir sat among his royal guests, Brynhildr spotted the carved oak chair draped in blue velvet and embroidered with a golden falcon sigil for her as the Sun Falcon Shieldmaiden of Hrafnfjall.
She climbed the steps of the dais and inclined her head to her faeir, then to King álfr and Queen Hjordis at his side, and finally to King Eirikr and Princess Dagny, who graced her with a gentle smile.
As the húskarlar seated Brynhildr in the place of honor, her eyes met Sigurd’s across the field and the ouroboros blazed beneath her blue silk gown.
Yrsa settled into a reserved chair on her right, next to Skallagrímr, the Skáld of the Sólhjarta Tournament, whose long fingers softly strummed the strings of his gifted golden lyre.
As the salty wind whipped her blonde braids and stung her cheeks, Brynhildr smoothed her gown and regally lifted her royal chin. She was ready to watch the Sólhjarta Championship between Sigurd and Agnar, the warriors whose blood oath of brotherhood she had witnessed in the early light of dawn.
Budli rose from his ondvegi throne, which had been brought from the Great Hall and placed upon the elevated dais.
He raised a bejeweled hand to silence the excited crowd.
His deep voice bellowed like a bronze bell.
“Royal guests, noble jarls, wolf warriors of the Sjórúlfar, and all who honor the spirit of the Sólhjarta Tournament!”
As banners snapped in the salty breeze and Brynhildr’s heart hammered in her chest, she spotted a pair of ravens perched atop a nearby pillar.
Huginn and Muninn—the ever-watchful eyes of Odin. The Allfather is observing the Sólhjarta Championship as well.
Budli’s booming voice carried across the cheering crowd and over the sunlit fjord. “After three weeks of valor, skill, and unyielding resolve, we have come to the final trial. Today, the Champion of the Sólhjarta Tournament shall be crowned!”