Chapter 9 #2
While warriors thumped their shields and the Sjórúlfar howled, Budli gestured to the two finalists standing at the edge of the long grassy field. “And now, let us watch the Sea Wolf and the Bear test their strength, their skill, and their fate—before gods and men alike! Let the championship begin!”
As the crowd erupted in cheers, Ulric Ironshield strode across the field and stopped before Sigurd and Agnar.
Blue beads glittering in his silver-streaked red beard, leather armor gleaming in the golden sun, he shouted above the clamorous din.
“Each champion shall hurl one spear for distance. Sigurd Sea Wolf shall throw first!”
Brynhildr’s breath hitched as Sigurd shed his wolfskin cloak and handed it to Eynvindr Waverunner, the Sjórúlfar warrior who had taught him to sail and fight aboard a drakkar ship.
The blond hair, deep blue tattoos, and rippled muscles across Sigurd’s broad, bare chest glistened in the morning light.
And the ouroboros ring above his heart glowed golden in the summer solstice sun.
Sigurd stepped back from the line of pale stones that marked the starting point, the úlfspjót Wolf Spear—carved with snarling silver wolves and deep blue rolling waves— resting heavy in his long hands.
From her seat upon the dais, Brynhildr watched him deeply inhale the crisp, salty breeze blowing over the fjord, his tense muscles coiling like a spring beneath his gilded bronze skin.
With long, purposeful strides, he surged forward to the launch line, planting his feet and twisting his torso as he flung the ashwood spear with all his might.
The lapis gem at the base of the curved blade glimmered in the sun, flashing like a falling star.
The spear arced high, slicing the salty air, and thudded deep into the misty grass far beyond the scattered stones.
While the seated crowd shot to its feet with raucous cheers, the Sjórúlfar roared and howled. Along the sidelines of the tournament field, wild warriors thumped axes upon wooden shields in riotous applause.
Ulric Ironshield stepped forward onto the field and shouted to the ecstatic crowd. “Agnar, the Bear of Bjarkholm, shall now hurl his spear.”
Though not as tall as Sigurd, Agnar was broad-shouldered and burly as a bear. He shed his bearskin cloak, handing it to one of his royal húskarlar, yet his muscular body was so covered in thick brown hair that he still seemed clad in his namesake hide.
Hefting his own spear—its smooth oak carved with bear paws, curved claws, and blackened runes—he lunged forward and heaved the blade with a guttural grunt.
The spear arced through the sunlit sky, but the sheer distance of Sigurd’s incomparable throw left him short.
Agnar’s weapon sank into the field a full pace behind úlfspjót, eliciting a howl of approval from the Sjórúlfar, a thunderous roar from the crowd, and a fierce, triumphant grin on Sigurd’s blond- bearded face.
As cheers rippled across the tournament field, Sigurd’s gaze locked on Brynhildr.
The ouroboros mark of the dragon scorched the skin beneath her gown.
Ulric stepped forward, raising one scarred hand for silence. Agnar’s spear still quivered in the grassy field.
“By cast and distance,” he bellowed, his voice carrying across the crowd, “the spear throw is won by Sigurd, Sea Wolf of Sjóborg.”
Another roar rippled over the wildflower-strewn meadow and out across the glistening fjord. Brynhildr watched as Agnar seized Sigurd’s forearms in the same warrior grasp of brotherhood that she had witnessed at dawn when they swore the blood oath beneath her clifftop tower.
Eyvindr Waverunner offered Sigurd a horn, and Agnar’s man handed one to the Bear of Bjarkholm.
Bronze skin glistening in the summer sun, the two competitors drank quickly, wiping sweat from their brows, while Ulric paced from the line of stones, counting twelve measured steps.
When he turned and nodded, four of Budli’s húskarlar hauled a massive tree trunk onto the field to the very spot where Ironshield stood.
Its bark had been stripped away. Three great rings marked its face: black at the outer edge, yellow within, and a blood-red circle at the heart.
The heavy trunk struck the earth with a dull, final thud.
Ulric strode back across the field and shouted to the expectant crowd.
“Axes!” he boomed, sending a ripple up Brynhildr’s stiffened spine. “One hurl each. Agnar throws first!”
Agnar stepped up to the line of pale stones.
He gauged the distance to the target, wiping his hand on his linen breeches.
Reaching for the leather loop on the belt at his hip, he drew his axe free.
He firmly set his feet sideways to the target, weighing the distance and testing the heft of his blade.
The entire crowd held its collective breath as the salty wind whispered across the field.
He drew the axe back to his shoulder, breathed once, and let it fly.
The axe thudded as it hit the target, sinking into the middle yellow line.
“Yellow for the Bear of Bjarkholm!” Ulric’s shout thundered through the cheering throng.
Sigurd strode up to the starting line, Agnar’s axe still firmly lodged in the target.
Brynhildr’s heart hammered beneath the burn of the ouroboros. Her vision narrowed along with Sigurd’s, sensing his focus on the heart of the target. She knew before the axe even left his hand that it would strike true.
The haft sang as the blade spun with lethal grace, sinking into the inner red circle.
Her breath caught. The crowd erupted with roars. Sigurd’s triumph sang in her soul.
Ulric’s bellow echoed across the field. “Red for the Sea Wolf. Win for Sigurd of Sjóborg!”
Budli’s húskarlar moved swiftly, lifting the pale stones from the two prior trials and laying them out in a rough square before the royal dais and the standing crowd. The stones marked the boundaries of the final event of the Sólhjarta Tournament—the championship battle by swords.
Agnar grasped Sigurd’s shoulders in a brief, solid hold of brotherhood and respect.
From the subtle nod of his head, and the broad grin which split his thick brown beard, the Bear of Bjarkholm acknowledged the Sea Wolf’s triumph in the axe-throwing trial.
Both men retrieved their blades from the target and returned to their attendants to quench their thirst, wipe the sweat, and don their armor for the final event.