Chapter 9 #3
Brynhildr watched as Eyvindr Waverunner helped Sigurd with his chain mail brynja and handed him the sheathed úlfblóer sword, which he strapped low upon his hip.
Hródvarr, leader of King álfr’s elite Sjórúlfar, draped the blue-grey wolfskin cloak Blárúlfr over Sigurd’s shoulders, fastening it with the snarling wolf head brooch and securing the massive lupine head firmly in place upon Sigurd’s brow.
Further down the field, Agnar’s royal húskarlar aided him in donning his gleaming brynja and strapping on his magnificent sword, Bjarnrokr. When he draped the glorious brown bearskin cloak over his mail-clad shoulders, the Bear of Bjarkholm stood ready for battle.
The húskarlar had finished outlining the fighting square, the smooth stones marking the bounds of combat. From her seat on the royal dais, Brynhildr’s pulse pounded as the two warriors warily approached the arena.
Long red hair and russet beard streaked with silver and braided with beads as blue as the fjord, Ulric strode into the center of the ring and shouted the rules of the final event.
“By oath and honor, this duel shall be fought within the square. Disarm your opponent, or shatter his shield to claim victory. Let none strike beyond this boundary, and let all of Hrafnfjall bear witness to strength, prowess, and valor!”
As the crowd roared and the Sjórúlfar howled, Sigurd paced, the gleaming blue fur of his wolfskin rippling against the sunlit chainmail beneath.
Brynhildr sensed his wolf blood stir—a thrum along the ouroboros, scorching her skin.
His grip tightened on the hilt of his blade, the silver wolves and waves of úlfblóer gleaming like a frosty sea in the summer sun.
Agnar mirrored Sigurd’s movements, waiting for the precise moment to strike. The shaggy brown bear pelt draped across his broad shoulders shifted with muscle and bone, a silent promise of fierce ursine power restrained.
When Brynhildr glimpsed a glint of amber in Agnar’s dark feral eyes—the spark of hidden bear fury—a surge of seier coursed through her veins, singeing the ouroboros which bound her soul to Sigurd.
Agnar controls his berserker rage, tempered by blood oath and honor. But should he lose control…could he defeat Sigurd?
Her throat clenched and her mouth went dry.
Sigurd must win the tournament. O, Freyja… he cannot fail!
The crowd fell into a hushed roar, the salty wind from the sea carrying the shouts and the briny tang of the fjord.
From a stone pillar where they perched overhead, the sharp screech of the two ravens scraped down her spine.
Huginn and Muninn are watching—for Odin.
Atop the balcony of her private chambers, above the stone wall covered in vines and wild roses, a peregrine falcon observed with piercing amber eyes.
My goddess móeir watches as well.
Brynhildr’s heart thudded as the mark of the dragon blazed against her skin, pulsing in rhythm with Sigurd’s breath.
Through the seier which joined her soul to his, she sensed the strength and speed of the wolf, but also the berserker brawn of the bear…
and the blood oath which bound the two brothers.
Her pulse hiked when Sigurd feinted left, a flash of chainmail and wolf fur. Agnar shifted to counter, muscles coiled, fierce eyes glinting with suppressed fury.
When the wind snapped her faeir’s raven banner, steel clashed against steel.
Sparks flew as their swords collided, the deafening clang ringing through the salty air and into Brynhildr’s quavering limbs. Sigurd’s sword, úlfblóer, crashed against Agnar’s blade, the grinding of steel reverberating into the ground.
Sigurd twisted his sinewy body, using the momentum of the clash to spin, driving úlfblóer through Agnar’s defensive guard. But Agnar roared, his Bjarnrokr blade grinding with a high-pitched screech as he blocked and deflected Sigurd’s sword.
Agnar lunged, and Sigurd sidestepped, letting the blade slide past. Amber flashed in Agnar’s feral eyes, like molten coals smoldering beneath the simmering surface.
The shieldmaiden in Brynhildr felt each blow as if she were engaged in the fierce dance of battle.
The ouroboros blazed above her breast as the wolfblood of Odin surged through Sigurd, lending him strength, precision, and cunning.
Seier pulsing into her soul, she was one with the wildness of the Sea Wolf.
He lunged with a sudden flurry of strikes which pushed Agnar back to the boundary of the square.
With a deafening, decisive blow, Sigurd struck úlfblóer against Agnar’s wooden shield.
It shattered like frozen timber, scattering splinters of oak, shards of iron, and sparks of amber across the grassy field.
The crowd erupted in riotous cheers.
The Sjórúlfar roared in raucous howls.
Warriors thumped axes and swords upon shields.
Brynhildr shot to her feet, legs shaking violently under her blue silk gown. When her eyes met Sigurd’s, the thrill of his victory surged through her veins, the ouroboros aflame above her hammering heart.
While Agnar gripped Sigurd’s forearms and butted his wolfskin forehead with bearskin, Ulric Ironshield bellowed above the clamorous din. “Sigurd the Sea Wolf of Sjóborg is the champion of the Sólhjarta Tournament!”
The two ravens shrieked and took to the skies, sending a ripple of seier down Brynhildr’s spine.
And into the mark of the dragon that seared her skin with the flames of Sigurd’s triumph.