Chapter 11
Golden Wings of the Valkyrie
Ravens circled in the clear summer sky, their raucous cries mingling with the thrum of the exuberant throng.
Royals guests in glittering crowns and shimmering cloaks sat upon the elevated dais, the grassy arena where Sigurd had battled Agnar yesterday—and would soon face Brynhildr today—encircled by roaring warriors, howling Sjórúlfar, and cheering villagers, eager for the duel to begin.
Sigurd wiped the sweat from his wolfskin-clad brow as Budli majestically rose from his ondvegi, shouting above the boisterous din.
“Honored guests of the Sólhjarta Tournament!” The Raven King bellowed across the cliff and out over the sunlit fjord. “Today, we witness the Summer Solstice duel for the hand of my dóttir Brynhildr, sworn to wed the champion who can best her in single combat!”
Shouts erupted from the raucous crowd.
Budli raised a royal hand, and hushed anticipation swept over the field. “Yesterday, Sigurd Sea Wolf, Champion of the Sólhjarta Tournament, earned the right to challenge my dóttir. And now—let us see if the Sea Wolf of Sjóborg can claim the Sun Falcon Shieldmaiden of Hrafnfjall!”
While axes thumped shields, swords struck steel, and hands clapped in thunderous applause, Brynhildr emerged from her private tower, radiant as the summer solstice sun cresting the crystal cliff.
Her long blonde hair was braided down her back, woven with amber beads that glowed like molten fire.
A golden corslet was molded to her feminine curves, as if sculpted uniquely for her.
Across the gleaming breastplate, a magnificent falcon with unfurled wings and amber eyes glistened like captured sunlight.
Behind the glorious bird, a radiant sunburst of inscribed runes and inlaid amber gems pulsed with latent power.
Rich bronze leather hugged her lithe legs, and golden vambraces etched with falcon feathers encased her forearms. At her hip, a magnificent golden sword with the head of a fierce falcon observed with piercing amber eyes.
And in her fitted, gloved hand, a golden shield bearing the same falcon in full flight blazed like the summer solstice sun.
She strode across the flagstone courtyard, escorted by four of Budli’s royal guards.
Crossing the grassy meadow strewn with golden gorse, she halted at the edge of the square arena enclosed with stones and faced Sigurd.
Her proud, fierce eyes—blue as the sea, green as the forest—blazed with the same dragonfire that scorched Sigurd’s skin and seared his soul.
Ulric Ironshield bellowed to the enthralled crowd. “Disarm your foe or destroy his shield to claim victory. Let strength and skill decide who shall prevail!”
Brynhildr lunged first, her golden sword arcing like streaks of sunlight.
Sigurd blocked her blow with úlfblóer, sparks flying where steel met steel.
I cannot strike her. Though I want nothing more than to win her hand, I cannot rob her of glory. Yet neither can her triumph appear unearned.
Heart hammering, the trio of tattoos burning his flesh, Sigurd parried her flurry of strikes, impressed by her speed, strength, and skill.
Sleek as a lynx, she spun and lunged, her swift sword clashing against his, ringing like thunder across the cliff.
Her Sun Falcon eyes gleamed like her golden armor, aflame like the ouroboros that branded their skin and bound their souls.
As the summer solstice sun gilded her in glorious light, Sigurd’s heart faltered.
For an enormous pair of golden wings rose from her back in radiant arcs of luminous feathers, blinding with otherworldly brilliance.
She is destined to ride as a Valkyrie. And I cannot strike the woman I love.
In Sigurd’s moment of awestruck hesitation and divine revelation, Brynhildr disarmed him with a fleet, deft strike.
As crowned kings, fur-clad jarls, Agnar the Bear, the Sjórúlfar, and the incredulous crowd watched in stunned disbelief, Sigurd dropped to one knee.
Bowed his humble head.
And kissed his Valkyrie’s beloved hand.
A sudden gust swept across the cliff and swirled in a whirlwind of golden light.
Sigurd leapt to his feet, lunged for his fallen sword, and spun, úlfblóer raised, ready to defend Brynhildr.
From the midst of the brilliant mist, Freyja emerged, the violet-tinged feathers of her falcon cloak shimmering in the sunlight, rippling in the salty wind.
Her long blonde locks glistened like molten gold, the amber teardrops of the Brisingamen necklace glowing at the base of her slender neck.
Embroidered in glittering golden thread, swans and falcons glimmered at the hem and sleeves of her amethyst velvet gown.
Clutched in her radiant hands was an elegant golden spear, carved with falcons in flight, etched with runes, and embedded with a large oval gem of glowing amber beneath the shining blade.
Clear as a limpid stream, Freyja’s crystalline voice floated over the silent throng.
“I have come to claim Brynhildr, the Sun Falcon Shieldmaiden of Hrafnfjall. Chosen by the Allfather to ride as a Valkyrie!”
While a pair of ravens watched from a perch overhead, and the summer solstice sun gleamed on the Sun Falcon’s glorious golden corslet, Freyja strode from the crystal clifftop to the grassy arena where Sigurd stood, transfixed, beside Brynhildr.
“Valkjósleier.” The golden goddess handed Brynhildr the enchanted spear.
In the radiant light, the amber gem beneath the blade glowed like the droplets of Brisingamen which danced above Freyja’s amethyst gown. “With this, you shall choose the slain for Valhalla.”
As Brynhildr accepted the golden spear, her Valkyrie eyes held Sigurd’s. In their glorious depths, he glimpsed triumph, torment, and tragedy.
From the hidden folds of her falcon cloak, Freyja retrieved a magnificent mantle of white swan feathers tipped with gold.
“Your Valkyrie wings,” the goddess crooned, her melodic voice mellow as a harp.
With a majestic swoop of amethyst and amber, she draped the sublime swan cloak over Brynhildr’s golden corslet.
The pearlescent feathers stirred in response, luminous in the summer solstice sun.
Brynhildr removed her amber leather gloves and stroked the soft white plumage, her eyes widened in wonder as they locked upon Sigurd.
Through the ouroboros that bound them with seier, her rapture flowed into his veins.
While murmurs of admiration and awe rippled through the crowd, Freyja lifted a radiant hand toward the sky and fluttered her slender fingers.
From beyond the sunlit clouds came a whoosh of wind and a thunder of hooves as a dazzling white-winged steed alighted on the crystal cliff.
“Himingdrápa—the Song of the Sky.” Freyja flicked her fingers again, and the magnificent horse approached, head bent to nuzzle her outstretched hand.
His sculpted muscles gleamed like carved ivory beneath the sunlight.
The elongated feathers of his graceful wings were tipped with gold, like Brynhildr’s shimmering swan cloak.
Intelligent eyes of ice blue sparkled like a pale, frosted sky.
His long, flowing mane danced like liquid light in the summer solstice breeze.
Even the crystals in the craggy cliff glistened in his divine presence.
While Sigurd—and the rapt crowd of Hrafnfjall— watched in breathless wonder, Himingdrápa lowered his forelegs in a graceful bow, unfurled his enormous white wings, and dipped his head in homage to the Valkyrie who would ride him to Valhalla.
With a soft, melodic hum of seier that rippled through the ouroboros on Sigurd’s pounding chest, Freyja summoned Himingdrápa to her side. As she swept onto his winged back, the goddess called to Brynhildr.
“I shall return at dawn, to take you to Fólkvangr, where you shall train with my Valkyries. Be ready, Sun Falcon. Until then…rejoice in your victory and glory!”
Golden hair gilded by the summer solstice sun, falcon cloak flapping in the salty breeze from the fjord, the goddess flew away on the white-winged Song of the Sky.
Breath heaving, Sigurd sheathed úlfblóer, the steel sliding smoothly into its leather scabbard. Murmurs rippled through the astonished crowd, blending with the sharp cry of ravens circling above.
King Budli rose on the royal dais, lifting a bejeweled hand to command attention. “Tonight, we feast to honor my dóttir Brynhildr, the Sun Falcon Valkyrie!”
At the Raven King’s rally of triumph, the crowd cheered in thunderous applause.
“Skallagrímr, Skáld of the Sólhjarta Tournament, shall compose a song to honor her glory!” As Budli’s bellow rang across the cliff, warriors struck steel against shields.
“And we shall honor Sigurd Sea Wolf, the Champion of the Sólhjarta Tournament, who knelt in valor before a Valkyrie!”
The Sjórúlfar howled in riotous roars of approval.
“And now, let the mock battles begin!” At Budli’s booming command and sweeping gesture, the crowd went wild, warriors racing toward the tournament field, eager to display their fighting skills before the appreciative throng.
Kings, jarls, and royal guests swarmed around Brynhildr like bees in a hive, praising her glory at being chosen as a Valkyrie.
Armored warriors flocked to Sigurd, eager to pledge their swords to the Champion of the Sólhjarta Tournament who had received the prestigious drakkar warship úlfalkr from the generous Raven King.
The triumphant Sea Wolf of Sjóborg whose glory and legend had been forged by a golden Valkyrie.
While rough hands thumped his shoulders and shouts filled his ears, Sigurd’s heart thudded in proud agony as he beheld his radiant Sun Falcon.
Golden sunlight glimmered on her swan feather cloak and Valkjósleier spear, her longing eyes locked on Sigurd across the cheering crowd.
He flashed her a courageous, wolfish grin.
Amid the roar of celebration, his hungry eyes held hers. To all of Hrafnfjall, they were both wreathed in glory. But their soulbound hearts ached with love and loss that no feast, no song, no triumph could soothe.