Chapter 11 #2
This is our last night together. I shall worship my golden goddess with every beat of my fierce lupine heart.
“Now that you have another ship, dozens of skilled swords sworn to follow you, a blood alliance with the Bear of Bjarkholm…and all the gold and glory as Champion of the Sólhjarta Tournament… you’re finally ready to sail to Sweden and avenge your faeir’s death.
” Grinning from ear to bearded ear, Eyvindr Waverunner wrapped a wolfskin-clad arm around Sigurd’s shoulder in rough affection.
“Come…” he shouted into Sigurd’s ear, tugging him toward the tournament field where warriors hurled spears, threw axes at the target on the tree stump, and battled with swords before swooning maidens, watchful jarls, and cheering villagers.
“There are many more skilled warriors, eager to pledge their swords to Sigurd the Sea Wolf of Sjóborg!”
Though he followed Eyvindr and joined the Sjórúlfar, laughing with his wolf brothers and half-heartedly engaging in mock battles, Sigurd’s eyes never left Brynhildr. With her golden corslet, shimmering swan cloak, and glowing Valkjósleier spear, she glinted like a goddess in the summer solstice sun.
His beloved Valkyrie was surrounded by glittering royalty.
Her beaming faeir, King Budli, chattered proudly with King álfr and Sigurd’s móeir, Queen Hjordis, alongside the resplendent King Eirikr and the radiant Princess Dagny. Shimmering silks, silver brooches, and studded crowns combined in a spectacle of royal pageantry.
When her gaze found his, the ouroboros blazed with such painful, searing intensity, it stole his breath and buckled his knees.
Amber eyes of the fierce black wolfskin atop his dark head aglow like molten fire, Kveld Nightwolf slunk through the clamorous crowd and stopped beside Sigurd.
“You and she are soulbound,” he whispered, his otherworldly voice haunting yet comforting.
“The blood you spilled into the shared mead… the bindrune carved onto your ship… the sacred oath sworn in seier and starlight… That cannot be unmade. You and Brynhildr are eternally bound… beyond fate and the reach of the gods.”
The Nightwolf’s calloused, tattooed hand gripped the blue wolfskin draped over Sigurd’s armored shoulder. “You shall defy all for each other…and be together in this life and the next.” Kveld’s fierce gaze blazed like the lupine eyes of the black beast in his wolfskin cloak.
And the dragonfire which sizzled the skin above Sigurd’s Sea Wolf heart.
Kveld rejoined the Sjórúlfar, disappearing into the jubilant throng.
The salty wind ruffled the blue fur of Sigurd’s Blárúlfr cloak as he watched Brynhildr make her way across the flagstone courtyard, accompanied by the blue-faced volva Yrsa.
As his beloved Valkyrie headed toward her wild rose and vine-covered tower, the pair of ravens perched on the pillar overhead screeched.
Their sharp, eerie cry crawled up Sigurd’s spine.
* * * *
At the high table, Brynhildr sat in the place of honor at the Raven King’s right, her carved chair adorned with shimmering gold silk and glimmering amber gems. For tonight’s feast, she wore a deep garnet gown, her blonde hair gilded by the golden light of the setting sun.
The colors of blood and mead. Like the sacred vow we swore in seier and starlight.
At her side, Sigurd’s reserved seat as the Sólhjarta Champion was draped in blue silk and silver wolf fur.
Amidst murmurs of the throng and melodies of lutes and lyres, Sigurd strode across the polished floor, flanked by four of Budli’s royal húskarlar, bearing all the glory due the hero who fought for the hand of the Sun Falcon, yet knelt before a Valkyrie.
As he passed by the trestle tables, warriors shot to their feet, and shouts of “Hail the Sea Wolf!” mingled with the clash of swords upon shields and the thunderous stomping of boots.
His crimson cloak trimmed with wolf fur in honor of Sigurd as champion—and in tribute to his alliance with álfr, the Wolf King of Sjóborg—Budli rose before his elaborate ondvegi as Sigurd and his escorts entered the Great Hall.
At the elevated royal table, King álfr and Queen Hjordis arose as well, as did King Eirikr and Princess Dagny, elegantly clad in emerald silk. Yrsa, her woad-painted volva face as blue as the Sognefjorden beneath the cliff, stood beside Skallagrímr, the golden Skáld of the Sólhjarta Tournament.
Sigurd barely registered the royal guests who rose in his honor. His eyes were locked on Brynhildr, whose fierce falcon gaze pierced his soul.
And seared his skin with seier through the ouroboros which bound them both.
The Sjórúlfar howled and growled as he strode past their table and climbed the dais.
Sigurd bowed first to Budli, then to his foster faeir, King álfr, and his móeir, Queen Hjordis, whose proud eyes and luminous smile warmed his ravaged heart.
He then inclined his wolfskin-clad head to King Eirikr and his lovely dóttir Dagny.
And finally, before his golden goddess in her garnet gown, Sigurd bent at the waist and kissed Brynhildr’s beloved hand.
After toasts and tributes to triumph over shared horns of mead, Skallagrímr enchanted the royal guests of Hrafnfjall with Song of the Wolf and the Valkyrie, his glorious tribute to the Sea Wolf champion who knelt before the Valkyrie and the Sun Falcon shieldmaiden who claimed her golden wings.
Later, as guests danced around the bonfire beneath the stars and mingled with villagers at the bustling market stalls, Sigurd and Brynhildr slipped into her sheltered courtyard where the soft floral scent of wild roses blended with the briny tang of the fjord.
They no longer had to slink away in secret.