Chapter 15
Wolf Blood Reborn in Dwarven Fire
Sigurd stood on the deck of úlfalkr, sailing home to Sjóborg with úlfdreki, úlfhrafn, and six new ships that Agnar had gifted him—the enemy vessels seized in the Battle of Bjarkholm which had once belonged to Hjálmgunnar, vassal of King Lyngvi.
He breathed deeply of the salty wind which whipped his beard and ruffled the fur of his Blárúlfar cloak, grinning at the irony of fate.
One day, I shall sail Hjálmgunnar’s own ships when I reclaim my Volsung lands.
Sharp pain hit him like a blow to the gut. As they did each day, memories of Brynhildr flooded his mind and stole his breath.
He gazed down at the triple bindrune that Kveld Nightwolf had carved beneath the mast. It glistened in the golden light like her Sun Falcon corslet and Valkjósleier spear.
He remembered the moonlit night before the final duel of the Sólhjarta Tournament, when he and Brynhildr had sworn the blood oath on this very ship.
They had pierced their thumbs with the Nightwolf’s dagger, each letting a droplet of blood fall into the trinity of runes.
With this bindrune, sealed with our blood, we are bound to each other, úlfalkr,, and the sea.
As if his thoughts had summoned him, Kveld Nightwolf approached Sigurd on the deck. The golden eyes of the fierce black wolf atop his head gleamed with the same otherworldly fire as the vitki’s lupine gaze. “She came to you at Bjarkholm.” His haunting voice wafted on the wind.
“She did.” Sorrow clenched Sigurd’s heart. Though only three days had passed since she had returned to Fólkvangr, his longing for her was a torment that tore at his soul.
“What knowledge did she share? She put herself at great risk to assume human form.”
Sigurd gazed at the sunlit sea, where the towering cliffs of Sjóborg appeared on the horizon.
“She foresaw that úlfblóer would shatter—and that I would reforge my faeir’s sword with the broken shards which my móeir yet holds in his memory.
” He searched the Nightwolf’s scarred, rune-inscribed face.
“She told me to bring the remnants of both broken blades to a Dwarven blacksmith who dwells in a waterfall cave, concealed in mist, just north of Sjóborg.”
“Regin.” Kveld’s rasp sent a ripple of seier up Sigurd’s spine.
When he was a boy, Regin had been the royal blacksmith for King álfr.
His foster faeir had arranged for Sigurd to apprentice with Regin, so he could learn how to repair weapons and armor, essential skills for a warrior, especially the son of the powerful Wolf King.
But though the blacksmith had been short of stature, Sigurd had never realized Regin was a dwarf.
Dwarves were highly valued for their incomparable craftsmanship of otherworldly blades. Even the gods sought Dwarven weapons, such as Mjollnir, Thor’s legendary hammer. Or Gugnir, Odin’s unerring spear.
Sigurd remembered Regin’s black, wiry hair…his murky, wrinkled skin…his powerful, brawny arms. “I know him,” he muttered, stunned by the revelation. “I was his apprentice as a young boy. But I never knew he was a dwarf.”
The Nightwolf’s black bearded lips curled up in a wolfish grin. “Only those with seier vision can perceive his true self. He lived apart…rarely mingled. When he left Sjóborg, he told me that one day, you would find him. Indeed, you are the reason he had come.”
Kveld’s amber eyes burned like molten embers, igniting the ouroboros that blazed above Sigurd’s pounding heart.
“He will reforge your faeir’s Volsung sword, strengthening it with the Sjórúlfar spirit and Sea Wolf blood of úlfblóer.
But beware…Regin shall expect something in return. A price that only you can pay.”
As horns blared from King álfr’s watchtower sentinels, announcing their arrival, Sigurd spotted dozens of the Wolf King’s húskarlar swarming the beach, while crews of the returning drakkar tossed ropes and moored their ships along the pebbled shore.
Atop the cliff, clad in deep blue cloaks trimmed with silver wolf fur, King álfr and Queen Hjordis awaited, welcoming the Sea Wolves home.
While gulls squawked overhead, and crews unloaded the ships, Sigurd and the Sjórúlfar climbed the stone steps of the cliff.
Sigurd bowed his head to King álfr and his móeir, standing at her royal husband’s side.
The Wolf King roared in welcome as he strode forward and gripped Sigurd’s forearms. “You return with six more ships! You now have nine at your command.” álfr grinned at Hródvarr, who had just kissed the queen’s hand.
“Sigurd will need his own pack of Sjórúlfar. Select the finest warriors, train them well…and arrange another Wolf Trial.”
While the king addressed the rest of the Sjórúlfar, Sigurd greeted his smiling móeir.
“Welcome home, my son.” Hjordis kissed his bearded cheek, maternal pride shining in her loving eyes.
“Your faeir Sigmund would be honored to witness your triumph and glory. Champion of the Sólhjarta Tournament…valiant warrior in the Battle of Bjarkholm… ship commander with a fleet of nine drakkar…surely he watches from Valhalla, boasting of your prowess before Odin and the einherjar.”
álfr bellowed over the raucous din as his royal húskarlar and the crews of the beached drakkar clambered up the cliff steps. “The bathhouses are steaming, the longhouses await. Tonight—a feast to celebrate your triumphant return!”
Cheers rolled across the heathered moor and echoed off the cliffs overlooking the fjord. Sigurd followed Hródvarr, Eyvindr Waverunner, and Kveld Nightwolf, alongside the other Sea Wolves of Sjóborg, toward the wooden bathhouses behind King álfr’s royal hall.
Tonight, I shall speak to Móeir about the swords. For now, I yearn to wash the salt and grime from my hair, body, and beard.
A trio of Sigurd’s own húskarlar---three battle-hardened warriors and fiercely loyal personal attendants—unfastened his Blárúlfr cloak and chain mail, which they would clean and store in his private quarters.
They unthreaded the lapis beads from his hair and beard, to be braided anew after the bathhouse steam had cleansed him.
He handed the wolfskin scabbard to Tryggvi, his most trusted húskarl. “Place this on the bedside table in my chambers. It contains the remnants of úlfblóer. Guard it with honor.”
With a deferential bow of their heads, the three guards carried Sigurd’s armor, cloak, and scabbard into the clifftop fortress.
Soothing, purifying steam rose around his naked body.
Sigurd scooped handfuls of pale lye soap from a wooden bowl, working it into his hair and beard.
The crisp, piney scent of juniper set his mind ablaze with memories of Brynhildr. His golden Valkyrie filled his senses, igniting the ouroboros that pulsed with every beat of his hollow heart.
His húskarlar returned to the bathhouse. They combed, trimmed, and braided his blond hair and beard, replacing the lapis lazuli beads. Tryggvi helped him into a deep blue tunic, its hem and sleeves embroidered with silver wolves and runes.
Sigurd donned grey linen trousers, securing his úlfhjarta dagger at his hip. When his men wrapped him in the refreshed Blárúlfr cloak, Tryggvi fastened the snarling wolf brooch upon his shoulder. Its lapis lazuli eyes gleamed like the hilt of úlfblóer.
Watchful, wild, and waiting.
Lapis gems in his braided hair, golden beard, and silver brooch as blue as the sunlit fjord, Sigurd strode toward the royal hall and the clamorous celebration that awaited.
* * * *
Lively music floated on the festive air, the crackling fire in the hearth sending sparks and swirls of smoke to the towering peaked rafters high overhead.
The feast thundered with roaring laughter and raucous howls from the Sjórúlfar as horns clinked, mead flowed, and merriment filled the Great Hall.
Seated in his carved ondvegi at the high table, a resplendent King álfr beckoned Sigurd with a regal hand. “Join us,” the Wolf King said affably, the silver in his dark beard and hair glinting in the firelight like the snarling wolf brooch upon his royal shoulder.
Sigurd bowed to the king and lowered himself onto the carved chair beside his móeir.
Beneath a silver coronet, her pale blonde locks were intricately braided with lapis gems, echoing the beads glistening in his own golden hair and beard.
Curiosity and compassion shone in her concerned gaze as her slender hand slipped into his.
“Tell me what burden you bear,” she whispered. “I see it in your troubled eyes.”
Sigurd inclined his wolfskin-clad head. “Brynhildr came to me at Bjarkholm,” he said quietly. “In human form.”
álfr’s breath hitched. He leaned forward, his grip tightening on the arms of his ondvegi, where snarling wolves raced and curling waves rolled along the polished oak.
Hjordis squeezed Sigurd’s hand, her eyes imploring him to continue.
“In a seier vision, she foresaw that úlfblóer would shatter in battle. And that it must be reforged—with the shards of Gramr that you have kept, Móeir.” He met her pale blue eyes. “I am to take them north—to a dwarf who dwells in a waterfall cave enshrouded in mist. Regin.”
At the name, álfr’s shrewd gaze sharpened.
Hjordis drew a slow breath, as if bracing for an anticipated blow.
“Brynhildr told me I must help Regin reforge the two blades together,” Sigurd continued. “For only the wolf blood of Odin which flows in my veins can awaken the Volsung power of Gramr. And the Sea Wolf spirit of úlfblóer shall be reborn—in Dwarven fire, bound to my faeir’s god-forged blade.”
Hjordis cast an inquisitive glance at álfr, who nodded in solemn silence.
Rising from her own elaborately carved throne, she smoothed her gown of deep blue silk and whispered softly to Sigurd. “Come with me.”
Her regal hand upon his proffered arm, they descended the steps of the elevated dais together.