Chapter 17
Thorn of Sleep
The otherworldly spear hurled into the grass before Brynhildr’s feet was still quivering from the jarring impact when an enormous shadow swept across the sunlit meadow of Sessrúmnir.
While she stood with Freyja and the other Valkyries outside the glowing walls of the Amber Hall, a towering figure descended from the swirling clouds.
Odin emerged from the churning sky, his long woolen cloak the color of storm clouds, its pointed hood concealing his shadowed, scowling visage. Runes glimmered along the hem and sleeves, pulsing with visible power.
Wrath radiated from him like heat from a flaming forge.
With a swift, deliberate jerk of his skeletal hand, he drew back his hood and fixed a single piercing eye upon her.
Wrinkles ravaged his livid face, long grey hair hanging over the empty socket, stringy beard falling to the woven cord at his waist.
Brynhildr’s heart leapt to her throat.
“No Valkyrie has ever defied the web of wyrd.” Odin’s rumble rolled like thunder. “Agnar the Bear was fated to fall, a berserker claimed for Valhalla. King Hjálmgunnar was fated to triumph. Yet you broke him upon the field.”
He grasped the quivering spear, pulling Gugnir free from the grass before Brynhildr’s shaking legs. “Of all my Valkyries,” Odin wheezed, rasping like wind though dead leaves, “you alone dared this. And for your defiance, you shall now face judgement.”
An icy wind whipped across the warm meadow of Sessrúmnir, the acrid odor of frosted iron filling the salty air. Tremors rumbled in the earth, shaking the ground beneath her booted feet.
“You are no longer a Valkyrie,” Odin boomed, seizing the Valkjósleier spear from Brynhildr’s trembling grasp.
He slammed it into the meadow, the impact sending shards of frost skittering across the grass.
“Your wings are clipped,” he spat, tearing the white swan cloak from her shoulders.
“I hereby return you to the mortal realm.” He heaved her feathered wings atop her Valkyrie spear.
Glowering with rage, his single eye pierced her like a sharp, pointed blade.
“Once the Sun Falcon Shieldmaiden of Hrafnfjall, you, Brynhildr, shall never win another battle.”
A cruel grin stretched across the Allfather’s wrathful, implacable face. “You swore an oath to your father, King Budli—that you would wed the warrior who defeats you. I hold you to that solemn vow.”
From within the folds of his dark cloak, Odin removed a long, needle-like spike shaped like a crystalline thorn. Translucent as ice, the silvery shaft was etched with pale blue runes that glowed like starlight on a frosted fjord.
“With this Thorn of Sleep, I sentence you to frozen slumber. On the jagged summit of Hinterfjall, in the ice-capped mountains of eastern Francia, you shall lie alone, shivering in cursed sleep, until the fate-wrought warrior passes through the Ring of Fire to awaken you.”
With a swift jab, Odin pricked Brynhildr’s neck with the sharp, frozen point of the Thorn of Sleep.
As her limbs turned to ice and a suffocating sleep overtook her, Brynhildr saw Gyllin’s golden wings unfurl as her falcon took to the skies.
And flew east over the open sea.
* * * *
Sigurd unloaded the last of the treasure from the backs of Grani and the pony, storing it in Regin’s waterfall cave.
It had taken him three trips back to Fáfnir’s lair to transport it all, but he’d finally finished.
He’d decided to secure the treasure here, in the dwarf’s hidden dwelling, for no one except him knew of its location—and Regin had enshrouded the entire mountain with dense mist and defensive wards of Dwarven enchantment.
The blacksmith’s forge now lay cold and dark, its roaring fire long extinguished. Sigurd stored the gold and gems inside wooden chests along the stone walls, locking the massive entrance door to the cave with the key he’d taken from Regin’s belt.
He left the faeringr securely tied to the willow in the sheltered inlet, well hidden among the dense trees.
Riding Grani to a nearby village, he traded the pony for a meal and fresh supplies for his return to Sjóborg.
But as he was securing the sacks to the new saddle on Grani’s back, a golden falcon swooped down from the sunlit sky and landed upon his shoulder.
Brynhildr had told him that falcons were Freyja’s messengers, and that each Valkyrie was bloodbound to her own spirit bird. He remembered the words she’d spoken when she’d come to him in Bjarkholm. “If ever a golden falcon should come to you…you’ll know it’s Gyllin, bearing a message from me.”
By the otherworldly gift of Fáfnir’s blood, Sigurd understood the golden bird.
“Odin has punished Brynhildr,” she told him, fierce eyes filled with fright.
“She is no longer a Valkyrie. He has stripped away her swan wings and cast her down to the mortal realm of Midgard. She is cursed with frozen sleep atop Mount Hinterfjall, an icy peak in eastern Francia. You must awaken her—by riding through the Ring of Fire.”
With a whoosh of golden wings, Gyllin returned to the skies.
Astounded by the shocking revelation of Brynhildr’s cruel punishment, Sigurd staggered at the enormity of its implications.
The Sjórúlfar are preparing to sail with me to Sweden—to slay King Lyngvi and avenge my faeir’s death. Yet I cannot undertake such a voyage while Brynhildr lies imprisoned in a ring of fire.
Sigurd’s heart hammered as realization dawned.
If she is mortal, then I shall make her my wife!
Seier fire seared his dragon-hardened skin as the ouroboros blazed above his thundering heart—and in the emerald-eyed beast coiled around his smallest finger.
Once I free her, I shall bring Brynhildr to Sjóborg as my intended bride.
While Agnar recovers from the Battle of Bjarkholm and restores his strength, I shall sail with the Sjórúlfar to Sweden and slay Lyngvi.
When I return, Agnar will be ready to stand beside me as I reclaim the Volsung lands of my faeir.
Once I am crowned King of Lindesnes, I shall be worthy of Brynhildr’s royal hand.
And with Fáfnir’s gold, I shall offer her faeir King Budli a bride price worthy of my queen.
Sigurd swung into the saddle, securing the fierce head of Blárúlfr over the dragon-shaped winged helm. The blue wolfskin glimmered over the gleaming golden brynja, with Gramr sheathed in the scabbard at his hip.
Conviction and courage steeling his Sea Wolf heart, he urged Grani southward.
From Sjóborg, he and the Sjórúlfar would cross the Skagerrak from Norway to the Danish port of Heieabyr.
While the Sea Wolves obtained supplies, weapons, and warriors in Denmark for the voyage to Sweden, he’d venture inland to the ice-capped peak of Mount Hinterfjall.
And ride his silver stallion through the Ring of Fire to save his soulbound mate.
* * * *
The thick blue fur of Blárúlfr shimmered in the firelight. The winged helm, shaped like the fierce head of Fáfnir himself, glimmered like the golden brynja beneath his wolfskin cloak. At his hip, the snarling wolf head hilt of úlfblóer crowned his faeir’s reforged sword.
As Sigurd sat beside King álfr and Queen Hjordis at the high table in the Great Hall, pride surged in his pounding Sea Wolf heart.
His foster faeir and royal móeir had arranged a magnificent feast to welcome him home.
Tonight, the Wolf King’s hall howled in triumph for Sigurd, the Dragonslayer of Sjóborg.
After the sumptuous seafood feast, Skúli entertained King álfr’s royal guests with Wolfblood of the Dragonslayer, the skáld’s heroic song of tribute. Rowan wreath and wolfskin atop his shining chestnut hair, the gifted skáld strummed his lyre and sang of Sigurd’s triumph.
When King álfr rose from his wolf-carved ondvegi and raised his hand, the raucous revelry quieted as a hush fell over the Great Hall.
His bellow echoed off the wooden walls lined with rows of shields painted with snarling wolves.
“Let the celebration continue,” he proclaimed with a broad, wolfish grin.
“While my queen and I confer with Sigurd the Dragonslayer, Hródvarr Ironfang, and Kveld Nightwolf in private council.” With a nod to the musicians for the lively notes and dancing to resume, álfr gestured for Hjordis and the three Sea Wolves to follow him behind the elevated dais to an inner chamber down the hall.
Attendants seated King álfr and Queen Hjordis upon informal thrones at opposite ends of a trestle table, with Sigurd and his Sjórúlfar wolf brothers settling on benches along either side.
Once the dutiful servants had provided everyone a polished elkhorn of fresh mead, they bowed in reverent silence and discreetly disappeared.
The Wolf King raised his elkhorn to his bearded lips and nodded to Sigurd. “You sought a private audience. Now we are gathered—speak your mind.”
Sigurd quenched his dry mouth with a bracing gulp of mead. “Brynhildr defied Odin and has incurred his wrath.”
His móeir gasped in shock and the Sea Wolves exchanged stunned glances with the king.
“She spared Agnar’s life—for me—and claimed Hjálmgunnar for Valhalla, defying the web of wyrd.
As punishment, Odin cursed her with frozen sleep, trapped within a Ring of Fire.
” Sigurd met King áfr’s shrewd, scrutinizing gaze.
“I request permission to sail with the Sjórúlfar to Denmark, where Hródvarr can gather warriors and weapons while I ride south to the eastern mountains of Francia and free her.”
Sigurd darted an apprehensive glance at the silent Nightwolf, the amber eyes of the fierce black wolf atop his head glowing golden in the torchlight.
“I cannot bring her into battle when we sail to Sweden and challenge Lyngvi. I must take her to King Heimir of Hlymdalir—Brynhildr’s kin—where she will be sheltered until I return to claim her as my bride. ”
“But Brynhildr is a Valkyrie! Surely the Sun Falcon Shieldmaiden of Hrafnfjall will be an asset to you in Sweden.” King álfr regarded Sigurd in stunned disbelief.
Sigurd’s jaw clenched. “Odin stripped her of swan wings and shieldmaiden skills. He cursed her to never win another battle.” Sorrow stole his voice. “I cannot take her to Sweden.”
álfr gripped the carved arms of his wooden throne. “Who is King Heimir? I do not recognize that name.”
Sigurd took a long pull of mead and wiped his blond bearded lips.
“Brynhildr told me that her sister Brekkhildr had wed a King of Provence, a region near southeastern Francia, close to the Middle Sea. Though Brekkhildr and her young son both died of a fever several winters past, Heimir is still Brynhildr’s kin.
He will keep her safe for me until I return from Sweden. ”
Hródvarr leaned forward and spoke to Sigurd across the table. “Where is the Ring of Fire?”
“Atop Mount Hinterfjall, in the eastern Alps of Francia,” Sigurd replied.
“I shall rescue Brynhildr, bring her to Heimir, then meet you and the Sea Wolves in Denmark. You’ll be able to stock supplies, gather warriors, and purchase weapons and armor at the port of Heieabyr.
When I return, we’ll set sail for Sweden. ”
álfr’s eyes narrowed as he considered Sigurd’s request. “I cannot allow you to take all nine of the Sjórúlfar and leave my kingdom unguarded.” Bejeweled fingers tapping the carved arms of his oaken throne, his calculating gaze flicked between the three Sea Wolves.
“Ironfang, Nightwolf, Waverunner, and the Beast may sail with you. The rest will remain to defend Sjóborg.” The Wolf King tugged at his braided beard, the lapis gems in the silver strands glittering like a moonlit fjord.
“With your nine drakkar, Hródvarr’s snekkja, and the five vessels I granted you to aid Agnar, you’ll have a fleet of fifteen ships. Enough to crush Lyngvi of Gotaland.”
álfr grinned at Hjordis, her blue eyes sparkling like the lapis gems in her slender silver crown. “And in the meantime, your lovely móeir and I shall plan an elaborate royal wedding—between the foster son of the Wolf King of Sjóborg and the dóttir of the Raven King of Hrafnfjall.”
Rising from his informal throne, álfr extended his arm to Hjordis.
“You’ll set sail on the morrow,” he announced to Sigurd, as the queen stood and smoothed her blue silk gown.
“But for now,” he quipped with a wolfish grin, “let us return to the feast and celebrate your triumph as Sigurd Sea Wolf, the Dragonslayer of Sjóborg.”