Chapter 24
Reclaiming the Volsung Crown
Brynhildr longed for Sigurd.
It had been more than a moon since he’d brought her to Hlymdalir. She could no longer watch him through the Mirrored Sea of Fólkvangr, and without that liquid window to peer into his fate, her heart was heavy as lead.
She missed Kára and Skogul, her Valkyrie sisters of the Laguz Triad. Himingdrápa, her majestic winged horse. And Gyllin, her golden falcon, the bloodbound messenger who had found Sigurd in Midgard and told him where Odin had trapped her in the Ring of Fire.
No longer did she dwell in her stone cottage near the Amber Hall of Sessrúmnir.
Now she lived in a limestone castle at the mouth of the Rh?ne River on the Middle Sea.
The sun was warm, the marshlands shimmered beneath wide skies, and the briny breeze carried the song of seabirds—yet without Sigurd, the breathtaking beauty of the Camargue rang hollow.
Each day, she cared for Grani, his majestic silver stallion, brushing his mane until it gleamed like moonlight.
She tended Skug as well, Kveld’s powerful black steed, restless beneath foreign stars, and the two warhorses, Skarnhófr and Skollvindr. When she rode them across the mist-laced marshes, the salty wind whipping her long blonde hair and their silky manes, she imagined soaring through the sky upon Himingdrápa, winging her way toward Sigurd.
And each night, the ouroboros above her empty heart—and the golden wedding band upon her forlorn finger—blazed dragonfire through her lonely Sun Falcon veins.
Brynhildr had just slid from Grani’s saddle when Heimir’s watchtower sentinel blew a horn to announce an arrival.
Dashing up the stairs to her private chamber over the Rh?ne, she opened the doors onto her balcony and watched as Sjáfaxi snaked down the dark river, the white stallion on the deep blue sail billowing in the warm spring breeze.
Heimir’s men threw ropes to Ingólfr’s crew, docking the snekkja alongside the wooden quay. They furled the sail, lowered the mast, and unloaded supplies from the ship.
Blue woolen cloak flapping in the tangy river breeze, silver hair shimmering in the late afternoon sun, Heimir stood upon the dock to greet the captain and returning crew while Brynhildr watched from above.
Let them bathe. Let them drink. Tonight, at náttmál, I shall ask about Sigurd.
Her heart soared like Himingdrápa through the sun-streaked sky.
* * * *
The crew of Sjáfaxi were settled at trestle tables, tearing into the salted boar and roast venison, passing platters of grilled dorade fish and steaming oysters, mussels, and shrimp fresh from the marsh and the sea.
At the high table in the Great Hall of Hlymdalir, Brynhildr sat with King Heimir, her gaze fixed on Ingólfr as he recounted the voyage north along the Rh?ne.
“Sigurd Sea Wolf is more than a dragonslayer,” the captain of Sjáfaxi quipped with a beard-splitting grin.
“He also understands birds.” Ingólfr drained his horn of mead and swiped a sleeve across his bristled lips.
“Ravens over the Rh?ne told him that Gunnar and Hogni—the two eldest sons of the Burgundian River King Gjúki—were being held captive by enemy Franks. Sigurd and the vitki—Kveld Nightwolf—led us north through the woods to their camp. We ambushed them under cover of night and freed the imprisoned princes. In the chaos, we claimed a dozen Ulfberht swords—the most prized blades from the Frankish lands.”
He rose from the table and proudly unsheathed a magnificent sword, its dark steel etched with fine lines that glistened like feathers in the firelight.
“Hrafnkall—Raven’s Call—named for the messengers that spoke to Sigurd.
” Displaying the superb craftsmanship of his Frankish blade for Heimir and Brynhildr to admire, Ingólfr returned the sword to the scabbard at his hip and sat back down in the seat of honor at Heimir’s right side.
“Gunnar and Hogni were so grateful to Sigurd for freeing them that they swore a blood oath of brotherhood right there, upon the shores of the Rh?ne.” Ingólfr drew a long pull of mead before continuing his tale.
“They insisted that we all come with them to Rh?neholl, their faeir’s riverfront fortress, for a victory feast. When King Gjúki learned that Sigurd had rescued Gunnar and Hogni and had sworn the blood oath with them both, he granted two snekkja—one for each of his sons to command—to join in Sigurd’s quest for vengeance against Lyngvi of Gotaland. ”
Ingólfr leaned forward to speak to Brynhildr on Heimir’s other side. “He asked me to tell you that he loves you, and that once he has avenged his faeir and reclaimed the Volsung crown, he’ll return for you here in Hlymdalir. And bring you home to Norway as his queen.”
Brynhildr’s heart fluttered like Gyllin’s golden wings.
“King Gjúki and I have an uneasy truce,” Heimir informed Brynhildr. “Long has he coveted Hlymdalir, with its control of river trade on the Rh?ne and its harbor on the Middle Sea.” A kind smile crinkled the weathered skin around his twinkling eyes as he beheld her.
“You are my only kin,” he murmured, raising her hand to his white-bearded lips.
“One day, Hlymdalir shall be yours.” He grinned from ear to ear.
“Though your husband Sigurd will bring you home to Norway, your heirs will inherit the Camargue.”
A wave of fierce joy flooded her, the new warmth in her womb pulsing in response.
Heimir’s bright smile dimmed. “I do not fear women with the gift of sight,” he said quietly. “The seier of a volva is sacred.” Wariness furrowed his wrinkled brow. “But Gjúki’s queen Grímhildr is a malva — a sorceress who wields power for greed and ambition.”
Torches flickered in the Great Hall.
An icy chill slithered up Brynhildr’s spine.
“I have seen warriors undone by such women,” Heimir cautioned, his deep voice ominous and haunting.
“A malva does not strike with steel. She weakens will… clouds memory… unbinds oath.” He raised his horn to Brynhildr. “When Sigurd returns, Kveld Nightwolf—the vitki in black wolfskin with all-seeing amber eyes—shall bind Hylmdalir with runes and ward stones. No dark spell shall pass our gates unchallenged.”
Brynhildr clinked her horn against Heimir’s.
And swallowed her dread with golden mead.
* * * *
Indigo and mauve streaked the dawn sky. Pale light danced on the white-capped waves of the Skagerrak as Sigurd gazed out the double entrance oaken doors of ?rnfjall.
The Great Hall still reeked of smoke, meat, mead, and iron.
Sprawled across the trestle tables, his Sea Wolves stirred, rising to burn the bodies of the dead in funeral pyres and load the ships for the return voyage to Norway.
As he gazed at the sea which bound him to Brynhildr, Sigurd remembered the words of her seier vision when she visited him in Bjarkholm.
Agnar will stand with you at Lindesnes. Even now, far from Hlymdalir, her seier burned into him through the ouroboros above his heart, wrapping him in a hidden shield.
Soon, my love. I shall come for you. Bring you home to Norway. And make you my queen.
He glanced at the wedding band on his ring finger.
Kveld had meticulously carved the trio of images—wolf, falcon, and dragon—each night around the campfire on their journey from Heieabyr to the alpine monastery, where the Nightwolf had married them in the moonlight ceremony beside the sacred Lindsvier spring.
Sigurd smiled as he recalled rescuing Brynhildr from the Ring of Fire, bringing her to the abbey, and cleansing her of Odin’s curse with the waters of the sacred spring.
His body stirred at the memory of making love to her for three consecutive nights, as Kveld had instructed, so that the ouroboros which bound their souls with seier would burn away all traces of the frozen sleep.
He removed the ring and rubbed his thumb over the trio of runes etched inside the golden band.
The same triple bindrune which Kveld had carved on the deck of úlfalkr.
And on the shore beneath Brynhildr’s private tower at Hrafnfjall.
The triad of runes which bound Sigurd and Brynhildr to each other, the ship, and the sea.
As he slid the ring back on his finger, fond memories flooded him—the moonlight wedding…
the exchange of swords and rings… the blue silk gown Père Clément had given her from the wooden chest…
the wreath of wildflowers she had woven into her long golden hair.
Though they were already married, Sigurd still wanted a magnificent royal wedding.
Not only would it please her faeir, King Budli, but with Sigurd as the Volsung King of Lindesnes, his royal marriage to Brynhildr would unite a trinity of kingdoms and was indeed worthy of a sumptuous formal wedding.
“I’ll order the men to start the funeral pyres.” Hródvarr’s voice interrupted Sigurd’s thoughts.
Sigurd nodded and turned to the crew. “Stack the wood high for Lyngvi’s fire. He was a king—he shall burn with a king’s tribute.”
He waved toward the servants. “Prepare dagmál for the men, and gather supplies for the ships. The tide will not wait.” Glancing at Lyngvi’s bound warriors lining the walls of the Great Hall, Sigurd said quietly to Hálfdan, “Release them once the funeral flames have honored our fallen.”
Sigurd strode to the edge of the cliff outside ?rnfjall. At his nod, Tryggvi lit the kindling beneath Lyngvi’s body. As the flames caught and engulfed the Eagle King, Sigurd observed in solemn silence.
On the beach below, where the tide lapped against rocky sand and the longships were being loaded with supplies, spirals of smoke swirled toward the mauve-streaked sky. Behind him, the funeral pyres for their fallen burned in glorious tribute.
From the clifftop, Sigurd’s deep voice bellowed across the heathered moor and down to the pebbled shore. “May the fires consume their bodies, and may they feast in Valhalla with the einherjar.”
Cheers of tribute rippled over the Skagerrak under the rising sun.