Chapter 24 #2
As the pyres burned down, the men ate a quick dagmál of smoked fish, oat porridge, barley bread, and ale.
While the crews stacked shields along the gunwales and secured the sails, Sigurd nodded to Hálfdan and Tryggvi, who cut the ropes binding Lyngvi’s men.
He addressed the servants, white-haired steward, and newly freed warriors.
“I avenged my faeir, the Volsung King Sigmund of Lindesnes. I seek no further vengeance. Your lives are spared. Go in peace.” With a nod to his húskarlar, Sigurd took one last look at the eagle ondvegi of ?rnfjall, turned on his heels, and strode from the Great Hall.
Lyngvi’s eagle brooch fastened on his Blárúlfr cloak, eagle sword strapped beside Gramr at his hip, and the bronze eagle crown gripped in his Sea Wolf hands, Sigurd clambered down the stone steps carved into the cliff and boarded úlfdreki.
Black wolfskin cloak gleaming in the morning sun, Kveld Nightwolf watched him with all-seeing amber eyes.
Sigurd’s fleet pushed off ?rnfjall’s shore, wolf shields glinting in the rising sun, as drakkar and snekkja bore them across the Skagerrak, smoke and ash rising behind them like a final farewell to the fallen.
* * * *
The fjord glimmered rose and gold as úlfdreki rounded the headland, the sun sinking low behind jagged peaks.
Fifteen drakkar bore Sigurd’s Sea Wolf banners, snapping in the salty breeze, including the six ships gifted by Agnar and the vessels granted by his foster faeir, King álfr.
At the rear, Gunnar’s and Hogni’s two snekkja cut through the calm waters, their silver serpent sails glistening in the setting sun.
From the clifftop fortress of Bjarkholm, the watchtowers sounded the horn, a deep, rolling summons that echoed off the crag and out over the fjord.
Atop the ramparts, Sigurd spotted Agnar, the Bear of Bjarkholm, unmistakable in his brown bearskin cloak, the last rays of the sun gilding the bronze crown atop his dark head and the golden beads woven into his thick beard.
Recognizing the familiar wolf banners, a broad grin split Agnar’s battle-scarred face, and his roar thundered across the sunlit fjord. “Sigurd the Sea Wolf returns!”
Armored men on the battlements cheered, clanging shields in salute, as Sigurd’s fleet of drakkar glided into the fjord, rhythmic oars slicing the water, wolfs sails furling at the masts.
As Sigurd and his men disembarked onto the quay, Agnar bellowed in welcome.
Heavy boots thumping the thick wood, he strode down the dock, wrapped his bearskin-clad berserker arms around Sigurd, and engulfed him in a hug that nearly crushed his ribs.
Dark eyes glinting with admiration and awe, Agnar stepped back to behold the winged dragon helm, the golden brynja, and the reforged sword Gramr at his hip.
“By all the gods, Sigurd, you’ve become a legend — the Dragonslayer of Sjóborg!
Come inside…we’ll feast your return… and you’ll tell us how Fáfnir fell!
” His astute gaze dropped to the bronze crown in Sigurd’s grasp, the eagle brooch pinned to Blárúlfr, the eagle-headed sword at Sigurd’s side.
Agnar’s feral grin became fierce. “You’ve slain Lyngvi,” he growled, grim satisfaction and solemn respect in his appraising eyes. “And avenged your faeir at long last.”
Sigurd held Agnar’s proud gaze, the bronze crown heavy in his tight grip.
“Lyngvi burns,” he said quietly. “My faeir is avenged.” He stepped aside and gestured to the two Burgundian princes behind him.
“These are my blood brothers, Gunnar and Hogni, sons of King Gjúki of Rh?neholl. They have sworn steel and blood… and have come to help me reclaim the Volsung crown of Lindesnes.”
Agnar gripped the forearms of first Gunnar, then Hogni, in a fierce clasp.
“Blood brothers of Sigurd,” he grumbled, dark eyes gleaming, “are blood brothers to me as well. You are welcome in Bjarkholm as my royal guests.” He gestured to his armored húskarlar, awaiting orders from their king.
“Show Sigurd’s men to the bathhouses and lodging. They’ll join us tonight for the feast.”
With reverent bows, Agnar’s men led the crews of Sigurd’s ships up the twin stone stairways leading from the dock to the fortress atop the cliff.
Sigurd gestured to the vitki at his side. “You remember Kveld Nightwolf, who witnessed our blood oath at the Sólhjarta Tournament. And fought at my side to defend Bjarkholm against Hjálmgunnar.”
Agnar grinned, clasping the inked forearms beneath the black wolfskin cloak. “It is good to see you again, Nightwolf. You are ever welcome in Bjarkholm.”
Sigurd reintroduced the trio of Sjórúlfar standing beside him on the dock.
“Hróevarr Ironfang, leader of the Sea Wolves,” he said warmly, as Agnar clasped the captain of Skollreier’s forearms in greeting.
“Eyvindr Waverunner, captain of úlfalkr, and Strykar the Beast, captain of úlfhrafn — commanders of my own drakkar. You know these men, who fought beside us to defend Bjarkholm. They will stand with me when I sail to Lindesnes to reclaim my ancestral lands.”
“It is my honor to welcome you again to Bjarkholm.” Agnar inclined his crowned head in gratitude and respect to the Sjórúlfar commanders.
He turned to Sigurd. “My servants will show you, your blood brothers, the Nightwolf, and your Sea Wolf captains to the bathhouse and private quarters to refresh. When all are ready, they shall escort you to the Great Hall, that Bjarkholm may feast your triumph!”
* * * *
Agnar roared with laughter as Sigurd told the tale of how he’d dug the pit in the mud, driven Gramr into the belly of the massive beast, and emerged thoroughly drenched in green dragon blood.
But his mirth turned to awe when Sigurd described how Fáfnir’s blood had granted him the understanding of birds, who warned him in time to thwart Regin’s treachery.
“The dragon’s lair is where I found this winged helm and golden brynja,” Sigurd explained, gesturing to the armor he wore and the dragon-shaped helmet at his side, its emerald eyes glinting in the firelight of the Great Hall.
He told Agnar how Brynhildr’s golden falcon Gyllin had come to him, revealing that Odin had stripped her Valkyrie wings and imprisoned her within the Ring of Fire atop Mount Hinterfjall in the Alps of eastern Francia.
“When I found her, she was cursed with frozen sleep, but I brought her to an alpine monastery with a sacred healing spring.” Sigurd flashed a wolfish grin at the vitki seated beside him, “The Nightwolf told me how to cure her, and there, beneath the moonlight, we were wed.” He showed Agnar the wedding band on his finger, where the etched images of falcon, wolf, and dragon glimmered in the firelight.
“This is the ring Kveld carved for me. I gave Brynhildr the ouroboros band that I found in Fáfnir’s hoard.
The emerald eyes of the dragon mirror those in my winged helm. ”
Sigurd took a long pull of mead from his ornate elkhorn. “Once I reclaim my Volsung crown, I shall fetch her from Hlymdalir, the limestone fortress of her kin, King Heimir of the Camargue.” He grinned at Agnar. “I plan to bring her home to Norway as my queen.”
Agnar speared a hunk of salmon with the pointed tip of his knife, popping the succulent herbed fish between his bearded lips.
He swallowed, nodding in approval of both the delectable flavor and the merit of Sigurd’s proposed plan.
After washing the mouthful of fish with a hearty gulp of mead, he informed Sigurd, the Burgundian princes, and the Sjórúlfar seated at the high table of the current state of Volsung lands.
“Since the defeat of King Hjálmgunnar here at Bjarkholm, Jarl Vísburr governs the kingdom of Lindesnes in Lyngvi’s name.
” Agnar eyed the eagle brooch pinned to Blárúlfr and the eagle-hilt sword sheathed at Sigurd’s hip.
“But now that you have slain Lyngvi, Vísburr no longer serves the Eagle King.” A feral grin split his thick braided beard.
“With your fleet of drakkar— six of which once belonged to Hjálmgunnar himself—combined with the silver serpents of Burgundy, and several vessels of my own—we shall sail to Lindesnes and meet little if any resistance. Vísburr cannot possibly withstand such a united royal assault.”