Chapter 24 #3
Challenge and valor glinted in Agnar’s regal gaze.
“’When the Sea Wolf calls, the Bear of Bjarkholm shall come.
’ That was the blood oath I swore to you beneath Brynhildr’s tower, just before the final championship of the Sólhjarta Tournament.
” Fierce loyalty blazed across his scarred, bearded face.
“I shall sail with you to Lindesnes tomorrow—and aid you in reclaiming your crown, just as you answered my call and defended Bjarkholm against Hjálmgunnar,” He raised his elkhorn high, prompting all at the high table to follow his royal lead.
“To your triumph over Lyngvi in Sweden. And to victory in Lindesnes on the morrow.”
As the Sjórúlfar howled and the Burgundian princes drank to the Bear King’s tribute, adrenaline surged in Sigurd’s Sea Wolf veins.
And the ouroboros blazed with dragonfire above his proud lupine heart.
* * * *
Sigurd’s fleet—including three drakkar bearing Agnar’s ivory sails emblazoned with the massive head of a snarling bear—wound through sinuous fjords and inlets as they headed south from Bjarkholm to Lindesnes.
When the cliffs parted and the sheltered harbor opened before them, six drakkar lay moored below the clifftop fortress of Bránnstaersholl, the royal longhouse of Sigurd’s ancestors, their green sails marked with the black boar of King Hjálmgunnar snapping in the salty wind.
Lyngvi’s loyal vassal still guarded Sigmund’s Volsung hall.
As horns sounded from the watchtowers, snarling wolf shields flashed along the rails of Sigurd’s fleet. Bear banners snapped beside them. The silver serpents of Burgundy glimmered in the golden light.
The harbor was too small for so many kings.
Sigurd stood at the prow of úlfdreki, winged dragon helm gleaming in the dying sun, the wind whipping Blárúlfr’s wolfskin fur. Golden brynja glinting, Lyngvi’s eagle crown clutched firmly in his hand, he leapt from the drakkar onto the wooden dock.
Disembarking from their own ships, Agnar, Gunnar, Hogni, Hródvarr Ironfang, Eyvindr Waverunner, Strykar the Beast, and Kveld Nightwolf followed Sigurd.
Together, the delegation ascended the steep cliffside stairs carved by Volsung hands generations ago.
Far below, the wolf, bear, serpent, and boar sails snapped in the salty breeze.
At the summit, the enormous wooden gates of Bránnstaersholl—the royal Volsung hall in the kingdom of Lindesnes—stood closed, reinforced with heavy bolts of blackened iron.
Upon the ramparts stood Jarl Vísburr, mail glinting, sword drawn. His armored warriors lined the battlements behind him, noseguard helms covering bearded faces, shields locked against the assault.
Sigurd halted in the courtyard beneath Vísburr. Slowly, deliberately, he lifted the bronze eagle crown for all to see. “Lyngvi burns.” His deep bellow echoed off the cliff and up into the stone ramparts.
Murmurs rippled along the defensive wall.
Vísburr’s bearded jaw tightened. “Then my king feasts in Valhalla.”
Sigurd’s stern gaze did not falter. “I have come to claim the crown of Lindesnes. It is my birthright, by Volsung blood.”
Atop the battlements, Vísburr’s stringy gray hair and long beard stirred in the salty wind. “If you are Sigmund’s son,” he shouted, “then prove it. Meet me in holmgang—a single battle for the fate of the Volsung crown. Let steel decide the outcome.”
Brown bearskin cloak ruffling in the brisk wind, Agnar flashed a gruff grin at Sigurd.
Gunnar’s gloved hand rested on the serpent hilt of his sheathed sword.
Sigurd passed the eagle crown to Kveld and nodded in agreement to Visburr.
The enormous gates opened and Visburr emerged with three warriors, each bearing metal rakes.
Helm atop his head, chainmail glinting in the gloaming, sword drawn, the jarl strode confidently toward Sigurd.
Behind him, the gates groaned shut as his men cleared a square in the courtyard for the holmgang.
Sigurd unsheathed Gramr. The lapis eyes of the snarling wolf in úlfblóer’s hilt glistened like the rolling waves, running wolves, and etched runes along the silvered steel.
Each man circled the other, searching for weakness, while all eyes watched from the fortress above and the fjord below.
Vísburr struck first, blade arcing hard and fast.
Sigurd deflected the blow, sparks flashing as steel clashed.
The jarl drove forward with unleashed fury, his strikes heavy and precise from years of disciplined battle.
Sigurd blocked with his wolf shield and god-forged blade.
When Vísburr lunged for the shoulder, Sigurd pivoted inside the strike. He drove Gramr upward, beneath the jarl’s raised arm, where chainmail parted at the seam.
The blade pierced flesh and punctured lung.
Vísburr staggered.
Sigurd withdrew his sword in a smooth, single motion.
The jarl dropped to one knee, ragged breath rasping. Blood poured from his wound and the corner of his grim mouth. “You are indeed Sigmund’s son. The crown of Lindesnes… is yours.”
Sigurd met Vísburr’s proud, anguished gaze. “You kept your oath to your king. May Odin welcome you among the einherjar.”
Vísburr fell face forward onto the flat stone.
Murmurs rippled along the ramparts. Slowly, the gates of Bránnstaersholl creaked open.
Sigurd drew a piece of coarse linen from his belt and wiped Gramr clean.
Amidst howls from the Sjórúlfar, raucous cheers from Agnar’s bear warriors, and the clang of swords against Burgundian shields, he took back the eagle crown from the Nightwolf.
Holding it aloft as a sign that he had defeated Lyngvi and reclaimed his ancestral lands, Sigurd strode into the Great Hall of Bránnstaersholl.
As the rightful Volsung king.