Chapter 25
Volsung King of Lindesnes
Sigurd strode into Bránnstaersholl, the royal fortress which had once belonged to his faeir Sigmund and before him, his afi Volsung.
He pushed back his Blárúlfr cloak, removed the winged dragon helm from his blond head, and tucked it under his mail-clad arm.
Laying Lyngvi’s eagle crown atop a nearby table, he stopped before the massive oak pillar in the center of the hall.
Legend held that Odin himself had driven the sword Gramr deep into the heartwood, proclaiming that only a hero worthy of wielding it would be able to withdraw the god-forged blade.
His móóir Hjordis had told Sigurd that though many had tried—jarls, warriors, and kings alike—only his faeir Sigmund had succeeded.
And now Gramr, reforged with the wolf blood of úlfblóer and Sigurd’s own Volsung blood, lay sheathed at his hip.
Sigurd bowed his head and gently placed his hand over the deep, blackened wound in the heartwood. As if recognizing his ancestral blood, a tremor pulsed beneath his reverent touch.
An older warrior with silver-streaked hair and beard appeared at Sigurd’s side.
“I am Skárvier,” he murmured, his deep voice quavering with pride.
“I swore my sword to your faeir, King Sigmund. And now, I am honored to serve his son.” In his strong, scarred hands, Skárvier clutched a silver crown with the head of a snarling wolf at the center, baring teeth of molten gold.
Its eyes were brilliant blue sapphires, sparkling like the gilded fjord and the sunlit sea.
On either side of the wolf perched two sleek ravens with amber eyes, wings partially unfurled as if poised for flight.
A crowd of warriors gathered around as the Sea Wolves, Bears, and Burgundian crews filed into the crowded hall.
At Sigurd’s left stood Kveld Nightwolf, Hródvar Ironfang,, Eyvindr Waverunner, and Strykar the Beast, their wolfskins shimmering in the firelight from the hearth and the golden rays of the dying sun.
On his right loomed Agnar, thick bearskin cloak draped over his broad shoulders, heavy bronze crown atop his dark head.
Nearby, Gunnar and Hogni grinned, silver serpent beads glinting in their braided brown beards.
All eyes fixed upon Skárvier as the seasoned swordsman placed the Volsung crown upon Sigurd’s head.
“All hail Sigurd Sea Wolf, son of King Sigmund!” he proclaimed, unsheathing his sword, placing the pointed blade upright against his armored chest, and lowering himself to one knee.
“By this sword, I swear my blood and my life to Sigurd Sigmundsson, the Volsung King of Lindesnes.”
Amidst whispers of “Dragonslayer…”, “rightful heir to the crown…”, “Volsung blood of Odin…”, the remaining warriors of Lindesnes unsheathed their swords. One by one, they bent the knee, blades upright against their hearts, swearing loyalty to King Sigurd.
At the back of the vast Great Hall, upon an elevated wooden dais, stood an elaborate ondvegi, its high oaken back intricately carved with the same snarling wolf with sapphire eyes and pair of ravens with amber orbs as the crown which now sat upon Sigurd’s blond head.
He strode across the rush-strewn wooden floor, climbed the steps of the dais, and settled onto the wolf and raven throne which had belonged to both his faeir, King Sigmund, and his afi, King Volsung, who had first built Bránnstaersholl as the royal fortress of Lindesnes.
And now, at long last, it was his.
As Sigurd sat in the ondvegi of his ancestors’ royal hall, the Volsung crown upon his head, the reforged sword Gramr at his hip, pride surged through his Sea Wolf veins.
He had avenged his faeir’s death by slaying King Lyngvi of Gotaland.
He had aided his broeir Agnar in defending Bjarkholm against Lyngvi’s vassal king Hjálmgunnar.
He had reclaimed his ancestral lands of Lindesnes and the Volsung crown.
The ouroboros blazed with dragonfire above his triumphant lupine heart.
A white-haired steward approached the royal dais and bowed before Sigurd.
“My king, I am Bávorr, bryti of Bránnstaersholl. I shall organize a coronation feast for this evening.” He clapped his hands, and servants appeared.
“Roast six boars,” he barked at several young men, obviously cooks from the kitchens.
He turned toward a pair of old women, white wimples on their grey heads, aprons draped around plump bodies.
“Grill fish, steam seafood…prepare venison stew… oat cakes with honey, bilberry tartes, platters of fresh fruit. Make haste!”
“The bathhouses are behind the hall,” Bávorr hollered to the gathered crowd.
“Longhouses to lodge the warriors…my men will escort you there.” He gestured to four húskarlar waiting along the wall, who led a stream of armored men out the enormous double doors.
The bryti bowed before Agnar, Kveld, Gunnar, and Hogni, then to the Sjórúlfar captains.
“Please follow my men to your private quarters.” He gestured for other attendants to approach, who humbly led the honored guests to chambers beyond the dais.
As harried servants hastened to prepare for an unexpected feast, Bávorr bowed again before Sigurd. “My king, please follow me to the royal chambers.”
Heart hammering like Mjollnir, Sigurd followed his steward down the dim hall.
* * * *
That evening, as notes from lyres and lutes floated in the salt-laced air, Sigurd feasted with Agnar, Gunnar, Hogni, Hródvarr, Kveld Nightwolf, and the Sjórúlfar captains at the high table.
The newly trained Sea Wolves who would remain at Lindesnes and defend it for Sigurd sat at trestle tables below the dais, alongside Tryggvi, Hálfdan, and the warriors from Bjarkholm, Burgundy, and Sjóborg.
As he savored the roast boar, grilled haddock, and venison stew, Sigurd made plans to remain at Bránnstaersholl for half a moon before returning to Sjoborg.
He wanted to meet his people, visit villages in Lindesnes, offer parcels of land for his Sea Wolves to build longhouses for warriors, huts for men seeking wives, farms to produce crops, and merchant shops for blacksmiths, armorers, tanners, bakers, and shipwrights.
From his ornate elkhorn—embossed with the same wolf and ravens as the silver crown atop his head and the ondvegi throne where he now proudly sat— Sigurd downed a hearty gulp of Bilbermjod Royal Mead, uniquely flavored with birch bark, bilberries, and juniper.
A young warrior skáld appeared, clutching a wooden harp, intricately carved with wolves, ravens, and runes.
Tall and broad, clad in a grey wolf pelt over a deep blue tunic, his long blond hair was braided with blue beads on top, the sides of his head cleanly shaven and intricately inked in blue.
Woven into his golden beard, lapis beads glinted in the incandescent light.
“King Sigurd Sea Wolf,” the bard intoned, his melodic voice mellow as the rich notes he strummed from his engraved harp, “I have composed a saga of your epic deeds—the slaying of the emerald dragon Fáfnir, the defeat of the Eagle King Lyngvi, and the reclaiming of the Volsung crown. May I sing for you, that all men may remember the courage of our Dragonslayer King?”
Sigurd leaned back in his ondvegi, Blárúlfr glimmering upon his shoulders, the silver circlet upon his brow displaying the glory of his ancestral Volsung line.
As pride surged through his lupine veins, he flashed a wolfish grin at the warrior skáld.
“By the gods, a song would indeed please your new king,” he bellowed, raising his elkhorn high.
“Sing for us, skáld! And if your saga moves my royal blood brothers and my Sjórúlfar, then I shall name you Skáld of Sigurd Sea Wolf, Volsung King of Lindesnes!”
Amidst raucous cheers, howls from Sea Wolves, and roars from Agnar’s bear warriors, the tattooed harpist began to play.
“Listen now, o sons of sea and fjord,
To the Saga of Sigurd Sea Wolf,
Son of Sigmund, heir of Volsung blood,
Dragonslayer of Sjóborg.
Beneath Gramr’s wolf-blooded steel
Did the emerald dragon fall,
And from Fáfnir’s lair in Gnitaheier,
Winged helm, treasure trove, and golden brynja claimed.
Now the bronze eagle of Lyngvi lies broken,
And the wolf crown of Lindesnes
Shines upon the rightful brow.
Raise your horns, o sons of cliff and fjord,
For the Sea Wolf Volsung King!”
As thunderous applause and roaring howls mingled with the clang of swords on shields, Sigurd rose from his wolf and raven throne and raised his horn in tribute. “What is your name, skáld?”
“Hrólfr, my king.” The blond poet inclined his braided, inked head.
Sigurd glanced at Agnar, who grinned from ear to bearded ear.
Gunnar and Hogni raised their horns in praise.
And from the riotous howls and roars from the cheering throng, the warriors in Bránnstaersholl heartily approved.
“A fine song, Hrólfr. My Sjórúlfar howl your triumph.” He rumbled with laughter and reached into a velvet pouch at his belt, withdrawing a heavy, glittering arm ring.
The thick silver was etched with blackened runes and adorned with lapis lazuli gems threaded with gold that shimmered in the firelight.
Sigurd descended the steps of the dais and approached the standing skáld, who humbly bowed his blond head.
“This came from Fáfnir’s hoard,” Sigurd proclaimed, fitting the silver torc on Hrólfr’s brawny arm.
“Accept it as a token of my gratitude—and acknowledgement of you as my royal skáld.” He faced the jubilant crowd, raised his elkhorn high, and roared, “All hail Hrólfr, Skáld of Sigurd Sea Wolf!”
Once again, the Great Hall of Bránnstaersholl erupted in thunderous applause.
Clutching his harp over his broad chest, Hrólfr bowed at the waist. When he spoke, his deep voice was thick with emotion. “By Odin, the Sjórúlfar, and the Volsung blood of my king, I am honored beyond words.”
Sigurd gestured to an empty chair at the high table. “This seat is now yours. As my royal skáld, you shall henceforth dine beside your king.”