Chapter 26
Bride Price for Brynhildr
Moonlight glimmered on the dark waters of the calm fjord as Sigurd and Kveld rowed a small faeringr north along the sinuous shoreline.
Waves lapped gently against the wooden hull, mingling with the rhythmic creaking of their oars, the whistle of wind through trees, and the whoosh of wings from startled birds.
Sigurd pointed out landmarks for Kveld to note along the way—a cliff curved like a wolf’s claw, a lone pine atop a rocky bluff, a recessed inlet with a white stretch of sandy beach.
As they finally neared the dwarf’s hidden cave, droplets of mist dampened Sigurd’s thick beard, and the waterfall hummed in his keen lupine ears.
They tied the small boat to a low-lying tree in the same copse of willows where the faeringr he’d used to fetch Fáfnir’s gold was still moored along the shore. “I hid that vessel the last time I came to this cave. It remains here, should we ever need it.”
Fetching the key from the pouch at his waist, Sigurd led the Nightwolf up the slick stone steps and opened the curved wooden door which led into Regin’s enshrouded abode.
Sigurd motioned for Kveld to follow him down the dark hall, dimly lit by moonglow through narrow windows in the cave’s stone walls.
At end of the corridor lay the dwarf’s dormant forge.
“This is where Regin and I reforged Gramr with úlfblóer—and my Volsung wolf blood.” His hand proudly fell to the sword sheathed at his hip.
“Those trunks are filled with Fáfnir’s treasure,” Sigurd said, indicating the wooden chests lined along the stone floor. He held the Nightwolf’s shrewd, steadfast gaze. “If I should fall, bring Brynhildr here. As my wife, this gold is hers.”
Kveld’s deep voice reverberated into Sigurd’s bones. “You have my word.” He solemnly lowered his wolfskin-clad head.
They lugged a chest out of the cave, Sigurd locking the curved oaken door behind him. Beneath the moonlight glimmering on the dark fjord, they rowed back to the fortress of Sjóborg.
In the morning, after dagmál in the Great Hall, Sigurd bid his móeir, King álfr, and the Sjórúlfar farewell. Hródvarr Ironfang and Eyvindr Waverunner would remain in Sjóborg. Only Tryggvi, Hálfdan, and Kveld would accompany Sigurd and his crew of úlfalkr to Hrafnfjall.
Gunnar and Hogni would sail alongside Sigurd aboard their two snekkja. After Sigurd offered the bride price for Brynhildr to King Budli, they would return with him to Denmark, the Rhine, and home to Rh?neholl.
And Sigurd would continue south, to reunite with Brynhildr in Hlymdalir, King Heimir’s limestone castle in the Camargue.
As they sailed north along the winding fjord, the snarling wolf on the deep blue sail snapping in the salty breeze, Sigurd stood on the deck of úlfalkr, staring at the bindrune Kveld had carved into the hull beneath the mast.
Memories from the night he and Brynhildr had sworn their blood oath beneath her private tower flooded him. The ouroboros above his pounding heart blazed beneath the golden brynja as he gazed at the runes which Kveld had inscribed on the deck and the shore of Hrafrnfall.
Geibo, for the gift of self they had offered each other.
Raido, for the journey they would soon undertake when he brought her to Norway as his royal bride.
And Kaun, for the dragonfire of the ouroboros which bound their souls through seier.
Kveld approached, handing Sigurd a mug of ale.
He gazed down at the trio of overlapping runes etched with blood.
“The Sea Wolf and the Sun Falcon shall defy all for each other…” he murmured, repeating the prophetic words he’d spoken the night they had sworn the blood oath, sealed in seier and starlight.
“The úlfalkr ship shall bear them to safety across the sea. With bindrune, blood, and breath, their souls are bound beyond the realm of fate… and beyond the reach of the gods.”
The Nightwolf’s amber eyes glowed like molten gold in the morning sun. “When the time comes, I shall aid you and Brynhildr. And bring you to safety on this ship.”
Sigurd’s pulse thundered in his throat. “You always speak in riddles. Explain.”
Kveld firmly held Sigurd’s bewildered gaze. “The Norns do not always reveal the full weave of fate, but I have glimpsed the threads of your path. Though I know not how or when, I have foreseen that I shall intervene on your behalf. And help both you and Brynhildr escape.”
An icy chill crept down Sigurd’s spine. He shuddered and downed his bitter ale.
For three days, they sailed north, hugging the sinuous coastline, stopping at night to sleep on bedrolls, grilling fish on skewers over flames in stone-enclosed hearths.
The final night, as they savored the grilled dorade and the hearty mussel stew that Hálfdan—the most talented cook among Sigurd’s crew— had prepared to accompany the fresh fish, Gunnar drained his mug of ale and leaned forward to speak to Kveld.
His dark eyes glinted with curiosity tempered by caution, as if he feared the black wolfskin-clad vitki.
“Tell me, Nightwolf,” he grinned, the silver serpent beads in his dark beard glimmering in the firelight.
“Do you have a woman, or must you, like the Christian priests, abstain from pleasures of the flesh?”
Hogni grunted with laughter and gulped his ale. He swiped the sleeve of his tunic across his bristled lips and belched loudly, prompting more laughter as he waited for Kveld to respond.
The Nightwolf stared at the flames for so long, Sigurd did not expect him to reply.
“I was once married,” he said quietly, his deep voice barely audible above the crackling fire.
“My wife Unna and son Noí died when I was off fighting Franks in Frisia for my king.” He tossed the bones of his fish into the flames and watched them burn.
“I returned to Norway with wealth and glory, but it was worthless without them. I met Hródvarr and became a Sea Wolf, serving King álfr of Sjóborg. I have no desire to remarry, for I shall never love another but her.”
Sigurd knew Kveld had been married, and that his wife and son had died, for Hródvarr had told him. But Sigurd had never heard the Nightwolf speak of Unna and Noí, and his heart clenched with sorrow for the vitki.
Now that Sigurd had Brynhildr, he could fully understand Kveld’s pain.
If he lost her, life would have no meaning. Not only did she hold his heart—she was his very soul.
“And what of you, Gunnar, son of Gjúki? Are you betrothed?” Kveld fixed the Burgundian prince with a piercing lupine stare.
Gunnar rumbled with deep laughter. “Not yet, but my conniving móeir is eager for me to wed. I am certain that when we return to Rh?neholl—and I insist you celebrate your victory with us as my royal guests,” he said to Sigurd, Kveld, Tryggvi, and Hálfdan, “that she will arrange a betrothal right away. As my faeir’s eldest son and heir, she wishes to see me wed without delay. ”
Sigurd nodded in reluctant agreement to Gunnar’s proposal.
It would be rude and downright insulting if he refused to feast with the Burgundian River King who had so graciously granted two snekkja longships and warriors to fight at Sigurd’s side against Lyngvi in Sweden.
He darted a glance at Kveld, whose scarred, inked face was drawn into a solemn scowl.
“Though I am anxious to return to Brynhildr,” Sigurd replied, forcing a smile, “we shall be honored to accept your invitation.”
Gunnar grinned from ear to bearded ear.
* * * *
The towering fortress of Hrafnfjall perched high upon the craggy cliff overlooking the sunlit Sognefjorden.
The curved inlet harbor where the Raven King’s fleet was beached along the shore and moored to wooden docks reminded Sigurd of his arrival the summer past for the Sólhjarta Tournament.
Then, he had arrived alongside countless other warriors, each vying for the right to challenge Brynhildr in the final duel and win her coveted hand.
At that Summer Solstice Tournament, Sigurd had met his bloodsworn broeir Agnar.
Defeated the Bear of Bjarkholm in the championship.
And knelt before his beloved Valkyrie.
As watchtower sentinels blasted their horns to signal his arrival, and úlfalkr’s falcon prow slid up onto the rocky shore, Sigurd reflected how King Budli might not yet have heard that Brynhildr was no longer a Valkyrie.
He would know nothing of Odin’s wrath, cruel punishment, and curse of frozen sleep.
Nor would he have learned that Sigurd had saved her from the Ring of Fire.
Brynhildr’s golden falcon Gyllin had come from Fólkvangr to tell Sigurd where to find her.
And though Brynhildr was now safe in Hlymdalir with Heimir, King Budli would be angered to learn that his dóttir had defied the Allfather and incurred his vengeful wrath.
Indeed, Budli—wreathed in glory when Brynhildr rose to ride as a Valkyrie— would be dishonored and shamed to learn that she had fallen in disgrace. With his fierce temper as fiery as his forked red beard, he might very well refuse Sigurd’s request for her hand and publicly disown her.
Sigurd would need to placate the furious Raven King and persuade him that Brynhildr, like Sigurd himself had done at the Sólhjarta Tournament, had sacrificed her personal glory for his.
And in doing so, had enabled Sigurd to fulfill his fate as the Dragonslayer of Fáfnir and the newly crowned Volsung King of Lindesnes.
As he leapt off the deck of his drakkar onto the wooden dock, Ulric Ironshield—the redbeard warrior who had trained Brynhildr to become the Sun Falcon Shieldmaiden of Hrafnfjall—bellowed in greeting from above. He and Budli’s húskarlar hastened down the steep stone steps to the pebbled shore.
“Sigurd Sea Wolf,” he boomed, grasping Sigurd’s forearms in fierce welcome. “What brings you to Hrafnfjall with a trio of ships?” His shrewd gaze scrutinized the two unfamiliar snekkja with the silver serpent sails snapping in the briny wind.