Chapter 26 #2
“I have come to speak to King Budli,” Sigurd replied, unwilling to reveal more before conferring privately with Bynhildr’s royal faeir.
Ulric nodded respectfully to Kveld Nightwolf, whom he had met at the Sólhjarta Tournament. The esteemed leader of Budli’s prestigious royal guards, Ironshield watched with a blend of wariness and welcome as Gunnar and Hogni disembarked from their snekkja and strode down the dock to join Sigurd.
“Meet Gunnar and Hogni, the two eldest sons of the Burgundian River King Gjúki,” Sigurd said as he presented them to Ulric. “My bloodsworn brothers and staunch allies. Indeed, they aided me in reclaiming my faeir’s crown.”
Ulric’s discerning gaze darted to the silver circlet with snarling wolf and amber-eyed ravens atop Sigurd’s blond head. His eyes widened as realization dawned. “You’re a king?”
Sigurd flashed a wolfish grin. “The Volsung King of Lindesnes.” Pride resonated in his deep voice.
Ulric removed his noseguard helm, tucked it under his mail-clad arm, and inclined his russet head. “Welcome to Hrafnfjall, King Sigurd. My húskarlar and I shall escort you and your men to King Budli. Follow me.”
Securing his helmet back atop his thick red hair, Ulric Ironshield led them up the steep stone stairs.
* * * *
Four armored warriors in chainmail brynja and conical helmets with nose guards flanked the double oaken entrance doors intricately carved with ravens and runes.
Bearded axes and belted swords strapped at their waists, their painted shields bore Budli’s sigil—a black raven in flight upon a field of deep blue.
As Ulric approached with Sigurd, Kveld, Gunnar, and Hogni, followed by Tryggvi, Hálfdan, and the Burgundian royal húskarlar, the armored guards stepped aside to allow them through the wide open doors which led into the Great Hall of Hrafnfjall.
Flames roared in the central hearth. Swirls of smoke curled upward toward the vaulted timber beams of the peaked roof.
Bright blue shields with soaring ravens lined the wooden walls, and banners with the black birds flapped like wings from the carved pillars and posts.
At the far end of the vast hall, King Budli sat in his ondvegi, the bronze inlays and carved ravens along the arms of his throne glinting in the morning sun that sliced through the narrow cliffside windows.
Clad in a fine cloak of deep blue trimmed with fox fur, a raven brooch clasped at his broad shoulder, deep blue beads braided into his forked red beard and silver-streaked russet hair, Budli grinned at the sight of Sigurd and rose from his oaken throne.
At his stout hip, the raven head hilt of his majestic sword Hrafntonn glinted in its embellished leather sheath.
“Sigurd Sea Wolf!” he boomed, his thunderous bellow rising to the rafters.
“You are ever welcome in the Raven King’s royal hall. ”
Sigurd inclined his head and gestured to the men at his side. “King Budli, you remember the vitki, Kveld Nightwolf, one of the Sjórúlfar of the Wolf King álfr, my foster faeir in Sjóborg.”
Budli roared in recognition. “The Sea Wolf with scarred, inked skin…whose black hair and amber eyes mirror the huge wolf atop his vitki head.” A fierce grin split the Raven King’s forked red beard.
Pleased at Budli’s affable response to the Nightwolf, Sigurd continued the formal introductions.
“I have also brought with me two blood brothers and sworn allies. May I present Gunnar and Hogni, eldest sons of the Burgundian River King Gjúki, who aided me in avenging my slain faeir and reclaiming his Volsung crown.”
The Raven King subtly inclined his crowned head to Gunnar and Hogni, but wariness glinted in his astute royal gaze.
He directed his attention back to Sigurd.
“You left Hrafnfjall as Champion of the Sólhjarta Tournament, and return as King of Lindesnes. And if epic tales sung by skálds are true, you are the Dragonslayer of Sjóborg who slew the beast Fáfnir.” Budli eyed the armored men who followed Sigurd.
Curiosity, caution, and cunning warred in his wary gaze. “Why have you come?”
Sigurd’s pulse pounded furiously in his chest, the ouroboros blazing beneath his golden brynja.
He inhaled deeply, summoning his courage, and swallowing to quench his parched throat.
“I seek a private audience, King Budli.” His thick tongue impeded his ability to speak.
“An urgent matter…for your ears alone.” At his nod, Tryggvi and Hálfdan set the wooden chest, its hidden contents sealed and locked, on the floor at Sigurd’s feet.
Budli raised a curious eyebrow at the sight of the oaken trunk.
His scrutinizing gaze raked over Sigurd, taking in the silver crown with snarling wolf and perched ravens, the golden brynja, gleaming like the sun, the sheathed sword Gramr, with úlfblóer’s snarling wolf head hilt.
With a firm nod indicating acceptance, the Raven King gestured to Ulric Ironshield and his awaiting húskarlar.
“My men will show you to private quarters,” he said to Kveld, Gunnar, Hogni, Tryggvi, and Hálfdan.
“The crews of your three ships may lodge in the longhouses for warriors. All are welcome for tonight’s feast.”
As he prepared to leave, Kveld spoke quietly into Sigurd’s ear. “Phrase your request through flattery. Budli thrives on glory.” Ducking his black-bearded chin, the Nightwolf retreated, following the húskarlar through the enormous double exit doors to guest quarters down the hall.
Budli gestured for Sigurd to join him at the high table.
The Raven King motioned for royal servants to bring horns of mead, then waited until they withdrew before turning toward Sigurd.
Apprehension and vigilance glinted in his regal gaze, and his thick brow furrowed in concern.
“You have your private audience. Now speak.”
Sigurd took a long pull of mead to slake his sudden thirst. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and gestured to the locked wooden chest on the floor below the dais. “I have come to offer a bride price for Brynhildr and formally request her hand.”
Budli bellowed with guttural laughter. When his mirth subsided, he sat back in his raven-carved ondvegi and shook his head in disbelief.
“You had the chance to win her hand at the Sólhjarta Tournament,” he smirked, downing a hearty gulp of mead.
“But you chose to kneel at her feet rather than strike her down. It is too late to ask for her hand now, Sigurd Sea Wolf. My Brynhildr rides with the Valkyries. Her hand is no longer mine to bestow.”
Sigurd weighed his words carefully, remembering Kveld’s warning. “At the tournament, I could not strike the woman I loved. I knelt before Brynhildr and sacrificed my own glory for hers, so that she would rise as a Valkyrie. In return, Brynhildr has done the same for me.”
The Raven King’s eyes narrowed with suspicion and incomprehension. “I do not understand. Explain.”
“As a Valkyrie, she spared a king in a decisive battle. Agnar, the Bear of Bjarkholm that I defeated in the championship of the Sólhjarta Tournament. The one whom you gifted the Sólvorn armor and sunburst shield.”
Budli nodded, his brow still crumpled with concern. “I remember. Continue.”
“As Freyja’s dóttir, Brynhildr’s powers of seier far surpassed the other Valkyries.
She foresaw that I would reforge my faeir’s sword and slay the dragon Fáfnir.
And that Agnar would aid me in my quest to reclaim the Volsung lands of my birthright and the crown of Lindesnes.
” Sigurd held Budli’s bewildered, belligerent gaze.
“Brynhildr sacrificed her own glory for mine. She saved Agnar instead of Hjálmgunnar in the Battle of Bjarkholm. As punishment for her defiance, Odin stripped her Valkyrie wings and shieldmaiden skills, cursing her with frozen sleep within a Ring of Fire. I saved her, delivered her to Heimir of Hlymdalir, and promised that I would return to bring her home to Norway as my queen.” Sigurd rose from his seat at the high table, leapt from the dais onto the pinewood floor, and unlocked the heavy trunk with a key at his waist.
When he opened the curved lid to reveal the golden coins and glittering gems, Sigurd held Budli’s astounded gaze. “This is the mundr bride price I offer you for Brynhildr. It came from Fáfnir’s hoard. I love your dóttir, King Budli. And formally request her royal hand.”