Chapter 12
Svanhild
Elfi appeared at the door with Luna and Sif, as if she had been waiting for úlvhild to open the shuttered windows. Dressed in a deep blue gown which highlighted her sea goddess eyes, Elfi was nearly breathless with excitement.
“The feast is about to begin! Look—Eysteinn arrives with the huskarlar who will escort us to the Great Hall.” She gestured to the elegantly dressed bryti, who was now clad in a deep red tunic, fine woolen breeches, and highly polished brown leather boots.
His charcoal wool cloak was lined with rich brown marten fur, and his gleaming sword and bearded axe were sheathed in fine leather at his waist. Thick silver bands adorned each of his brawny arms, engraved with Sigurd’s raven sigil, like the ornate silver brooch which fastened his heavy cloak.
The six úlfhéenar filed out of their guest house, clad in magnificent wolfskin cloaks over glistening chain mail armor.
Njord came to Elfi’s side, and Njáll offered Luna the crook of his arm.
úlf, the great grey wolf, escorted úlvhild, while Bodo walked with Sif, followed by Flóki and Hrolf Redbeard in the rear.
The Ljósálfar, luminous in shades of silver, green, and grey, joined their group as Eysteinn and the huskarlar led them all to the massive Great Hall.
As they entered the enormous carved oak double entrance doors, Siguresholl stretched long beneath a high, timbered roof.
Massive oak beams, carved with knotwork and raven motifs, arched overhead like the ribs of a great beast. Along the side walls hung two rows of decorative shields, the vivid colors on their battered surfaces painted with wolves, dragons, boars, and bears.
A central hearth with roaring flames ran the length of the vast hall, sparks swirling upward through the smoke hole in the peaked roof.
Along either side of the blazing hearth fire, long trestle tables were crowded with warriors, wives, and jubilant guests eager for the feast to begin.
At the far end of the Great Hall stood the elevated high table where Jarl Sigurd sat in regal splendor, his thick coppery hair and long red beard braided with amber beads which glimmered like droplets of gold.
Wide silver torcs etched with ravens and runes shimmered on each of his brawny arms. Draped in a majestic black bearskin cloak, gleaming sword strapped at his waist, Jarl Sigurd was an impressive sight to behold.
At his side stood a beautiful maiden with loose blonde hair that fell to her waist, her silver kransen glittering with deep red garnets that matched her blood red gown.
Her grey woolen cloak was lined with white fox fur, fastened by a silver brooch embellished with garnets like the narrow circlet upon her head.
Eysteinn led them to the table of honor, seating Njord nearest the jarl, with Elfi on his right and úlvhild at Elfi’s side.
Once all the Ljósálfar and úlfhéenar guests had been seated, Jarl Sigurd nodded his head, and the blonde maiden filled her father’s ornate elkhorn with golden mead from a sumptuous silver pitcher inlaid with glittering garnets and etched with ravens and runes.
A hushed silence swept across the Great Hall.
All eyes watched the jarl’s daughter, having served her father first, glide along the elevated wooden dais and sweep down the stairs, graceful as a swan, to the polished oak planks which lined the prestigious floor.
She poured mead into Njord’s exquisite elkhorn next, honoring him as commander of the three drakkar ships.
Like her father’s luxurious mead vessel, the mouthpiece of Njord’s antler horn was rimmed in rune-inscribed silver and inlaid with the same glittering garnets as Svanhild’s delicate kransen.
She then served Elfi, Njord’s betrothed, bowing her blonde head respectfully as she filled the elkhorn chalice.
When Svanhild stood before úlvhild, a shiver rippled up her volva spine, as if the Norns had tightened the threads of their interlocking fates.
Visibly unnerved by the blue woad painted face, falcon feather cloak, and glowing moonstone staff of a powerful volva, the jarl’s daughter faltered, as if she, too, had felt the Norn’s fateful touch.
Her slender hand shook slightly as she poured mead into úlvhild’s elkhorn goblet before returning to the large wooden tun at the edge of the flaming hearth to refill her silver pitcher.
Dutifully performing the noble task as her father’s mead maiden, Svanhild served the Ljósálfar next, then the úlfhéenar, in deference to their rank as honored guests.
After replenishing her silver pitcher several times at the tun, she poured mead for Eysteinn as the bryti, then her father’s elite huskarlar, returning to the high table to fill her own horn last of all.
Her ceremonial task complete, she took her seat at her father’s side as the majestic jarl rose to his feet, lifting his elaborate elkhorn to welcome his guests with an honorary toast.
“Welcome, one and all, to Siguresholl!” A collective murmur of anticipation rippled through the festive Great Hall.
“Tonight, the fire burns bright, for it is fed not only with pine, but with purpose. We have meat on the table, mead in our horns, and the favor of the gods in our company.” Sigurd bowed his head and lifted his horn to Njord.
“Wolf of the Nordic Seas, commander of the three drakkar ships, your sails were not expected, but your keels do not bear war. Be welcome under my roof, and drink deep.” The jarl of Orkneyjar raised his mug to Elfi.
“And to the lovely Heiress of étretat, who sails with Njord to their upcoming wedding in ísland. May your vows be spoken in starlight, and your eternal bond sealed in the luminous songs of the Ljósálfar.” Elfi beamed at the mention of her imminent wedding, her blue green eyes as radiant as the droplet shaped gemstones which sparkled at her throat.
Sigurd directed his attention and tribute to úvhild and the remainder of guests seated at the table of honor.
“To the volva, whose sight reaches farther than sails; to the Ljósálfar, whose enchanted blades turn the tides of war; and to the úlfhéenar, wild wolves with the blood of Odin, whose fury never falters in battle—may the mead warm you, and the meat hone your brutal strength.” The stalwart jarl turned to the ethereal blonde at his side.
“And to Svanhild, my beautiful daughter, whose fair hands pour with grace and whose future is closely watched by the gods.” Sigurd bellowed across the hushed hall.
“Raise your horns, and drink with me! To the winds that brought the sails of fate, to the threads woven by the Norns, and to all that stirs beneath this roof tonight, where divine and mortal meet! "
As jubilant cheers of “Skál!” echoed through the Great Hall, thralls appeared, bearing huge platters of roast boar, venison, salmon, and cod, artfully arranged with carrots, turnips, garlic, and kale, which they placed upon the trestle tables.
They served Jarl Sigurd and Svanhild first, then the guests at the table of honor, followed by the warriors and wives seated at tables along both walls opposite the central hearth.
Baskets filled with barley bread and wooden bowls of goat cheese sprinkled with herbs completed the hearty first course of the feast.
Musicians began playing lutes, lyres, and flutes, the lively melodies a perfect backdrop for the vibrant revelry.
As she sampled the salmon and sipped her mead, úlvhild’s wandering gaze kept returning to Svanhild.
Sigurd’s daughter was indeed beautiful, her face radiant with a youthful glow, her creamy skin pale as the moonstone at the base of Luna’s throat or the gem which glowed in úlvhild’s staff, leaning against the wall behind her.
She will be the perfect wife for Haldor.
And their marriage will align the Faroe Islands and Orknejar with Denmark and Norway, forming political steppingstones for King Sweyn Forkbeard to reclaim the lost Viking territories in AEnglaland.
Jarl Rikard is also eager to ally the Pays de Caux, establishing a powerful Viking alliance of three vast Norse realms. But to do so, Haldor must wed Svanhild. And I have foreseen my fate.
Although she knew it was for the best, and that her death in the upcoming battle in ísland would free Haldor from the fjorún which bound their souls, the thought of Svanhild in Haldor’s bed constricted úlvhild’s throat so much that she choked on the delicious fish and had to force it down with a bracing gulp of mead.
Njord leaned forward and spoke to úlvhild around Elfi, seated at her side. “The crews have restocked our supplies, so we’ll set sail in the morning on the outgoing tide.” His encouraging smile was an attempt to cheer her up. “We’ll reach Tórshavn in three days.”
The thought of another sea voyage made úlvhild shudder with dread.
But she would soon be reunited with Haldor, and that was worth the inevitable illness which would overtake her.
In three days, I’ll be with my Falcon again.
It’s been eight long winters since we shared love.
An intense wave of desire flooded úlvhild’s entire body at the thought of their passionate reunion, the seierfjaer mark sizzling above her heart.
They would reunite—body, magic, and soul—but she would say nothing to him about the fateful vision.
For if he knew the outcome of her battle with the crimson-eyed witch, he would insist that she remain at Fálkholl, his clifftop fortress in Tórshavn, where he'd established a stronghold in the Faroe Islands.
He would never risk her life.
Yet it was imperative that úlvhild accompany Njord and Elfi to ísland. She would need to wield her new magic of sólrún.
To destroy the shadow cloaks of the Dokkálfar.
To save Ildris, the Ljósálfar Lord of Starlight.
And Haldor.
The man she loved enough to die for.