“Axes!” he boomed, sending a ripple up Brynhildr’s stiffened spine. “One hurl each. Agnar throws first!”
Agnar stepped up to the line of pale stones. He gauged the distance to the target, wiping his hand on his linen breeches. Reaching for the leather loop on the belt at his hip, he drew his axe free. He firmly set his feet sideways to the target, weighing the distance and testing the heft of his blade.
The entire crowd held its collective breath as the salty wind whispered across the field.
He drew the axe back to his shoulder, breathed once, and let it fly.
The axe thudded as it hit the target, sinking into the middle yellow line.
“Yellow for the Bear of Bjarkhölm!” Ulric’s shout thundered through the cheering throng.
Sigurd strode up to the starting line, Agnar’s axe still firmly lodged in the target.
Brynhildr’s heart hammered beneath the burn of theouroboros.Her vision narrowed along with Sigurd’s, sensing his focus on the heart of the target. Sheknewbefore the axe even left his hand that it would strike true.
The haft sang as the blade spun with lethal grace, sinking into the inner red circle.
Her breath caught. The crowd erupted with roars. Sigurd’s triumph sang in her soul.
Ulric’s bellow echoed across the field. “Red for the Sea Wolf. Win for Sigurd of Sjóborg!”
Budli’shúskarlarmoved swiftly, lifting the pale stones from the two prior trials and laying them out in a rough square before the royal dais and the standing crowd. The stones marked the boundaries of the final event of the Sólhjarta Tournament—the championship battle by swords.
Agnar grasped Sigurd’s shoulders in a brief, solid hold of brotherhood and respect. From the subtle nod of his head, and the broad grin which split his thick brown beard, the Bear of Bjarkhölm acknowledged the Sea Wolf’s triumph in the axe-throwing trial. Both men retrieved their blades from the target and returned to their attendants to quench their thirst, wipe the sweat, and don their armor for the final event.
Brynhildr watched as Eyvindr Waverunner helped Sigurd with his chain mailbrynjaand handed him the sheathedÚlfblóðrsword, which he strapped low upon his hip. Hródvarr, leader of King Álfr’s eliteSjórúlfar, draped the blue-grey wolfskin cloakBlárúlfrover Sigurd’s shoulders, fastening it with the snarling wolf head brooch and securing the massive lupine head firmly in place upon Sigurd’s brow.
Further down the field, Agnar’s royalhúskarlaraided him in donning his gleamingbrynjaand strapping on his magnificent sword,Bjarnrökr.When he draped the glorious brown bearskin cloak over his mail-clad shoulders, the Bear of Bjarkhölm stood ready for battle.
Thehúskarlarhad finished outlining the fighting square, the smooth stones marking the bounds of combat. From her seaton the royal dais, Brynhildr’s pulse pounded as the two warriors warily approached the arena.
Long red hair and russet beard streaked with silver and braided with beads as blue as the fjord, Ulric strode into the center of the ring and shouted the rules of the final event. “By oath and honor, this duel shall be fought within the square. Disarm your opponent, or shatter his shield to claim victory. Let none strike beyond this boundary, and let all of Hrafnfjall bear witness to strength, prowess, and valor!”
As the crowd roared and theSjórúlfarhowled, Sigurd paced, the gleaming blue fur of his wolfskin rippling against the sunlit chainmail beneath.
Brynhildr sensed his wolf blood stir—a thrum along theouroboros, scorching her skin.
His grip tightened on the hilt of his blade, the silver wolves and waves ofÚlfblóðrgleaming like a frosty sea in the summer sun.
Agnar mirrored Sigurd’s movements, waiting for the precise moment to strike. The shaggy brown bear pelt draped across his broad shoulders shifted with muscle and bone, a silent promise of fierce ursine power restrained.
When Brynhildr glimpsed a glint of amber in Agnar’s dark feral eyes—the spark of hidden bear fury—a surge ofseiðrcoursed through her veins, singeing theouroboroswhich bound her soul to Sigurd.
Agnar controls his berserker rage, tempered by blood oath and honor. But should he lose control…could he defeat Sigurd?
Her throat clenched and her mouth went dry.
Sigurd must win the tournament. O, Freyja… he cannot fail!
The crowd fell into a hushed roar, the salty wind from the sea carrying the shouts and the briny tang of the fjord.
From a stone pillar where they perched overhead, the sharp screech of the two ravens scraped down her spine.
Huginn and Muninn are watching—for Odin.
Atop the balcony of her private chambers, above the stone wall covered in vines and wild roses, a peregrine falcon observed with piercing amber eyes.
My goddess móðir watches as well.
