Ulric lowered his shield, the fierce smile on his scarred, bearded face carrying both pride and respect as he helped her stand. “Few could strike as you do, Brynhildr, with such fire and fury. You grow sharper with every swing, my shieldmaiden. Soon, none will stand against you.”
Brynhildr gazed up into the deep green eyes of her beloved mentor, steadfast as the dense forest surrounding herfaðir’sclifftop fortress. Not only was Ulric her merciless weapons master, he was her devoted personal guard, sworn to protect her since childhood. “You always win, Ulric,” she groaned, adjusting her lamellar leather armor. “But one day, I shall defeat you.”
A hearty grin split the thick red beard on Ulric’s bemused face. “I have no doubt,kæra mín. Indeed, that is my foremost goal.”
Brynhildr’s personal attendant Astrid appeared in the frosty courtyard. The maid bowed low, her reverent voice soft amidst the roar of waves crashing against the cliff and the cawing of ravens in the cloudless sky. “My lady, your bath is ready.”
Ulric placed a firm hand on the leather armor covering Brynhild’s shoulder, a satisfied gleam in his deep green gaze. “Rest well,kæramín. In the morning, we test your defenses anew.”
Brynhildr exhaled loudly and nodded, sheathing her sword with a flick of her wrist. “I will be ready, Ulric. And perhaps tomorrow I will find a weakness that you kept hidden today.”
Ulric’s bellow of deep laughter gusted in the billowing wind.
With Astrid close behind, Brynhildr crossed the courtyard, leather boots crunching on the icy stones. Her long golden hair—braided down her back for weapons training—gleamed in the morning sun. The salty wind stung her cheeks, carrying the brine of the sea, the tang of the fjord, and the raucous cry of distant ravens echoing against the fortress walls. She ascended the narrow stairwell carved into the rocky crag which led to her private quarters in the west-facing tower of Hrafnfjall, perched upon the edge of the cliff.
Jutting out over the churning fjord far below, Brynhildr’s chambers were on the third level of the stone tower, just beneath the private observation deck where she often watched the setting sun. A pair of large wooden doors opened wide onto her clifftop balcony, letting the fresh, salty breeze sweep through the circular, airy room. Brynhildr’s gaze lingered on the swirling waters of the Sognefjorden and the strands of crystal threaded through the jagged cliffs like glimmering gems, gilded in the golden sun.
Astrid helped her remove the lamellar leather armor, which Brynhildr insisted on cleaning and polishing herself as part of her ritual training as a shieldmaiden. While she worked diligently, brushing each plate and rubbing warm beeswax into the dark leather, Astrid supervised two servants tending the bathwater in a large cauldron over the flickering flames of the enclosed stone hearth. The floral fragrance of chamomile and lavender wafted into the fresh spring air.
When Brynhildr finished, she hung her gleaming armor on the wooden pegs near her fur-covered bed as the servants quietly exited the tower and returned through the covered walkway on the ground level to the adjoining castle keep.
Astrid unbraided Brynhildr’s waist-length blonde hair and helped her into the raised tub, where she slipped into the welcoming warmth and the inviting herbal steam.
“You must be thrilled about the upcoming Summer Solstice Tournament.” Excitement laced Astrid’s eager voice as she worked chamomile and yarrow soap into Brynhildr’s thick hair. “There will be so many handsome warriors competing. I love to watch the different events—especially the spear throwing…when the men bare their chests!”
Brynhildr rolled her eyes and scoffed as she smiled wryly at Astrid. Her maid was a farmer’s daughter whose wife Inga had served as royal wetnurse to Brynhildr when her own mother the queen had died in childbirth. Inga had nursed both Astrid and Brynhildr, and as the young girls grew, Astrid had been granted the prestigious position as personal attendant to the king’s only daughter. Now in her eighteenth winter, the same age as Brynhildr, Astrid was more like a sister than servant. With long chestnut hair, expressive brown eyes, and a face and figure that promised to attract attention from many a virile competitor, Astrid was eager to find a potential husband in the tournament.
Unlike Brynhildr herself.
“You may swoon over bare-chested warriors,” she smirked, taking the ceramic pitcher from Astrid’s hands and rinsing the soap from her own hair. “But I have no desire whatsoever to become a bride.” She quickly soaped her body, rinsed off, and stepped out of the wooden tub. Snatching the linen cloth from the nearby table, she dried off, aggravation and irritation in her sharp tone. “I am a shieldmaiden, destined for glory. I have foreseen my fate inseiðrvisions with Yrsa. I shall ride with the Valkyries and serve theAllfatherOdin, not the whims of a human husband.”
Brynhildr donned her linen underdress, anger heating her cheeks. She was exasperated and humiliated at the thought ofherfaðirarranging a Summer Solstice Tournament and offering her as the winning prize… like a sack of silver!
Sensing her foul mood, Astrid wisely changed the subject as she helped Brynhildr into a dark green linen gown, tightening the back lacing of her gathered bodice. “Come, let me braid your hair, It’s time for your lesson with Yrsa.”
I shall speak to Faðir tonight. Perhaps I can convince him to offer a different reward for the tournament champion. I have no intention of marrying the winner, or suffering the humiliation of being handed over as a mere token for a man’s desire. My fate is my own, and it lies on the battlefield, not in a husband’s hall—or bed!
When Yrsa appeared in the doorway, Astrid bowed and spoke softly to Brynhildr. “My lady, I shall join mymóðirin the weaving chamber. She is crafting banners for the tournament, and I am embroidering golden knotwork and sun spirals on your crimson gown.”
“Thank you, Astrid. I’ll meet you after my lesson.” Brynhildr squeezed her maid’s hand and turned to welcome herseiðrteacher.
Long black robes flowing, with trinkets, charms, bones, and pouches of herbs suspended from her rune-inscribed leather belt, Yrsa swept into the room and addressed Astrid. “I shall escort Brynhildr to the weaving chamber when we have finished. You may go now.”
Reverently bowing her head to Yrsa as a respectedvölvaseeress,Astrid slipped across the polished pinewood floor and descended the wooden stairwell to the covered gallery on the ground level which connected Brynhildr’s white limestone tower to the rest of the clifftop fortress. The women’s weaving chamber was near the Great Hall where they would soon take their midday meal.
Once Astrid had gone, Yrsa’s all-knowing eyes searched Brynhildr’s face. “You are upset. Frustrated by the morning session with Ulric?”
Brynhildr beheld the shrewdvölvawho taught herseiðrmagic, divinations, and the rituals of reading runes. “Nei,” she spat, vexed again at the thought of the impending Summer SolsticeTournament. “I am furious that myfaðirplans to award me as the prize to theSólhjartachampion.” Brynhildr grasped her mentor’s hands, desperation lacing her frantic voice. “I have foreseen my destiny as a Valkyrie. How can I prevent him from wedding me to the winner?”
Yrsa’s otherworldly gaze sent a shiver ofseiðrdown Brynhildr’s spine. “We shall summon Freyja. And let the goddess decide your fate.”
Brynhildr followed Yrsa down the wooden stairs from her private quarters to theseiðrchamber on the second level of the tower, where their daily lessons took place. As they entered the circular room, the crisp pine scent of juniper berries burning in the stone hearth mingled with the briny tang of the sea wafting through the open window which overlooked the sunlit fjord.
Bundles of drying herbs hung from hooks in the wooden ceiling overhead. Along the oak shelves affixed to the stone walls, ceramic jars of potions and brightly colored vials stood amidst fragments of bones, glittering gemstones, silver charms, and talismans. In the center of the room, an ashwood table and two chairs awaited Brynhildr and her mentor.
“Fill the silver chalice and fetch the ritual dagger while I select a trinity of gemstones. We’ll offer meadowsweet, myrrh, and mead to invoke the goddess.” Yrsa sifted through her sacred stones and crystals, choosing one large gem each of amber, garnet, and amethyst. She arranged them in a triangle upon the hearthstones in front of the blazing flames. In the center of the glittering gems, she placed the small silver dish reserved forburning herbs, inlaid with a trinity of moonstones and etched with a triad of blackened runes. When Yrsa lit a chunk of resinous myrrh inside the sacred silver bowl, the sweet, exotic smoke curled like supplicant fingers into the fragrant air.
“Toss three juniper berries into the fire. Add three meadowsweet blossoms and three drops of your blood into the chalice of mead.” Yrsa grasped hervölvastaff, the gnarled ashwood carved with runes, falcons, suns, and swans. At its tip, a large amber gem encased in bronze filigree gleamed golden in the late morning sun. When she thumped the staff rhythmically upon the wooden floor like a drum, the reverberations resonated into Brynhildr’s very bones. Thevölva’svelvety voice, mellow as a lute or lyre, rose in a melodic chant of invocation.
