Sigurd blocked the fatal blow, hisÚlfblóðrsword shattering like shards of ice.
Brynhildr pressed the blade of herValkjósleiðrspear against the sword arm of the enemy king, defying the web ofwyrd.
Hjálmgunnar reeled—then fell to Agnar’s lethal blade. Swirls of fire bore the brutal Boar King’s soul to Valhalla.
At the sight of the fallen king, the defending warriors of Bjarkhölm roared in riotous triumph.
Hjálmgunnar’s man blew a horn, signaling retreat.
But Agnar’s army— bolstered by theSjórúlfarand hundreds of men from Sjórborg—cut them down as they fled the field, leaving no survivors.
Wings of her white swan cloak spread wide, Brynhildr flew over the fallen with the Laguz Triad, selecting the slain, until all had been claimed for Valhalla or Fólkvangr.
The battle was over. Agnar prevailed. Though four enemy ships were lost in the battle, six of Hjalmgunnar’sdrakkarwere seized for Bjarkhölm.
Brynhildr landed on a hilltop beside Kára and Skögul, their winged horses waiting to bear them back toSessrúmnir.Across the battlefield, Kveld Nightwolf watched her, the amber eyes of the black wolf atop his armored helm glowing golden in the setting sun.
He sees me with his otherworldly seiðr vision. He knows what I have done. Perhaps he has even seen the price I shall have to pay.
Brynhildr held the Nightwolf’s all-seeingvitkigaze and nodded in solemn reverence.
In return, he inclined his dark head to her.
Agnar’s men quickly cleared the battlefield, burning the bodies of the fallen in glorious funeral pyres of tribute.
Healers bore King Agnar into the fortress to treat his numerous wounds.
While the acrid odor of smoke blended with the stench of blood and death, the Sea Wolves headed into bathhouses with blood-soaked, weary warriors.
Her heart melted when Sigurd returned to the place whereÚlfblóðrhad shattered beneath Hjálmgunnar’s malevolent blade.
She watched as he found the first shard partially buried in the charred ground, the snarling wolves etched along its length dulled and dark with gore. When he knelt and pulled it free, she sensed through theouroborosthat the steel was deathly cold.
With the sweat-soaked tunic he wore beneath his chain mailbrynja,Sigurd reverently wiped the broken blade clean and laid it upon a patch of untouched grass.
The second jagged shard lay further away, its sharp edge blunted by the brutal blow of theÚlfsbanisword. As Sigurd lifted the fragment of his beloved blade, she felt him reliving the jarring impact of the lethal strike—the painful shock reverberating up his arm, the screech of rending steel, like ice breaking on a frozen fjord.
He bowed his head in solemn silence before lifting the shard, wiping it clean, and placing it beside the first upon the pure grass.
She sensedBlárúlfr’ssacred blood call to Sigurd’s Sea Wolf spirit as he staggered across the field and found the final fragment.
Dark with blood, dulled with dirt, it lay on the very spot where he had stood when he took the fatal blow meant for Agnar. Brynhildr mourned with him as he wiped the shard clean and laid it upon the green grass, completing the broken whole.
The elaborate hilt and pommel he found intact, lying where the sword had been torn from his hand. Though the lapis lazuli eyes of the snarling wolf carved into the crossguard were dim, the golden threads of the deep blue gems glimmered in the firelight from the funeral pyres, watchful and waiting. Beneath the grip, the trio of runes etched into the sword remained unmarred.
Brynhildr reflected howAlgizhad indeed protected him, even as his blade had shattered.Tiwaz, the rune of justice and honor, symbolized the sacrifice ofÚlfblóðrto save Agnar. AndAnsuz,the god-rune of Odin, represented the fierce wolf blood which flowed in Sigurd’s Völsung veins.
Through welling tears, she watched as he sank to one knee.
Bowed his head before his beloved blade.
And wrapped the three broken shards and intact hilt in a swathe of linen, as carefully as if they were sacred bones.
Úlfblóðr’sscabbard—the sheath crafted from the same wolfskin hide as theBlárúlfrcloak which draped his slumped shoulders—still hung on the sword belt at his hip, barren and empty. Its trio of lapis stones glimmered in the firelight. Like the eyes of the snarling wolf in the hilt, they were dim, watchful, and waiting.
He rose, removed the scabbard from his belt, and placed the wrapped shards inside the wolfskin sheath. Head bent and heart heavy, he crossed the blood-soaked battlefield toward the bathhouse, rejoining theSjórúlfar,his Sea Wolf brothers.
Across the field, Brynhildr watched, herseiðrsight revealing what Sigurd could not yet know. She would tell him, when she slipped unseen into the fortress, that nothing forged of blood and vow could ever be destroyed.
