Cheers rolled across the heathered moor and echoed off the cliffs overlooking the fjord. Sigurd followed Hródvarr, Eyvindr Waverunner, and Kveld Nightwolf, alongside the other Sea Wolves of Sjóborg, toward the wooden bathhouses behind King Álfr’s royal hall.
Tonight, I shall speak to Móðir about the swords. For now, I yearn to wash the salt and grime from my hair, body, and beard.
A trio of Sigurd’s ownhúskarlar---threebattle-hardened warriors and fiercely loyal personal attendants—unfastened hisBlárúlfrcloak andchain mail, which they would clean and store in his private quarters. They unthreaded the lapis beads from his hair and beard, to be braided anew after the bathhouse steam had cleansed him.
He handed the wolfskin scabbard to Tryggvi, his most trustedhúskarl.“Place this on the bedside table in my chambers. It contains the remnants ofÚlfblóðr.Guard it with honor.”
With a deferential bow of their heads, the three guards carried Sigurd’s armor, cloak, and scabbard into the clifftop fortress.
Soothing, purifying steam rose around his naked body. Sigurd scooped handfuls of pale lye soap from a wooden bowl, working it into his hair and beard. The crisp, piney scent of juniper set his mind ablaze with memories of Brynhildr. Hisgolden Valkyrie filled his senses, igniting theouroborosthat pulsed with every beat of his hollow heart.
Hishúskarlarreturned to the bathhouse. They combed, trimmed, and braided his blond hair and beard, replacing the lapis lazuli beads. Tryggvi helped him into a deep blue tunic, its hem and sleeves embroidered with silver wolves and runes.
Sigurd donned grey linen trousers, securing hisÚlfhjartadagger at his hip. When his men wrapped him in the refreshedBlárúlfrcloak, Tryggvi fastened the snarling wolf brooch upon his shoulder. Its lapis lazuli eyes gleamed like the hilt ofÚlfblóðr.
Watchful, wild, and waiting.
Lapis gems in his braided hair, golden beard, and silver brooch as blue as the sunlit fjord, Sigurd strode toward the royal hall and the clamorous celebration that awaited.
* * * *
Lively music floated on the festive air, the crackling fire in the hearth sending sparks and swirls of smoke to the towering peaked rafters high overhead. The feast thundered with roaring laughter and raucous howls from theSjórúlfaras horns clinked, mead flowed, and merriment filled the Great Hall.
Seated in his carvedöndvegiat the high table, a resplendent King Álfr beckoned Sigurd with a regal hand. “Join us,” the Wolf King said affably, the silver in his dark beard and hair glinting in the firelight like the snarling wolf brooch upon his royal shoulder.
Sigurd bowed to the kingand lowered himself onto the carved chair beside hismóðir.
Beneath a silver coronet, her pale blonde locks were intricately braided with lapis gems, echoing the beads glistening in his own golden hair and beard. Curiosity and compassion shone in her concerned gaze as her slender hand slipped into his.“Tell me what burden you bear,” she whispered. “I see it in your troubled eyes.”
Sigurd inclined his wolfskin-clad head. “Brynhildr came to me at Bjarkhölm,” he said quietly. “In human form.”
Álfr’s breath hitched. He leaned forward, his grip tightening on the arms of hisöndvegi,where snarling wolves raced and curling waves rolled along the polished oak.
Hjördis squeezed Sigurd’s hand, her eyes imploring him to continue.
“In aseiðrvision, she foresaw thatÚlfblóðrwouldshatter in battle. And that it must be reforged—with the shards ofGramrthat you have kept,Móðir.”He met her pale blue eyes.“I am to take them north—to a dwarf who dwells in a waterfall cave enshrouded in mist.Regin.”
At the name, Álfr’s shrewd gaze sharpened.
Hjördis drew a slow breath, as if bracing for an anticipated blow.
“Brynhildr told me I must help Regin reforge the two blades together,” Sigurd continued. “For only the wolf blood of Odin which flows in my veins can awaken the Völsung power ofGramr.And the Sea Wolf spirit ofÚlfblóðrshall be reborn—in Dwarven fire, bound to myfaðir’sgod-forged blade.”
Hjördis cast an inquisitive glance at Álfr, who nodded in solemn silence.
Rising from her own elaborately carved throne, she smoothed her gown of deep blue silk and whispered softly to Sigurd. “Come with me.”
Her regal hand upon his proffered arm, they descended the steps of the elevated dais together.
While raucous revelry, feasting, and lively music continued in the festive Great Hall, she led him down a quiet corridor to her own private quarters where a pair of armored guards flanked the heavy oaken door. When they stepped aside to grant her entry,the queen retrieved a key from the belt at her waist and unlocked the iron bolt.
Inside her royal chambers, banked embers glowed in the stone hearth. Embroidered tapestries lined the wooden walls, and from an open window overlooking the fjord, the last rays of the setting sun basked the room in glorious golden light. Atop her smooth wooden table, in a large bowl of hammered bronze, clusters of wild pink roses emitted a soft floral scent that reminded Sigurd of the thorn-covered hidden stairwell at the base of Brynhildr’s private tower.
Where we sealed our blood oath in seiðr and starlight.
Sorrow gripped his grieving heart.
From beneath a bench at the foot of her fur-covered bed, Hjördis withdrew a narrow chest, the aged oak carved with rose blossoms, swirling vines, and etched runes. Smooth oval moonstones, glimmering like opalescent pearls, lined the curved hatch.
