Sigurd’s snarling wolf banner snapped above them.
TheFanghad sunk deep into Lyngvi’s rear flanks.
At a shrill blast of another horn, the Eagle King glanced back over his shoulder.
“You’re surrounded.” Sigurd pointed his sword at Lyngvi’s exposed throat.
The four guards who valiantly defended their besieged king shifted uneasily as Hródvarr, Strykar, and Eyvindr encircled them with heavily armed men.
But theSjórúlfardid not interfere, for Lyngvi was Sigurd’s kill.
A grimace of disgust split the Eagle King’s braided beard. “The whelp of Sigmund lives.” Lyngvi spat on Sigurd’s feet.
“Myfaðirdied because of your treachery.” Sigurd’s voice was sharp as steel. “Today I avenge him.”
Lyngvi lunged.
Steel rang like struck anvil. The swift blow jarred Sigurd’s shield arm. The second strike scraped sparks across his dragon helm. Lyngvi drove forward, pushing him back across stone slick with mist and ash.
Thick black smoke stung Sigurd’s eyes, blinding him, as Lyngvi advanced, blade hacking, forcing him back to the edge of the cliff.
“You avenge Sigmund?” Lyngvi taunted. “He died begging for mercy like a coward.”
The lie ignited thedragonfirein Sigurd’s Sea Wolf veins.
When Lyngvi struck again, Sigurd stepped inside the arc of his blow..Gramr’sreforged blade bit through mail and flesh, into the traitorous heart.
Lyngvi staggered, shock etched across his stunned face. When he pressed a palm against his pierced chest, blood poured through his gloved fingers and soaked his crimson cloak.
Sigurd wrenchedGramrfree.
Lyngvi collapsed onto the stone, blood pooling beneath him like deep red wine.
On the beach below, a thunderous roar and riotous howls rose as the King of Götaland fell. Sigurd’s Sea Wolf banner lifted high over the burning inlet.
Swedish ships blazed like funeral pyres. The village smoldered behind Örnfjall. The last of the eagle warriors threw down their arms.
Sigurd stood over Lyngvi’s bloodied body, the wind tugging atBlárúlfr’sblue grey fur.
The Eagle of Sweden had fallen.
And at long last, Sigurd’s murderedfaðir, King Sigmund of Lindesnes, was avenged.
Sigurd removed Lyngvi’s bronze crown, the amber eyes of its fierce eagle glinting in the dying sun. He unfastened the eagle brooch which secured the slain king’s crimson cape, pinning it toBlárúlfrbeneath his own silver wolf head clasp. Sliding the amber-studded scabbard from Lyngvi’s leather belt, Sigurd attached the royal blade at his own hip, the eagle head hilt glinting beside the snarling wolf ofGramr.
While the Sea Wolves executed the steadfast Swedish warriors who refused to surrender, and bound those who had voluntarily thrown down their arms, Sigurd kicked open the double entrance doors of Örnfjall’s royal hall.
Smoke drifted in as he entered, carrying the mingled scents of blood, salt, and burning thatch. The longhouse was vast, its vaulted beams blackened by years of hearth fire. Shields painted with Lyngvi’s eagle sigil lined the wooden walls. An elaborateöndvegi—its high back intricately carved with an enormouseagle, amber eyes aglow in the firelight, wings unfurled in full flight, curved talons gripping the gleaming oak—stood at the far end upon a raised dais.
Sigurd proudly strode the length of the Great Hall.
His heavy boots left blood-stained prints across the rush-strewn floor.
Servants huddled near the hearth — wide-eyed women, gray-bearded stewards, trembling thralls. None dared speak. None dared flee. Outside, the crackle of dying flames and the distant cries of the wounded drifted through the open doors.
Sigurd mounted the dais and stood before Lyngvi’s royal throne. He reached up, seized the eagle banner hanging above it, and tore it down. The crumpled cloth fell in a heap at his booted feet.
Hródvarr raised the wolf banner in its place. The blue fabric unfurled, the snarling wolf snapping in the smoke-filled, salty air.
