Murmured whispers rolled through the hushed, expectant hall.
Blárúlfurglimmered over his armored shoulders,the winged dragon helm perched atop his braided blond hair, and the goldenbrynjagleamed like molten embers.Sigurd majestically lowered himself onto the Eagle King’s ornate throne, resting Lyngvi’s bronze crown atop his leather-wrapped knee.
Theöndvegiof Örnfjall was now his.
At his hip,Gramr’ssnarling wolf head hilt glistened in the firelight, the lapis eyes ofÚlfblóðrglinting with Sea Wolf glory.
“Search the hall,” Sigurd ordered Tryggvi and Hálfdan. “Cellars. Storehouses. Every chamber.”
Signaling to their men, the two trustedhúskarlarobeyed at once.
Kveld Nightwolf approached, the amber eyes of his black wolfskin aglow with otherworldly light. “I shall carvebindrunesinto the oak and cast protective wards.”
Sigurd nodded, and thevitkiswept into the shadows.
“We’ll gather the bodies of our fallen,” Gunnar announced with solemn reverence. “To burn at dawn— funeral pyres upon the shore and atop the cliff.”
“I’ll have the men collect weapons, armor, silver—anything of value they wish to claim.” Högni grinned, the silver serpents in the beads of his dark beard writhing in the firelight.
After the Burgundian princes and their men left the hall, Sigurd let the silence stretch before turning his commanding gaze upon the servants. “You will prepare a victory feast.” Though his voice was calm, it echoed off every beam in the high peaked roof. “Meat. Fish. Bread. Mead. Whatever remains in your stores.”
No one moved.
Russet wolfskin cloak splattered with blood and streaked with ash, Strykar the Beast slinked toward them, baring his menacing blade.
Sigurd lifted a scarred hand to stop him. “Those who serve loyally will live.”
A whitebeard servant rose from the clustered, terrified group. He forced a swallow and bowed low before Sigurd. “We shall roast boar, my lord.” He looked to the other servants, nodding in encouragement as some rose to join him. “And grill fish, steam clams and mussels. We have plenty of mead…” he eyed several young girls, who quickly fetched horns and mugs, filled them with honeyed brew, and distributed them to Sigurd, Hródvarr, Strykar, Eyvindr, and the warriors gathered around them.
“My men will watch you prepare the meal. And you will eat first,” Sigurd warned the whitebeard. He would not blindly trust Lyngvi’s servants, who might poison him for killing their king.
The elderly steward inclined his pale head, and hustled the servants into the adjacent kitchens. Soon the appetizing scent of roasting meat drew Sea Wolves, Sigurd’s armored warriors, and the two Burgundian princes into the crowded, clamorous hall.
“We shall supply barrels of water and soap for your men,” the steward informed Sigurd, his tone reverent but restrained. “For you and your royal allies,” he said, indicating Gunnar and Högni, “we have these private washbasins.” At his gesture, three female servants each brought a large wooden bowl, bar of soap, and clean linen drying cloth to Sigurd and the two Burgundian princes, who were now seated beside him at the high table.
Once he had washed the blood and grime from his hands, beard, and face, Sigurd accepted a horn of mead from a trembling female servant.
While Kveld supervised healers who bandaged wounds and set broken bones in private quarters behind the dais. thralls lugged large barrels of fresh water outside for the bloodied, soot-streaked warriors to wash before the feast.
Other servants quickly arranged the trestle tables as victorious warriors with cleaned, grinning faces streamed through the open doors, settling onto benches and accepting mugs of ale.
When the boar was finally ready, thralls carried platters piled high with succulent meat dripping with honey, roasted vegetables flavored with herbs, grilled fish and steaming sea food. Barley loaves were brought from the ovens. Casks of mead were rolled forward under watchful eyes.
When the platters were laid upon the long tables, Sigurd gestured to the steward. “Eat.”
The old man tore bread with gnarled, shaking hands, swallowed roasted meat, and sampled the vegetables, fish, and seafood.
All eyes watched and waited, but the steward did not fall.
Murmurs of relief rippled through the jubilant hall. Once everyone had been served mugs of mead, Sigurd rose from theöndvegiand lifted his horn high. Beneath the goldenbrynjaandBlárúlfr’sthick blue fur, theouroborosblazed in triumph above his pounding Sea Wolf heart.
“To victory!” he shouted, his bellow echoing off the wooden walls, rising to the peaked rafters. The snarling wolf banners snapped in the salty night air and the Sea Wolves howled toward the crimson sky. “To vengeance long awaited…and to Völsung blood avenged!”
The hall erupted in raucous howls from the Sjórúlfar and thunderous roars of“Skál!” as warriors clashed their horns and mugs, thumping axes and swords against steel-bossed shields.
Sigurd lowered his horn with a broad grin, gesturing toward the tables laden with steaming platters of sumptuous food. “Tonight, we feast! Eat, drink, and celebrate—for the Eagle of Sweden has fallen. Tomorrow, we sail the Skagerrak…and return in triumph to Norway!”
Sigurd clinked horns with Kveld Nightwolf, Hródvarr Ironfang, Strykar the Beast and Eyvindr Waverunner on his left, then Gunnar, Högni, Tryggvi, and Hálfdan on his right. All of his most trusted allies sat beside him at the high table, sharing meat, mead, and glory.
