And swallowed her dread with golden mead.
* * * *
Indigo and mauve streaked the dawn sky. Pale light danced on the white-capped waves of the Skagerrak as Sigurd gazed out the double entrance oaken doors of Örnfjall. The Great Hall still reeked of smoke, meat, mead, and iron. Sprawled across the trestle tables, his Sea Wolves stirred, rising to burn the bodies of the dead in funeral pyres and load the ships for the return voyage to Norway.
As he gazed at the sea which bound him to Brynhildr, Sigurd remembered the words of herseiðrvision when she visited him in Bjarkhölm.Agnar will stand with you at Lindesnes.Evennow, far from Hlymdalir,herseiðrburned into him through theouroborosabove his heart, wrapping him in a hidden shield.
Soon, my love. I shall come for you. Bring you home to Norway. And make you my queen.
He glanced at the wedding band on his ring finger.
Kveld had meticulously carved the trio of images—wolf, falcon, and dragon—each night around the campfire on their journey fromHeiðabýrto the alpine monastery, where the Nightwolf had married them in the moonlight ceremony beside the sacredLindsviðrspring.
Sigurd smiled as he recalled rescuing Brynhildr from theRing of Fire, bringing her to the abbey, and cleansing her of Odin’s curse with the waters of the sacred spring. His body stirred at the memory of making love to her for three consecutive nights, as Kveld had instructed, so that theouroboroswhich bound their souls withseiðrwould burn away all traces of the frozen sleep.
He removed the ring and rubbed his thumb over the trio of runes etched inside the golden band. The same triplebindrunewhich Kveld had carved on the deck ofÚlfalkr. And on the shore beneath Brynhildr’s private tower at Hrafnfjall. The triad of runes which bound Sigurd and Brynhildr to each other, the ship, and the sea.
As he slid the ring back on his finger, fond memories flooded him—the moonlight wedding… the exchange of swords and rings… the blue silk gown Père Clément had given her from the wooden chest… the wreath of wildflowers she had woven into her long golden hair. Though they were already married, Sigurd still wanted a magnificent royal wedding. Not only would it please herfaðir,King Budli, but with Sigurd as the Völsung King of Lindesnes, his royal marriage to Brynhildr would unite a trinity of kingdoms and was indeed worthy of a sumptuous formal wedding.
“I’ll order the men to start the funeral pyres.” Hródvarr’s voice interrupted Sigurd’s thoughts.
Sigurd nodded and turned to the crew. “Stack the wood high for Lyngvi’s fire. He was a king—he shall burn with a king’s tribute.”
He waved toward the servants. “Preparedagmálfor the men, and gather supplies for the ships. The tide will not wait.” Glancing at Lyngvi’s bound warriors lining the walls of the Great Hall, Sigurd said quietly to Hálfdan, “Release them once the funeral flames have honored our fallen.”
Sigurd strode to the edge of the cliff outside Örnfjall. At his nod, Tryggvi lit the kindling beneath Lyngvi’s body. As the flames caught and engulfed the Eagle King, Sigurd observed in solemn silence.
On the beach below, where the tide lapped against rocky sand and the longships were being loaded with supplies, spirals of smoke swirled toward the mauve-streaked sky. Behind him, the funeral pyres for their fallen burned in glorious tribute.
From the clifftop, Sigurd’s deep voice bellowed across the heathered moor and down to the pebbled shore. “May the fires consume their bodies, and may they feast in Valhalla with theeinherjar.”
Cheers of tribute rippled over the Skagerrak under the rising sun.
As the pyres burned down, the men ate a quickdagmálof smoked fish, oat porridge, barley bread, and ale. While the crews stacked shields along the gunwales and secured the sails, Sigurd nodded to Hálfdan and Tryggvi, who cut the ropes binding Lyngvi’s men. He addressed the servants, white-haired steward, and newly freed warriors. “I avenged myfaðir,the Völsung King Sigmund of Lindesnes. I seek no further vengeance. Your lives are spared. Go in peace.” With a nod to hishúskarlar,Sigurdtook one last look at the eagleöndvegiof Örnfjall, turned on his heels, and strode from the Great Hall.
Lyngvi’s eagle brooch fastened on hisBlárúlfrcloak, eagle sword strapped besideGramrat his hip, and the bronze eagle crown gripped in his Sea Wolf hands, Sigurd clambered down the stone steps carved into the cliff and boardedÚlfdreki.
Black wolfskin cloak gleaming in the morning sun, Kveld Nightwolf watched him with all-seeing amber eyes.
Sigurd’s fleet pushed off Örnfjall’s shore, wolf shields glinting in the rising sun, asdrakkarandsnekkjabore them across the Skagerrak, smoke and ash rising behind them like a final farewell to the fallen.
* * * *
The fjord glimmered rose and gold asÚlfdrekirounded the headland, the sun sinking low behind jagged peaks. Fifteendrakkarbore Sigurd’s Sea Wolf banners, snapping in the salty breeze, including the six ships gifted by Agnar and the vessels granted by his fosterfaðir, King Álfr. At the rear, Gunnar’s and Högni’s twosnekkjacut through the calm waters, their silver serpent sails glistening in the setting sun.
From the clifftop fortress of Bjarkhölm, the watchtowers sounded the horn, a deep, rolling summons that echoed off the crag and out over the fjord. Atop the ramparts, Sigurd spotted Agnar, the Bear of Bjarkhölm, unmistakable in his brown bearskin cloak, the last rays of the sun gilding the bronze crown atop his dark head and the golden beads woven into his thick beard. Recognizing the familiar wolf banners, a broad grin split Agnar’s battle-scarred face, and his roar thundered across the sunlit fjord. “Sigurd the Sea Wolf returns!”
Armored men on the battlements cheered, clanging shields in salute, as Sigurd’s fleet ofdrakkarglided into the fjord, rhythmic oars slicing the water, wolfs sails furling at the masts. As Sigurd and his men disembarked onto the quay, Agnarbellowed in welcome. Heavy boots thumping the thick wood, he strode down the dock, wrapped his bearskin-clad berserker arms around Sigurd, and engulfed him in a hug that nearly crushed his ribs.
Dark eyes glinting with admiration and awe, Agnar stepped back to behold the winged dragon helm, the goldenbrynja, and the reforged swordGramrat his hip. “By all the gods, Sigurd, you’ve become a legend — the Dragonslayer of Sjóborg! Come inside…we’ll feast your return… and you’ll tell us how Fáfnir fell!” His astute gaze dropped to the bronze crown in Sigurd’s grasp, the eagle brooch pinned toBlárúlfr, the eagle-headed sword at Sigurd’s side.
Agnar’s feral grin became fierce. “You’ve slain Lyngvi,” he growled, grim satisfaction and solemn respect in his appraising eyes. “And avenged yourfaðirat long last.”
Sigurd held Agnar’s proud gaze, the bronze crown heavy in his tight grip. “Lyngvi burns,” he said quietly. “Myfaðiris avenged.” He stepped aside and gestured to the two Burgundian princes behind him. “These are my blood brothers, Gunnar and Högni, sons of King Gjúki of Rhônehöll. They have sworn steel and blood… and have come to help me reclaim the Völsung crown of Lindesnes.”
Agnar gripped the forearms of first Gunnar, then Högni, in a fierce clasp. “Blood brothers of Sigurd,” he grumbled, dark eyes gleaming, “are blood brothers to me as well. You are welcome inBjarkhölmas my royal guests.” He gestured to his armoredhúskarlar,awaiting orders from their king.“Show Sigurd’s men to the bathhouses and lodging. They’ll join us tonight for the feast.”
With reverent bows, Agnar’s men led the crews of Sigurd’s ships up the twin stone stairways leading from the dock to the fortress atop the cliff.
