Gunnar’s gloved hand rested on the serpent hilt of his sheathed sword.
Sigurd passed the eagle crown to Kveld and nodded in agreement to Visburr.
The enormous gates opened and Visburr emerged with three warriors, each bearing metal rakes. Helm atop his head, chainmail glinting in the gloaming, sword drawn, the jarl strode confidently toward Sigurd. Behind him, the gates groaned shut as his men cleared a square in the courtyard for theholmgang.
Sigurd unsheathedGramr.The lapis eyes of the snarling wolf inÚlfblóðr’shilt glistened like the rolling waves, running wolves, and etched runes along the silvered steel.
Each man circled the other, searching for weakness, while all eyes watched from the fortress above and the fjord below.
Vísburr struck first, blade arcing hard and fast.
Sigurd deflected the blow, sparks flashing as steel clashed.
The jarl drove forward with unleashed fury, his strikes heavy and precise from years of disciplined battle.
Sigurd blocked with his wolf shield and god-forged blade.
When Vísburr lunged for the shoulder, Sigurd pivoted inside the strike. He droveGramrupward, beneath the jarl’s raised arm, where chainmail parted at the seam.
The blade pierced flesh and punctured lung.
Vísburr staggered.
Sigurd withdrew his sword in a smooth, single motion.
The jarl dropped to one knee, ragged breath rasping. Blood poured from his wound and the corner of his grim mouth. “You are indeed Sigmund’s son. The crown of Lindesnes… is yours.”
Sigurd met Vísburr’s proud, anguished gaze. “You kept your oath to your king. May Odin welcome you among theeinherjar.”
Vísburr fell face forward onto the flat stone.
Murmurs rippled along the ramparts. Slowly, the gates ofBránnstaðrshöllcreaked open.
Sigurd drew a piece of coarse linen from his belt and wipedGramrclean.
Amidst howls from theSjórúlfar,raucous cheers from Agnar’s bear warriors, and the clang of swords against Burgundian shields, he took back the eagle crown from the Nightwolf. Holding it aloft as a sign that he had defeated Lyngvi and reclaimed his ancestral lands, Sigurd strode into the Great Hall ofBránnstaðrshöll.
As the rightful Völsung king.
Chapter 25
Völsung King of Lindesnes
Sigurd strode intoBránnstaðrshöll,the royal fortress which had once belonged to hisfaðirSigmund and before him, hisafiVölsung. He pushed back hisBlárúlfrcloak, removed the winged dragon helm from his blond head, and tucked it under his mail-clad arm. Laying Lyngvi’s eagle crown atop a nearby table, he stopped before the massive oak pillar in the center of the hall.
Legend held that Odin himself had driven the swordGramrdeep into the heartwood, proclaiming that only a hero worthy of wielding it would be able to withdraw the god-forged blade. HismóóirHjördis had told Sigurd that though many had tried—jarls, warriors, and kings alike—only hisfaðirSigmund had succeeded.
And nowGramr, reforged with the wolf blood ofÚlfblóðrand Sigurd’s own Völsung blood, lay sheathed at his hip.
Sigurd bowed his head and gently placed his hand over the deep, blackened wound in the heartwood. As if recognizing his ancestral blood, a tremor pulsed beneath his reverent touch.
An older warrior with silver-streaked hair and beard appeared at Sigurd’s side. “I am Skárviðr,”he murmured, his deep voice quavering with pride.“I swore my sword to yourfaðir,King Sigmund. And now, I am honored to serve his son.” In his strong, scarred hands, Skárviðrclutched a silver crown with the head of a snarling wolf at the center, baring teeth ofmolten gold. Its eyes were brilliant blue sapphires, sparkling like the gilded fjord and the sunlit sea. On either side of the wolf perched two sleek ravens with amber eyes, wings partially unfurled as if poised for flight.
A crowd of warriors gathered around as the Sea Wolves, Bears, and Burgundian crews filed into the crowded hall. At Sigurd’s left stood Kveld Nightwolf, Hródvar Ironfang,, Eyvindr Waverunner, and Strykar the Beast, their wolfskins shimmering in the firelight from the hearth and the golden rays of the dying sun. On his right loomed Agnar, thick bearskin cloak draped over his broad shoulders, heavy bronze crown atop his dark head. Nearby, Gunnar and Högni grinned, silver serpent beads glinting in their braided brown beards.
All eyes fixed upon Skárviðr as the seasoned swordsman placed the Völsung crown upon Sigurd’s head.“All hail Sigurd Sea Wolf, son of King Sigmund!” he proclaimed, unsheathing his sword, placing the pointed blade upright against his armored chest, and lowering himself to one knee. “By this sword, I swear my blood and my life to Sigurd Sigmundsson, the Völsung King of Lindesnes.”
Amidst whispers of “Dragonslayer…”, “rightful heir to the crown…”, “Völsung blood of Odin…”, the remaining warriors of Lindesnes unsheathed their swords. One by one, they bent the knee, blades upright against their hearts, swearing loyalty to King Sigurd.
