“And what of you, Gunnar, son of Gjúki? Are you betrothed?” Kveld fixed the Burgundian prince with a piercing lupine stare.
Gunnar rumbled with deep laughter. “Not yet, but my connivingmóðiris eager for me to wed. I am certain that when we return to Rhônehöll—and I insist you celebrate your victory with us as my royal guests,” he said to Sigurd, Kveld, Tryggvi, and Hálfdan, “that she will arrange a betrothal right away. As myfaðir’seldest son and heir, she wishes to see me wed without delay.”
Sigurd nodded in reluctant agreement to Gunnar’s proposal. It would be rude and downright insulting if he refused to feast with the Burgundian River King who had so graciously granted twosnekkjalongships and warriors to fight at Sigurd’s side against Lyngvi in Sweden. He darted a glance at Kveld, whose scarred, inked face was drawn into a solemn scowl. “Though I am anxious to return to Brynhildr,” Sigurd replied, forcing a smile, “we shall be honored to accept your invitation.”
Gunnar grinned from ear to bearded ear.
* * * *
The towering fortress of Hrafnfjall perched high upon the craggy cliff overlooking the sunlit Sognefjorden. The curved inlet harbor where the Raven King’s fleet was beached along the shore and moored to wooden docks reminded Sigurd of his arrival the summer past for the Sólhjarta Tournament. Then, he had arrived alongside countless other warriors, each vying for the right to challenge Brynhildr in the final duel and win her coveted hand.
At that Summer Solstice Tournament, Sigurd had met his bloodswornbroðirAgnar.
Defeated the Bear of Bjarkhölm in the championship.
And knelt before his beloved Valkyrie.
As watchtower sentinels blasted their horns to signal his arrival, andÚlfalkr’sfalcon prow slid up onto the rocky shore, Sigurd reflected how King Budli might not yet have heard that Brynhildr was no longer a Valkyrie. He would know nothing of Odin’s wrath, cruel punishment, and curse of frozen sleep. Nor would he have learned that Sigurd had saved her from theRing of Fire. Brynhildr’s golden falcon Gyllin had come fromFólkvangrto tell Sigurd where to find her. And though Brynhildr was now safe in Hlymdalir with Heimir, King Budli would be angered to learn that hisdóttirhad defied theAllfatherand incurred his vengeful wrath.
Indeed, Budli—wreathed in glory when Brynhildr rose to ride as a Valkyrie— would be dishonored and shamed to learn that she had fallen in disgrace. With his fierce temper as fiery as his forked red beard, he might very well refuse Sigurd’s request for her hand and publicly disown her.
Sigurd would need to placate the furious Raven King and persuade him that Brynhildr, like Sigurd himself had done at the Sólhjarta Tournament, had sacrificed her personal glory for his. And in doing so, had enabled Sigurd to fulfill his fate as the Dragonslayer of Fáfnir and the newly crowned Völsung King of Lindesnes.
As he leapt off the deck of hisdrakkaronto the wooden dock, Ulric Ironshield—the redbeard warrior who had trained Brynhildr to become the Sun Falcon Shieldmaiden of Hrafnfjall—bellowed in greeting from above. He and Budli’shúskarlarhastened down the steep stone steps to the pebbled shore.
“Sigurd Sea Wolf,” he boomed, grasping Sigurd’s forearms in fierce welcome. “What brings you to Hrafnfjall with a trio of ships?” His shrewd gaze scrutinized the two unfamiliarsnekkjawith the silver serpent sails snapping in the briny wind.
“I have come to speak to King Budli,” Sigurd replied, unwilling to reveal more before conferring privately with Bynhildr’s royalfaðir.
Ulric nodded respectfully to Kveld Nightwolf, whom he had met at the Sólhjarta Tournament. The esteemed leader of Budli’s prestigious royal guards, Ironshield watched with a blend of wariness and welcome as Gunnar and Högni disembarked from theirsnekkjaand strode down the dock to join Sigurd.
“Meet Gunnar and Högni, the two eldest sons of the Burgundian River King Gjúki,” Sigurd said as he presented them to Ulric. “Mybloodswornbrothers and staunch allies. Indeed, they aided me in reclaiming myfaðir’scrown.”
Ulric’s discerning gaze darted to the silver circlet with snarling wolf and amber-eyed ravens atop Sigurd’s blond head. His eyes widened as realization dawned. “You’re a king?”
Sigurd flashed a wolfish grin. “The Völsung King of Lindesnes.” Pride resonated in his deep voice.
Ulric removed his noseguard helm, tucked it under his mail-clad arm, and inclined his russet head. “Welcome to Hrafnfjall, King Sigurd. Myhúskarlarand I shall escort you and your men to King Budli. Follow me.”
Securing his helmet back atop his thick red hair, Ulric Ironshield led them up the steep stone stairs.
* * * *
Four armored warriors in chainmailbrynjaand conical helmets with nose guards flanked the double oaken entrance doors intricately carved with ravens and runes. Bearded axes and belted swords strapped at their waists, their painted shields bore Budli’s sigil—a black raven in flight upon a field of deep blue. As Ulric approached with Sigurd, Kveld, Gunnar, and Högni, followed by Tryggvi, Hálfdan, and the Burgundian royalhúskarlar,the armored guards stepped aside to allow them through the wide open doors which led into the Great Hall of Hrafnfjall.
Flames roared in the central hearth. Swirls of smoke curled upward toward the vaulted timber beams of the peaked roof. Bright blue shields with soaring ravens lined the wooden walls, and banners with the black birds flapped like wings from the carved pillars and posts. At the far end of the vast hall, King Budli sat in hisöndvegi, the bronze inlays and carved ravens along the arms of his throne glinting in the morning sun that sliced through the narrow cliffside windows.
Clad in a fine cloak of deep blue trimmed with fox fur, a raven brooch clasped at his broad shoulder, deep blue beads braided into his forked red beard and silver-streaked russet hair,Budli grinned at the sight of Sigurd and rose from his oaken throne. At his stout hip, the raven head hilt of his majestic swordHrafntönnglinted in its embellished leather sheath. “Sigurd Sea Wolf!” he boomed, his thunderous bellow rising to the rafters. “You are ever welcome in the Raven King’s royal hall.”
Sigurd inclined his head and gestured to the men at his side. “King Budli, you remember thevitki,Kveld Nightwolf, one of theSjórúlfarof the Wolf King Álfr, my fosterfaðirin Sjóborg.”
Budli roared in recognition. “The Sea Wolf with scarred, inked skin…whose black hair and amber eyes mirror the huge wolf atop hisvitkihead.” A fierce grin split the Raven King’s forked red beard.
Pleased at Budli’s affable response to the Nightwolf, Sigurd continued the formal introductions. “I have also brought with me two blood brothers and sworn allies. May I present Gunnar and Högni, eldest sons of the Burgundian River King Gjúki, who aided me in avenging my slainfaðirand reclaiming his Völsung crown.”
The Raven King subtly inclined his crowned head to Gunnar and Högni, but wariness glinted in his astute royal gaze. He directed his attention back to Sigurd. “You left Hrafnfjall as Champion of the Sólhjarta Tournament, and return as King of Lindesnes. And if epic tales sung byskáldsare true, you are the Dragonslayer of Sjóborg who slew the beast Fáfnir.” Budli eyed the armored men who followed Sigurd. Curiosity, caution, and cunning warred in his wary gaze. “Why have you come?”
Sigurd’s pulse pounded furiously in his chest, theouroborosblazing beneath his goldenbrynja. He inhaled deeply, summoning his courage, and swallowing to quench his parched throat. “I seek a private audience, King Budli.” His thick tongue impeded his ability to speak. “An urgent matter…for your ears alone.” At his nod, Tryggvi and Hálfdan set the wooden chest, its hidden contents sealed and locked, on the floor at Sigurd’s feet.
