And found, to her utter delight, his feral gaze fixed fiercely upon her.
With a disarming smile and a slight nod of his wolfskin-clad head, he raised his ornate horn in a private shared tribute to her. When he lifted the elkhorn to his blond bearded lips,seiðrsparked up her spine.
Mead sloshed as she raised a trembling hand to her own parched lips. She drained her horn, set it carefully down besideher raven-etched silver plate, and returned his smile, unable to tear her gaze away from his.
Yrsa leaned close, her velvety voice a hushed whisper. “The Sea Wolf only has eyes for you.” Raising her horn to smirking lips, thevölva’swhite teeth flashed like pearls against the deep blue of her woad-painted face. “And you seem as smitten as he.”
Heat flared in Brynhildr’s cheeks.
She was indeed smitten.
And scorched— smoldering withseiðr,unlike anything she’d ever experienced before.
King Eirikr’s smooth voice brought Brynhildr back to the royal table as he addressed herfaðir.“Adóttirof Ryfylke is no small treasure, Raven King,” he quipped, referring to the lovely Dagny at his royal side. “I trust she finds favor in your hallowed hall.”
Budli’s russet beard blazed in the setting sun as he lifted his elkhorn in a slow, deliberate salute. “Princess Dagny graces Hrafnfjall with beauty worthy of saga and song.” Deep voice mellow as mead, he smiled, a twinkle of youth in his appreciative gaze. “I am honored by her presence… and I look forward to dancing with her beneath the stars.”
Brynhildr knew that herfaðirhad been urged to wed ever since herbroðirAtli had been slain in a raid two summers past.
Princess Dagny is young and can bear him more sons. An heir to rule Hrafnfjall after him. All the more reason to offer my hand as a royal prize for this tournament. With me given to the winner, my future is secured. And Faðir is free to wed a young bride.
Once again, the thought of being handed over like a sack of silver made Brynhildr seethe. But when her gaze found Sigurd—who was intently watching her—her fury melted into molten embers.
Andseiðrsmoldered up her spine.
Throughout the feast, each time she glanced up, his scorching gaze was upon her, flooding her with warmth.
And each time, Brynhildr felt the Norns tightly tugging the threads of fate, entwining herwyrdwith Sigurd Sea Wolf.
After everyone had finished the sumptuous desserts—solstice honey cakes with elder flowers, apple tarts with cinnamon and walnuts, and imported dried figs, stuffed with goat cheese and crushed hazelnuts—King Budli rose again to announce the competition ofskálds.
“Tonight, for our entertainment, a trio ofskáldsshall compete, and the winner shall be namedSkáld of the Sólhjarta Tournament.” Budli gestured to a bench near the jarls’ table of honor where three poets sat, musical instruments resting across their laps, held in ready hands. The oaken bench was angled so that theskáldsfaced not only the royal table and the ten champions seated below the dais, but also theSjórúlfarin their fearsome wolfskin cloaks, the visiting jarls, and the honored guests gathered in the Great Hall.
King Budli’s commanding voice echoed off the timbered walls. “Raise your cups and welcome the first competitor, Vigleik, royalskáldof King Eirikr of Ryfylke!”
As the crowd roared, the slenderskáld,clad in violet and gold like King Eirikr and his royaldóttir, inclined his head respectfully to King Budli and positioned his harp close to his chest. When a hush swept across the enthralled throng, Vigleik’s lyrical voice floated on the mellow notes ofThe Drápa of Dagny,his glorious tribute to the alluring princess whose beauty caught the admiring eye of Budli, the Raven King of Hrafnfjall.
Amid thunderous applause, Budli nodded to theskáldand boomed, “Well sung, Vigleik of Ryfylke.” Brynhildr’sfaðirrose from theöndvegi, a bejeweled hand resting on the carved arm of his ornate throne. He raised his elkhorn high, the gems and runes glittering in the golden light of the late setting sun. “Nowlet us hear Skúli, royalskáldto King Alfr, the Wolf King of Sjóborg.”
Raucous cheers, the thunder of fists on shields, and appreciative howls rolled through the riotous hall as the secondskáldseated on the bench softly strummed his lyre. Unlike the bare heads of the other two poets, Skúli’s tribal wreath of rowan, woven with grey wolf fur, marked him asskáldto the Wolf King… the feralSjórúlfar…
And Sigurd Sea Wolf.
As Brynhildr listened to the haunting song,Ravens over Hrafnfjall,she sensed Huginn and Muninn—the ever-watchful eyes of Odin—circling over herfaðir’sclifftop fortress. The strings of the lyre trembled like wings, echoing Budli’s raven banners as they flapped in the salty breeze along the wooden walls. She felt the tug of threads as the Norns tightly wove the web ofwyrd, binding her fate to Sigurd. While the wolfskáldsang of watchful ravens, Brynhildr’s gaze instinctively sought the Sea Wolf…and found his mesmerizing eyes fixed upon her.
Once again, sparks ofseiðrsizzled up her limbs, searing her shieldmaiden soul.
Copper hair and beard aflame in the fiery setting sun, Budli nodded to Skúli, ravens and runes etched in his crown gleaming in the golden light. “Well played, wolfskáld,” he mused with a pleased grin. Rising from his ornateöndvegithrone, he lifted his horn and bellowed, “Now let Prince Agnar’sskáld, Skallagrímr, stir our hearts with music and song.”
Emeralds glinted in his braided blond beard and golden hair, pulled back from his rugged face and woven down his broad back. His tunic was deep green like the forest, trimmed in brown ursine fur and embroidered with the royal bear sigil of Bjarkhölm in golden thread along the sleeves and hem. As Skallagrímr rose from the angled bench, his powerful frame moved like a predator awakened. Inclining his head reverentlyto King Budli, he performed a sharp, deliberate bow before Brynhildr. When he withdrew a flute from its deep green leather case—etched withUruzrunes of raw strength—a hush of awe and anticipation fell over the Great Hall. As radiant rays of the setting sun filtered through the west-facing windows, the pure silver of theskáld’sfinely crafted flute shimmered in the golden light.
He began to play an ethereal melody that swirled like smoke toward the rafters, wafting like wisps through the enthralled throng. Powerful as a lynx, he circled the central hearth with the grace of a warrior in a duel, performingThe Song of the Sun Falcon Shieldmaiden, his music and movement a glorious tribute to Brynhildr.
All eyes followed theskáld’sfluid fingers as the notes flowed from his silver flute. Skallagrímr lifted his gaze to Brynhildr, his superb song evoking the sun’s brilliance and the falcon’s flight as he compared her to the golden goddess Freyja.
Pride surged through Brynhildr at the thought of her divinemóðirand the memory of the trio of golden gifts which Freyja had bestowed upon her. As she envisioned herself clad in theFalkhjartagolden corslet, wielding theSólfalkrsword and clutching theFalksjöldrshield, theskáldsuddenly swapped his melodic flute for the more vigorous, visceral lute.
Striding boldly down one side of the central hearth to the other, he strummed the taut strings, each chord as resonant and commanding as his powerful, dramatic moves. When he finished his triumphant tribute with the last refrain of his song, Skallagrímr leapt like a lynx and landed on the floor beneath Brynhildr, brawny arms outstretched like a falcon in flight.
