Amber eyes of the fierce black wolfskin atop his dark head aglow like molten fire, Kveld Nightwolf slunk through the clamorous crowd and stopped beside Sigurd. “You and she aresoulbound,”he whispered, his otherworldly voice haunting yet comforting. “The blood you spilled into the shared mead… thebindrunecarved onto your ship… the sacred oath sworn inseiðrand starlight… That cannot be unmade. You and Brynhildr are eternally bound… beyond fate and the reach of the gods.”
The Nightwolf’s calloused, tattooed hand gripped the blue wolfskin draped over Sigurd’s armored shoulder. “You shall defy all for each other…and be together in this life and the next.” Kveld’s fierce gaze blazed like the lupine eyes of the black beast in his wolfskin cloak.
And thedragonfirewhich sizzled the skin above Sigurd’s Sea Wolf heart.
Kveld rejoined theSjórúlfar,disappearing into the jubilant throng.
The salty wind ruffled the blue fur of Sigurd’sBlárúlfrcloak as he watched Brynhildr make her way across the flagstone courtyard, accompanied by the blue-facedvölvaYrsa. As his beloved Valkyrie headed toward her wild rose and vine-covered tower, the pair of ravens perched on the pillar overhead screeched.
Their sharp, eerie cry crawled up Sigurd’s spine.
* * * *
At the high table, Brynhildr sat in the place of honor at the Raven King’s right, her carved chair adorned with shimmering gold silk and glimmering amber gems. For tonight’s feast, she wore a deep garnet gown, her blonde hair gilded by the golden light of the setting sun.
The colors of blood and mead. Like the sacred vow we swore in seiðr and starlight.
At her side, Sigurd’s reserved seat as the Sólhjarta Champion was draped in blue silk and silver wolf fur. Amidst murmurs of the throng and melodies of lutes and lyres, Sigurd strode across the polished floor, flanked by four of Budli’s royalhúskarlar, bearing all the glory due the hero who fought for the hand of the Sun Falcon, yet knelt before a Valkyrie. As he passed by the trestle tables, warriors shot to their feet, and shouts of “Hail the Sea Wolf!” mingled with the clash of swords upon shields and the thunderous stomping of boots.
His crimson cloak trimmed with wolf fur in honor of Sigurd as champion—and in tribute to his alliance with Álfr, the Wolf King of Sjóborg—Budli rose before his elaborateöndvegias Sigurd and his escorts entered the Great Hall.
At the elevated royal table, King Álfr and Queen Hjördis arose as well, as did King Eirikr and Princess Dagny, elegantly clad in emerald silk. Yrsa, her woad-paintedvölvaface as blue as the Sognefjorden beneath the cliff, stood beside Skallagrímr, the golden Skáld of the Sólhjarta Tournament.
Sigurd barely registered the royal guests who rose in his honor. His eyes were locked on Brynhildr, whose fierce falcon gaze pierced his soul.
And seared his skin withseiðrthrough theouroboroswhich bound them both.
TheSjórúlfarhowled and growled as he strode past their table and climbed the dais.
Sigurd bowed first to Budli, then to his fosterfaðir,King Álfr, and hismóðir,Queen Hjördis, whose proud eyes and luminous smile warmed his ravaged heart. He then inclined his wolfskin-clad head to King Eirikr and his lovelydóttirDagny. And finally, before his golden goddess in her garnet gown, Sigurd bent at the waist and kissed Brynhildr’s beloved hand.
After toasts and tributes to triumph over shared horns of mead, Skallagrímr enchanted the royal guests of Hrafnfjall withSong of the Wolf and the Valkyrie, his glorious tribute to the Sea Wolf champion who knelt before the Valkyrie and the Sun Falcon shieldmaiden who claimed her golden wings.
Later, as guests danced around the bonfire beneath the stars and mingled with villagers at the bustling market stalls, Sigurd and Brynhildr slipped into her sheltered courtyard where the soft floral scent of wild roses blended with the briny tang of the fjord.
They no longer had to slink away in secret.
Everyone knew that the Sea Wolf and the Sun Falcon were madly in love.
And that fate would wrench them apart.
Brynhildr opened the balcony doors overlooking the starlit fjord. Moonlight bathed the circular chamber in lustrous silver light.
Sigurd stoked the fire in the stone hearth and added another log, coaxing the embers into flickering flames. When he turned to her, Brynhildr’s forlorn face bore the same sorrow which clenched his heavy heart.
She took his calloused hand in hers and pressed a reverent kiss inside his palm. With tender fingertips, she soothed the burning skin of the new falcon tattoo that Kveld Nightwolf had inked upon his forearm. When she reached up and stroked his bearded cheek, he could see in her mournful eyes that she struggled to find the right words.
“Freyja is mymóðir,” she whispered, tracing a tuft of blond hair on his knuckle with a reverent thumb. “She came to me when Yrsa and I summoned her.”
Tears welled in her wide eyes as she gazed up at him. “I had always dreamed of becoming a Valkyrie… had foreseen my fate in aseiðrvision. When myfaðirannounced that I would wed the champion of the Sólhjarta Tournament, I was furious that hewould hand me over like a sack of silver. So I agreed—but only if the winning warrior could best me in battle.”
She glanced at the golden corslet, sheathed sword, and falcon shield carefully stored upon the wooden trunk at the foot of her fur-covered bed. “Yrsa and I summoned Freyja, to ask for her divine guidance. And the goddess appeared, bearing this trio of gifts.” Her lips quavered as she forced a sorrowful smile. “Freyja had foreseen that she would bear a king’s babe— adóttirdestined to become a Valkyrie. She visited myfaðirto conceive me, enchanting him so he would not remember. When his wife died in childbirth along with her stillborn babe, Yrsa was the midwife who swapped me.”
Brynhildr’s frantic gaze searched his. “I never knew Freyja was mymóðir,and Yrsa was sworn to secrecy. When thevölvaand I invoked the goddess to ask for her aid, Freyja bestowed the trinity of golden gifts. She said thatno mortal man could defeat me…but I knew you have the wolf blood of Odin…and you, my beloved Sea Wolf…though you could have disarmed me, you chose not to strike. And placed my glory before your own.” Overcome with emotion, she covered her crumpled face and sobbed into her hands.
Sigurd gently pried them away and brushed his lips against hers. “I could never strike you,” he whispered into her parted mouth. “When I saw your golden wings, I knew… I could neither rob you of glory… nor deny you the victory that would make you a Valkyrie.” He kissed the tears which streaked her cheeks, pulling her into his arms. “Though I longed to win your hand, I could never make you my wife by striking you.”
He traced his tongue along the seam of her lips. When she moaned and melted against him, he plunged in to probe her delicious depths. As desire and desperation flooded his veins, he deftly untied the back of her bodice and slipped her blood red gown to the floor.
