Sigurd gestured to thevitkiat his side. “You remember Kveld Nightwolf, who witnessed our blood oath at the Sólhjarta Tournament. And fought at my side to defend Bjarkhölm against Hjálmgunnar.”
Agnar grinned, clasping the inked forearms beneath the black wolfskin cloak. “It is good to see you again, Nightwolf. You are ever welcome in Bjarkhölm.”
Sigurd reintroduced the trio ofSjórúlfarstanding beside him on the dock. “Hróðvarr Ironfang,leader of the Sea Wolves,” he said warmly, as Agnar clasped the captain ofSkollreiðr’sforearms in greeting. “Eyvindr Waverunner, captain ofÚlfalkr,and Strykar the Beast, captain ofÚlfhrafn— commanders of my owndrakkar. You know these men, who fought beside us to defend Bjarkhölm. They will stand with me when I sail to Lindesnes to reclaim my ancestral lands.”
“It is my honor to welcome you again to Bjarkhölm.” Agnar inclined his crowned head in gratitude and respect to theSjórúlfarcommanders. He turned to Sigurd. “My servants will show you, your blood brothers, the Nightwolf, and your Sea Wolf captains to the bathhouse and private quarters to refresh. When all are ready, they shall escort you to the Great Hall, that Bjarkhölm may feast your triumph!”
* * * *
Agnar roared with laughter as Sigurd told the tale of how he’d dug the pit in the mud, drivenGramrinto the belly of the massive beast, and emerged thoroughly drenched in green dragon blood. But his mirth turned to awe when Sigurd described how Fáfnir’s blood had granted him the understanding of birds, who warned him in time to thwart Regin’s treachery.
“The dragon’s lair is where I found this winged helm and goldenbrynja,” Sigurd explained, gesturing to the armor he wore and the dragon-shaped helmet at his side, its emerald eyesglinting in the firelight of the Great Hall. He told Agnar how Brynhildr’s golden falcon Gyllin had come to him, revealing that Odin had stripped her Valkyrie wings and imprisoned her within theRing of Fireatop Mount Hinterfjall in the Alps of eastern Francia.
“When I found her, she was cursed with frozen sleep, but I brought her to an alpine monastery with a sacred healing spring.” Sigurd flashed a wolfish grin at thevitkiseated beside him, “The Nightwolf told me how to cure her, and there, beneath the moonlight, we were wed.” He showed Agnar the wedding band on his finger, where the etched images of falcon, wolf, and dragon glimmered in the firelight. “This is the ring Kveld carved for me. I gave Brynhildr theouroborosband that I found in Fáfnir’s hoard. The emerald eyes of the dragon mirror those in my winged helm.”
Sigurd took a long pull of mead from his ornate elkhorn. “Once I reclaim my Völsung crown, I shall fetch her from Hlymdalir, the limestone fortress of her kin, King Heimir of the Camargue.” He grinned at Agnar. “I plan to bring her home to Norway as my queen.”
Agnar speared a hunk of salmon with the pointed tip of his knife, popping the succulent herbed fish between his bearded lips. He swallowed, nodding in approval of both the delectable flavor and the merit of Sigurd’s proposed plan. After washing the mouthful of fish with a hearty gulp of mead, he informed Sigurd, the Burgundian princes, and theSjórúlfarseated at the high table of the current state of Völsung lands.
“Since the defeat of King Hjálmgunnar here at Bjarkhölm, Jarl Vísburr governs the kingdom of Lindesnes in Lyngvi’s name.” Agnar eyed the eagle brooch pinned toBlárúlfrand the eagle-hilt sword sheathed at Sigurd’s hip. “But now that you have slain Lyngvi, Vísburr no longer serves the Eagle King.” A feral grin split his thick braided beard. “With your fleet ofdrakkar— six of which once belonged to Hjálmgunnar himself—combined with the silver serpents of Burgundy, and several vessels of my own—we shall sail to Lindesnes and meet little if any resistance. Vísburr cannot possibly withstand such a united royal assault.”
Challenge and valor glinted in Agnar’s regal gaze. “’When the Sea Wolf calls, the Bear of Bjarkhölm shall come.’ That was the blood oath I swore to you beneath Brynhildr’s tower, just before the final championship of the Sólhjarta Tournament.” Fierce loyalty blazed across his scarred, bearded face. “I shall sail with you to Lindesnes tomorrow—and aid you in reclaiming your crown, just as you answered my call and defended Bjarkhölm against Hjálmgunnar,” He raised his elkhorn high, prompting all at the high table to follow his royal lead. “To your triumph over Lyngvi in Sweden. And to victory in Lindesnes on the morrow.”
As theSjórúlfarhowledand the Burgundian princes drank to the Bear King’s tribute, adrenaline surged in Sigurd’s Sea Wolf veins.
And theouroborosblazed withdragonfireabove his proud lupine heart.
* * * *
Sigurd’s fleet—including threedrakkarbearing Agnar’s ivory sails emblazoned with the massive head of a snarling bear—wound through sinuous fjords and inlets as they headed south from Bjarkhölm to Lindesnes.
When the cliffs parted and the sheltered harbor opened before them, sixdrakkarlay moored below the clifftop fortress ofBránnstaðrshöll, the royal longhouse of Sigurd’s ancestors, their green sails marked with the black boar of King Hjálmgunnar snapping in the salty wind.
Lyngvi’s loyal vassal still guarded Sigmund’s Völsung hall.
As horns sounded from the watchtowers, snarling wolf shields flashed along the rails of Sigurd’s fleet. Bear banners snapped beside them. The silver serpents of Burgundy glimmered in the golden light.
The harbor was too small for so many kings.
Sigurd stood at the prow ofÚlfdreki, winged dragon helm gleaming in the dying sun, the wind whippingBlárúlfr’swolfskin fur. Goldenbrynjaglinting, Lyngvi’s eagle crown clutched firmly in his hand, he leapt from thedrakkaronto the wooden dock.
Disembarking from their own ships, Agnar, Gunnar, Högni, Hródvarr Ironfang, Eyvindr Waverunner, Strykar the Beast, and Kveld Nightwolf followed Sigurd. Together, the delegation ascended the steep cliffside stairs carved by Völsung hands generations ago. Far below, the wolf, bear, serpent, and boar sails snapped in the salty breeze.
At the summit, the enormous wooden gates ofBránnstaðrshöll—the royalVölsunghall in the kingdom of Lindesnes—stood closed, reinforced with heavy bolts of blackened iron.
Upon the ramparts stood Jarl Vísburr, mail glinting, sword drawn. His armored warriors lined the battlements behind him, noseguard helms covering bearded faces, shields locked against the assault.
Sigurd halted in the courtyard beneath Vísburr. Slowly, deliberately, he lifted the bronze eagle crown for all to see. “Lyngvi burns.” His deep bellow echoed off the cliff and up into the stone ramparts.
Murmurs rippled along the defensive wall.
Vísburr’s bearded jaw tightened. “Then my king feasts in Valhalla.”
Sigurd’s stern gaze did not falter. “I have come to claim the crown of Lindesnes. It is my birthright, by Völsung blood.”
Atop the battlements, Vísburr’s stringy gray hair and long beard stirred in the salty wind. “If you are Sigmund’s son,” he shouted, “then prove it. Meet me inholmgang—a single battle for the fate of the Völsung crown. Let steel decide the outcome.”
Brown bearskin cloak ruffling in the brisk wind, Agnar flashed a gruff grin at Sigurd.
