The bridal feast went on late into the night. Wine and ale and mead flowed freely, and the smell of smoking hot meats filled the hall. Siglinda sat in the high seat beside Lygni, at the east end of the hall before a long table set up for their guests; a still longer table ran the length of the room on either side of the hearthpit between the double rows of carved pillars. Minstrels played on harps and viols from the loft rooms above the entrance, and from the open door came the sound of music and singing and the bright glow of bonfires where the housefolk danced in a ring.

  Lyngi’s hall was large and gloomy, built of massive logs with two rows of pillars supporting the roof. The light from the hearthfires and the moonlight sifting through the smoke vent did little to dispel the canopy of shadow that hung in the rafters like a cloud. Near the center of the hall stood its unique feature: between the high-seat and the hearth grew a massive oak, rooted deep in the earth, its broad trunk and gnarled branches shrouded in the darkness of the roofbeams.

  Siglinda had always felt a kinship with the oak, imprisoned in a smoky hall when she was sure it would have preferred the free winds and open meadows it had once known. It was typical of Lyngi, she thought, to take what he wanted and use it for his own ends, with no concern for its own meaning. When she was younger, she had used to climb into its lower branches and hide there from the servants in charge of her. She had pretended that she was safe and secure among its rustling leaves, as she had once felt in the loft room of her childhood. Now she knew that there was no safety anywhere; but still she was fond of the old oak.

  She sat and gazed at it from the high-seat as if its familiar presence could give her some comfort, though it was only a dark outline against the ruddy blaze of the hearth. Her stiff unfamiliar clothes constricted her breathing, and the heavy rim of the bridal crown pressed down on her forehead. The guests that passed to and fro before the table seemed like phantoms in a fevered dream. She had some dim remembrance of standing with Lyngi before them all while sonorous words were spoken, and knowing that she was being wedded to him; but it was all unreal and dreamlike.

  Beside her Lyngi sprawled in the seat, drinking from a carved goblet. He kept pressing her to drink, ordering her cup refilled, but she had had enough wine, it only made her dizzy. She stole a glance at him, splendid in a dark blue velvet cloak embroidered in silver, with the golden hilt of a sword belted at his thigh. His paunch bulged over his belt; his red lips writhed in his curling black beard when he grinned; his skin was coarse and oily. She flinched and looked away. She hoped that he would drink until he could not stand, so that he could not climb the stairs to the loft above the hall; beyond that hope she did not dare to venture. Her thoughts were fantastic and whirling, and returned again and again to the same place: there was some hope in the oak. If only she could cling to the oak she would be safe. But that was nonsense, a hopeless fantasy.

  She caught sight of Astrid on the other side of the board, dressed in her finest gown, nodding and smiling to her. She tried to smile back, but her face was stiff with weariness. She knew that Astrid only meant to encourage her, but there was no help in her. Astrid would tuck her into the bridal bed with cheerful jests and leave her there, with no notion that her heart had died in her.

  Lyngi leaned over and clasped her around the waist, pulling her closer, breathing the fumes of ale in her face. “You have not much to say, my sweet flower. Has all this excitement struck you dumb?”

  She bit her lip and flushed, casting down her eyes.

  “We shall do better later on, eh?” He slapped her thigh and released her, reaching for his cup again. She sat with her hands clasped hard in her lap, trying to still her trembling, trying not to think of the candlelit loft and the hours that stretched before her.

  A murmur of voices swelled and died near the door. Guests began to fall silent. Siglinda looked up to see a man approaching, striding with purposeful tread down the hall between the hearth fires and the pillars. He wore a gray cloak and a wide brimmed hat pulled low over one eye; at his heels stalked two great gray wolves. Beside her Lyngi tightened his fist and leaned forward with frowning brows.

  The stranger halted before the high-seat and looked up at them. At sight of his rugged face with its one piercing blue eye and its other eye hidden, Siglinda was thrust back into a long-vanished memory. He gave her a glance from his one eye, but it was to Lyngi he spoke.

  “Greetings to the lord of the Hreidgoths, and honor on your wedding day. I bring a gift to your house.” He threw back his cloak and brought from beneath it a sword in a sheath, then with a single swift motion he drew the sword and held it high. A murmur of admiration ran through the throng, for it was no ordinary weapon. It gleamed in the firelight with a golden light, and down its blade were incised glowing runes, ancient and powerful.

  Lyngi rose from his seat, leaning on his fists., his black brows drawn together in suspicion. “What sword is that, and why do you draw it in my hall?”

  “It is my gift,” said the stranger, with a glitter in his one eye. “This is a sword for a hero; it was forged in Asgard by the mightiest smith alive. It is named Gram. With it the dragon Fafnir shall be slain and his treasure-hoard recaptured.” He turned, drew back his arm, and with a great blow drove the sword to its hilt into the oak tree. Siglinda gave a sharp gasp, as if her own heart had been riven.

  The stranger threw the belt and sheath over a branch, then turned to Lyngi. “Whoever can pull the sword out of its resting place is the owner; he alone can wield it.” He bowed briefly to Siglinda, then turned and strode back the way he had come, with the two gray beasts at his heels, and men moved in haste out of his way.

  Silence held for a long moment after the door had shut behind him. Siglinda gazed at the sword hilt in the tree, her heart beating fast. Lyngi stood with his mouth a little open in astonishment, as if uncertain whether to give way to outrage or not at the stranger’s boldness. At last he snapped his mouth shut, slapped the board with his palm and strode from his place to stand before the oak.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  At once clamor broke out. His grown sons and cousins and the other guests crowded around him, offering to try to pull out the sword.

  He silenced them with a fierce gesture and stepped up to the tree. Setting his hands on the hilt he tugged at it, at first tentatively, then with greater force. Siglinda could see that the sword did not move. Lyngi then braced both feet, took a fresh grip on the hilt, and began to pull with the brutal, steady strength that had won him his title of “mighty.” His thews bulged and rippled with the effort, his face grew scarlet, the great veins throbbed in his forehead, and his breath came in groans; men standing by murmured in awe, for they had seldom seen so great a display of strength. But the swordhilt stood unwavering in the tree, as if it were welded in place.

  At last Lyngi dropped his hands and stood back, his chest heaving. He folded his arms, and looking around with a sardonic grunt, said, “No man alive can move that sword—unless there is an undiscovered hero among you?”

  Amid a burst of amusement Svarang, Lyngi’s eldest son, a man with the muscles of a blacksmith, stood forth. “I would like to try,” he said. Lyngi shrugged and moved away, and Svarang made his attempt, but with no greater success. Then the rest surged forward, shouting and eager to try their strength, but no matter how long or hard they tried, no one could move the sword as much as a hair’s breadth.

  Lyngi flung himself into the seat beside Siglinda and called for more ale, and the long night’s feast went on. At intervals all night his warriors made fresh attempts to pull out the sword, but all their labor was spent in vain. Lyngi stared at it now and again with a frown, shaking his head as if his thoughts were dark. But Siglinda gazed at the sword in the oak until her eyes burned and the hilt blurred in her sight, with a chill wonder stirring in her heart.

  At last, far too soon, came the moment she had dreaded. The men gathered around Lyngi, slapping his shoulders and lifting their cups, and the women came to lead her away. Time seemed to flow in jerks and starts; she was so tired that she stumbled as she crossed the room, and bit her lip to stifle the tears that sprang to her eyes. It seemed only a moment before she was climbing the stairway to the loft room in the midst of the throng of women.

  The room above the entranceway had been decorated for the occasion; juniper and sweet-smelling herbs strewed the floor, and firelight flickered on the rich colors of the bed quilt. Amid forced merriment and stifled whispers, Astrid undid the heavy links of the necklace around Siglinda’s neck and unwound the silver belt from her waist. The women helped her pull off the velvet gown. Clad only in her shift, with the cold weight of the bridal crown pressing on her brow, she was led to the bed. She sat in it, and Astrid pulled the quilt up over her cold arms, chattering advice and good cheer and occasional sharp orders to the serving maids. In her fog of weariness Siglinda could make no sense of the words, but she clung to the sound of the cheerful, commonplace voice for the comfort it gave her. Abruptly Astrid ceased her chatter. Siglinda heard the clatter of the men’s boots on the stairs.

  The women drew aside as they entered in a flood of darker, richer colors. Lyngi walked among them, tall and broad, his face flushed with wine and heat. His eyes glittered at sight of her. She felt as if she were floating outside her body; she was aware of little else but colors and patterns: the flashing of gems in swordhilts and necklaces, the bright and dark varicolored squares of the quilt.

  Lyngi sat down in the chair and the men’s backs hid him from view. They helped him draw off his boots and unbuckle his swordbelt. At last he rose with a mighty expulsion of breath and tossed his cloak aside, staggering on his feet. The women fled down the stairs; Astrid leaned down to give her a final pat and a kiss. Her lips felt hot on Siglinda’s ice-cold cheek. Siglinda looked up, wishing to delay her, but could think of no words adequate to speak. “Do not look so stricken, child,” Astrid murmured, patting her shoulder. “You must be wise.”

  Siglinda shook her head helplessly, but Astrid was gone, bustling down the stairs with the others. Only the men remained, and they were leaving as well. “You need no help in mounting the bridal bed,” said a man, too loudly. “You’ve had practice enough.”

  There was a flurry of scowls; the drunken man was hustled off down the stairs. Gunnulf, Lyngi’s grave brother-in-law, gave her a clear pitying glance as he turned to follow the others. She was left alone with Lyngi.

  He drained the last swallow from his cup and set it down, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. Images flew through her mind: her father’s house in flames, Astrid’s kind plump face, the stalwart oak tree, the stranger plunging the glittering sword into its heart; but none of them brought her any help. He strode toward her, his shadow falling across the bed, quenching the glowing red and blue pattern of the quilt. He yawned as he pulled off his shirt. “I need some sleep,” he mumbled. “But not just yet.” He reached for her. Closing her eyes, she emptied her mind of thought and closed her heart to fear and hope alike.

  * * *

  Winter still lay hard on the land, but the first faint breath of spring softened the air as Sigmund led his little band of outlaws back to the forests of his childhood. They had spent the bitter time of the year in the wooded dales of the south, but always when the brief spring came again, he felt drawn back to the lands his father had owned. Three years had passed since he had lit the pyre for Wulf; three times the leaves had fallen to bury deeper the ashes in the deserted clearing, but it seemed as if only yesterday he had stood and watched gray smoke spiral into a clouded sky.

  Sigmund had grown in those years. He was hard and lean, and his sun-burnt face was grim, his blue eyes swift to blaze in anger. He led his men well, and they were feared in all the valleys of the coastlands; but sickness and battle had taken their toll. Where his father had led sixty men at most, only twenty-one now rode in ragged file at Sigmund’s back, and of them two spat blood-flecked spittle and coughed continually. He hoped to lie in the uplands and let them rest until summer came, and maybe recruit a fresh force from the disaffected folk of the region.

  The roads through this mountainous region were little more than forest trails; Sigmund had to guide his horse carefully along the rocky ridges, criss-crossed with muddy rivulets of melting snow. The branches overhanging the trail bent low with their burden of sodden snow, honey-combed with melting drops from the branches above. The trail was dark under the leaden sky. He was glad to see a wider place ahead, where the trees drew back to let a pale wash of light filter between their branches. He lifted his hand and called over his shoulder to his lieutenant Halvdan, “We will rest here. We have a hard climb ahead of us, but there is no sense in hurrying.”