TALES FROM THE VOLSUNGA SAGA
Sigmund’s Saga
The Volsunga saga follows the fortunes of the Volsung family, a family of legendary Norse heroes descended from the chief deity of Norse mythology, Òđin. It was first written in Iceland around 1250 AD, although its origins are likely to be much older. Several poems in the Poetic Edda, a collection of medieval Scandinavian poems, tell of events in the saga, such as Fáfnismál and Sigurđarkviđa.
Sigmund’s Saga tells the story of Sigmund, son of Chieftain Volsung. While I have simplified the plot and tried to make the narrative more accessible to a modern audience, the retelling remains faithful to the original saga.
Chapter One: A Gift from the All-Father
He came in the dead of night, an old man with white hair and a long grey beard. He wore a black cloak, and his left eye was missing. The old man held a sword.
He glanced at the longhouse and pulled his hood over his head. Everything was deathly silent. Those who lived in this settlement had long since shut themselves up in their homes. Few things could survive the harsh winter nights. Even the animals that would usually be in their enclosures had been brought inside.
The hooded figure loosened the rope around the training ground gate and pushed it open. It scraped against the hard earth.
At the back of the grounds were several pine trees; some felled, some still standing.
The old man went over to one of the jagged stumps and held the sword above his head. In one swift movement, he drove it down into the tree stump.
The sun was rising. Weak amber light spilt over the horizon. Soon, the first snows of winter would fall over the mountains, decorating them white. Soon, the trees that rose from the earth like great spears would be covered over. Soon, the waterfalls that cascaded down the cliffsides would turn to ice.
Longboats lined the shore. In the sea spray from the crashing waves, they looked like a fleet of wild dragons waiting for their prey. Nearby was a settlement. It was surrounded by log walls to keep out intruders.
The houses were made of thick planks of wood. Their roofs were thatched with tree bark and covered over with turf. They blended seamlessly with their grassy surroundings. At the back of the settlement was the longhouse, a sprawling wooden building held up by thick log pillars. The Chieftain’s Hall was beside it. A much less imposing structure but by no means less impressive. It was built next to an oak tree with strong branches. Chieftain Volsung had decked out his hall with fine fabrics, exotic treasures, and intricate woodcarvings.
Scattered around the settlement were enclosures for different animals such as pigs, goats, and sheep. At the furthest end was the training grounds. A courtyard where the warriors would practice their combat skills.
Sigmund opened his eyes and looked up at the ceiling. His head was pounding from last night’s feast. He had drunk too much, staggered home, and thrown himself onto his bed.
His back ached and he was cold. He had not bothered to wrap himself in furs as he usually would. He slept in the clothes he was wearing: the thick tunic that went down to his knees, the wool trousers, even the silver arm ring his father, the Chieftain, had given him.
Sigmund ran his fingers through his beard, smoothed back his greasy brown hair, and sat up.
He looked at the piles of elegant gold bowls and bejewelled crosses by the door. Sigmund sighed. These were his share of the spoils they had taken from the last raid. He planned to take some of these to the farmer and trade them for goats to sacrifice in honour of Sverrir, one of the warriors who had not made it back home. Sverrir’s deity had been Thór, so an offering of goats would please the god. He also wanted to use some of the treasure to raise a memorial stone for Sverrir and pay someone with knowledge of the runes to inscribe it.
Sigmund could hear raised voices outside. He got up and went over to his weapon pile. He picked out an axe and fastened it to his belt. The weapon was still encrusted with blood. He also picked out a sword in a cloth scabbard. The scabbard had a long leather strap attached to it. Sigmund put the strap around his shoulders so that the sword rested against his back. Then, he headed out of the door.
As Sigmund stepped out of his front door, he fumbled through his belt pouch. There was a barley roll inside. He took it out and bit into it. The roll was chewy and hard to swallow.
There was a crowd of people at the training grounds.
Ulf stood at the back, trying to peer through the gaps in the crowd. He was seven years of age, with shaggy brown hair and big blue eyes. A wooden sword hung by his waist. When the boy was an infant, both his parents were killed by outlaws, and he was taken in by a local farmer.
‘What is happening?’ Sigmund asked Ulf.
‘I cannot tell.’
Sigmund stood on the tips of his toes. Even though he was much taller than most people in the crowd, he still could not make out what was happening.
‘Will you help me train later?’ Ulf asked.
Sigmund ruffled Ulf’s hair but did not say anything. He stepped into the crowd and pushed to the front. He was broad enough that all who stood in his way were easily barged aside.
Ulf sprang forward and quickly followed Sigmund.
At the far end of the grounds was a sword lodged into the stump of a tree. Siggeir was trying to pull out the sword with all his strength, but it did not budge. Siggeir had wedded Signý, Sigmund’s sister, at last night’s feast. He was much older than Signý; his hair was turning grey, and there were wisps of white in his beard. However, he was the Chieftain of a settlement in Götaland and had led many successful raids.
‘What is this?’ Sigmund said. His voice was deep. It had such authority that everybody in the crowd turned to face him.
‘When I passed by the training grounds earlier, I noticed a sword sticking out of a tree trunk. Someone must have put it there while we slept,’ Svend told him.
‘It is a gift from the All-Father,’ the völva declared. She held a birchwood staff and was dressed in a long, hooded lambskin cloak. Around her neck hung glass beads.
‘Òđin has blessed the union between Signý and me,’ Siggeir said. ‘This sword is a gift for me.’
‘A gift you cannot take?’ Svend said. ‘If this is true, then surely Òđin is mocking you, not blessing you.’
Siggeir took out his axe and moved towards Svend.
Svend took out his axe.
The two stood chest-to-chest, staring each other down.
‘Today is not a day for fighting. Put away your weapons,’ Chieftain Volsung said. He was making his way through the training grounds. He did not have to barge past people as Sigmund did because they all moved aside and allowed him to pass.
He was wrapped in a heavy cloak that was embroidered with silver thread and lined with marmot fur. His white hair fell down his back, and his beard was braided.
Svend put his axe back on his belt.
‘As I thought, you are too cowardly to fight me.’ Siggeir put away his axe and stepped back.
‘If you are right, and the sword is meant as a gift for you, then why can you not claim it? Perhaps, Svend is correct, and it is not meant for you,’ Chieftain Volsung said.
‘This sword could be a gift for the Volsung clan,’ the völva said. ‘Why don’t you try to pull it out.’
Siggeir’s face hardened, and his teeth clenched together.
The Chieftain puffed out his chest. ‘My responsibilities lie with the people of this clan. I cannot afford to go raiding as I did when I was younger. A sword such as this should be wielded by a young warrior.’
‘Then, what about your son, Sigmund. He too has the blood of the Volsungs in his veins.’
Before Sigmund could say anything, the people behind shoved him forward.
Chieftain Volsung nodded at him.
Sigmund approached the tree stump. When he passed Siggeir, Siggeir snarled.
Stooping over the stump, Sigmund clasped the handle of the sword. It was smooth. The handles of the swords Sigmund usually used were sharp and rough. Often, after battles, his hands would be callused and bruised.
He pulled on the sword, and to his surprise, it slid from the tree.
Once the blade was free, he held it out and inspected it. Sigmund could not help but admire the craftsmanship; it was far superior to the iron swords he was used to. The metal was smooth and gave an almost perfect reflection of his face. The silver guard and pommel both had intricate gold patterns inlaid into them.
He ran his finger over the edge of the blade. It was sharp. He could feel it slicing through his flesh.
Blood trickled down the sword.
‘The sword, it seems, has found its master,’ the völva announced. ‘Now, you must give it a name.’
Sigmund looked at the völva and then back at his sword. ‘Gram,’ he said.
The crowd cheered, some of them clanging their weapons together.
‘Now that you have Gram, what will you do with the sword I gave you?’ Chieftain Volsung asked. ‘It is too fine to go unused. Perhaps, you could give it to Siggeir as a consolation?’
Sigmund stabbed Gram into the earth and unsheathed his old sword.
He flipped it over so that the point of the blade was in his hand and held it out.
‘I made an oath to the gods that one day this sword would be wielded by one of the greatest warriors in the Volsung clan.’
He handed it to Ulf.
The boy’s eyes lit up. He took the sword. Its weight was too much for him, though, and as soon as Sigmund let go of it, the point clattered to the floor.
Svend noticed Ulf’s wooden sword. ‘Siggeir, now that the lad has a real weapon, he might give you his wooden sword.’
The crowd burst into howls of laughter.
A woman who stood near Ulf snatched the wooden sword and waved it at Siggeir.
Siggeir’s face turned red. He knocked the sword from her hands and stomped away, violently pushing aside anyone who stood in his way.
Chapter Two: The Treasures of the Volsungs
With Gram in his possession, Sigmund’s legend grew. The skalds said it was as if he were a Æsir when he took to the battlefield. His eyes would burn with the same intensity that so often was in Thór’s eyes. The blood in his veins would boil, as it had done so many times for Týr. And after the battle was over, he would throw down his shield, look back at the destruction he had wreaked, and smile. It was even rumoured that the Volsung bloodline was descended from Òđin himself.
Sigmund led many successful raids, bringing back vast riches. One of the treasures he brought back was a bronze cup with bright sapphires set into its base. Chieftain Volsung was so awestruck by the beauty of the cup that he arranged a great feast.
The feast went on for nine days. Horses were sacrificed, and their meat was consumed. The cooks served many different plates of roast meats, countless bowls of rich stews, and the finest cheese platters around. All this food was washed down by near endless streams of mead and ale.
Many skalds came to the feast. Some had six-stringed lyres, some had flutes made from deer bone. They sang songs and recited sagas.
‘That was a fine feast,’ Sigmund said.
‘Will you not stay and drink some more?’ Chieftain Volsung asked.
‘I’ve had my fill.’
Around Sigmund, men and women were strewn across the benches, passed out.
‘If you are going, I will walk with you,’ Svend shouted from across the hall.
He got up and staggered over.
The woman beside Sigmund had not finished her mead before falling asleep. Svend snatched her cup and took a swig.
Sigmund turned to Chieftain Volsung. ‘Goodnight, father.’ The Chieftain was slumped in his throne, fast asleep.
As they stepped out of the hall, a blast of icy air hit them.
‘Don’t expect to see me tomorrow. I intend to spend the next few days in bed.’ Svend said.
Sigmund laughed. ‘I think most of us will do the same.’
When Sigmund finally got home, he collapsed onto his bed and fell asleep.
The next thing he knew, his door was being kicked open.
A warrior came in holding an axe.
He lifted it over his head and charged.
Sigmund threw himself out of bed, dodging the blow.
The warrior turned and took another swing.
Sigmund leapt out of the way and scrambled to his weapon pile.
He grabbed Gram.
The warrior swiped at Sigmund, but this time he rolled over and deflected the blow with Gram. When the sword hit the axe, the axe broke in two.
The warrior’s eyes widened.
Sigmund smiled at him.
The man threw down the axe handle and tried to escape.
But Sigmund was too quick. He got to his feet and stabbed the warrior in the chest.
Sigmund wasted no time in readying himself for battle. He put on his leathers and fastened as many weapons to his belt as possible. In one hand, he wielded Gram; in the other, an axe.
He stepped out of his front door. Fires raged around him, and screams filled the night.
Sigmund roared.
Several of the attackers heard him. They rushed over and lunged at him with their spears.
He dodged their blows and slashed at them with Gram.
They fell to the floor, dead.
Sigmund looked around. The ground was littered with slaughtered livestock. Houses burned, and those who managed to escape were being killed.
His eyes narrowed, and his nostrils flared.
Opposite him, an attacker impaled one of the clan’s boatbuilders. Sigmund charged at him and cut his head from his shoulders.
Then, he hewed his way to the Chieftain’s Hall to see if he could find his father.
The hall burned. Looters ran from it with handfuls of gold coins.
Sigmund chased one of them and cut him down. The coins he carried spilt on the ground. Each one was caked in blood.
‘Sigmund! In here!’
Svend was outside the longhouse. He thrust his spear into one of the attackers.
‘Quick!’
Sigmund ran into the longhouse. He barged several attackers over, making them easy targets for Svend’s spear.
When he was inside, he bolted the door shut.
Chieftain Volsung came over. ‘Another survivor.’
‘How many made it out?’ Sigmund asked.
‘So far, we have twenty-eight. There are more outside, defending the longhouse.’
Sigmund looked at the survivors. Many of them were women and children. Ulf was among them. He sat shivering.
Sigmund unfastened the weapons from his belt and dropped them on the ground. ‘Take a weapon if you need one.’
Sigmund turned to go back outside.
Chieftain Volsung blocked the doorway. ‘We need to be clever. We are outnumbered. If we attack without a plan, we will be slaughtered. Our only hope is to stay together.’
‘We cannot sit here while our homes burn.’
‘We agree with Sigmund,’ a woman said. ‘We must defend our lands.’
‘Very well,’ Chieftain Volsung said. ‘They think they have us pinned down. So, our best chance is if we rush at them while they are not expecting it. Sigmund and I will lead the charge. Those of you with spears stay behind us to prevent us from being flanked. While those who wield axes or swords protect the spearmen at all costs.’
He looked at Sigmund and nodded.
Sigmund closed his eyes. He took a deep breath and slowly breathed out. Then, he opened his eyes and kicked the door open.
The Volsungs managed to push their enemies back. Sigmund alone killed more than fifty men, while Chieftain Volsung fought as if he was young again. They carved through the enemies. When the attackers realised the tides of battle had turned, they tried to flee.
Sigmund threw his axe at one of them. It lodged in between their shoulder blades, and they collapsed.
‘They are fleeing!’ Chieftain Volsung yelled. ‘Throw your spears.’
Spears soared through the air. Some hit their targets, but many missed.
Among those fleeing was a broad warrior with braided hair and a thick beard.
‘Back to the boats,’ he yelled.
Chieftain Volsung threw down his sword and chased him.
He tackled him to the floor and knelt over him. He began pummelling the man’s face with his fists. Then, he wrapped his hands around his neck and pressed down.
Once he was dead, Chieftain Volsung stood up.
‘We will hang him by the gates so that everybody can see what happens to those who attack the Volsungs.’
Many months later, a dwarf came to the settlement. It was rare for dwarves to leave the dark mountains of Niðavellir. He had wild black hair, a gaunt face, and small black eyes. He was jittery, constantly glancing over his shoulder. It was almost as if he had been running from something.
He begged for refuge within the settlement’s walls. The Chieftain laid a hand on his shoulder and told him: ‘if you wish to eat at our table, you must first help gather our food.’ The dwarf dropped to his knees and swore an oath to serve the Volsung clan.
The dwarf was called Regin. He was a skilled blacksmith.
Sigmund, in the meantime, married Hjordís. She was one of the clan’s seamstresses. She had dark blue eyes and long golden hair. Together they had a son named Sigurđ.
One night, Sigmund put an axe in Sigurđ’s crib and said, ‘when I pass, I will not leave you riches. I will not leave you any land. All you will ever own in this life is that which you take for yourself with this weapon.’
Chapter Three: The Glory of Signý
On the shore by the Volsung settlement was the shell of a longboat.
A man knelt inside, smoothing the wood frame with an axe. When he saw the armed strangers sailing towards him, he stood up and glared at them. He tightened his grip on his axe.
Once the boat docked, several of the men got out.
Sigmund’s warband came out of the settlement gates, carrying large round shields. They were dressed in thick leather armour and wore iron helmets with long nose guards.
‘What are you doing here?’ Sigmund yelled.
The tallest among them said, ‘I am Arne, brother of Chieftain Siggeir. I have come to bring a message to your Chieftain.’
The Volsung warriors stood in front of them, blocking their path.
‘If you seek entry into our home, then only one of you can enter,’ Sigmund said. ‘The rest of you must wait here.’
The strangers snarled and clutched their weapons.
Sigmund raised Gram.
When Arne saw the blade, his face paled. He signalled for his warriors to stand down. ‘Very well. We do not seek bloodshed. I will deliver the message alone.’
Arne was escorted into the settlement. He hesitated when he saw the skeleton hanging by the gates.
Svend nudged him with his spear to urge him forward.
Almost a year had gone by since the settlement was pillaged, but the scars still showed. Even though the houses had been rebuilt, their foundations were still blackened by fire damage. The enclosures that were once filled with animals were almost empty. The clan had struggled to keep livestock since the slaughter. The animals could still smell the blood that had been spilt.
Only a few people were outside. Most were either working in the longhouse or tending to their farms.
Arne was taken to the Chieftain’s Hall.
Sigmund put Gram away and entered. He gestured for Arne to follow and told the other warriors to wait outside.
The hall was awash with warm candlelight given off by a candelabra. At the centre of the hall was a stone hearth that housed a crackling fire. On the walls were bearskins, and at either side of the room were two long tables.
Chieftain Volsung sat on a wooden throne.
‘Father, there is a message for you.’
‘Speak, then,’ Chieftain Volsung said.
Sigmund grabbed Arne and shoved him forwards.
When Arne regained his balance, he approached the throne. Smoke billowed from the hearth. It choked his lungs, forcing him to cough as he passed.
Chieftain Volsung turned to face him.
‘I am Arne, brother of Chieftain Siggeir. My brother asks that you attend a feast he is holding. As he is married to your daughter, he feels it is his duty to help the Volsung clan rebuild. At the feast, he intends to discuss how best he can aid you.’
Sigmund came forward and barged Arne out of the way. ‘Surely this is a trap. When we saw Siggeir last, we did not part on good terms. He seeks to draw away our warriors with this offer of aid, so he could take our homes without a fight. He is nothing but a coward.’
Arne unsheathed his knife and held it to Sigmund’s neck. ‘My brother is no coward.’
‘Enough!’ Chieftain Volsung shouted, his voice echoing through the hall. He got to his feet.
Arne lowered his knife.
Chieftain Volsung addressed Sigmund. ‘You, of all people, know of the struggles we have faced in rebuilding our homes. Any offers of help we get should be looked upon with gratitude, not scorn. Whatever your qualms with Siggeir, you must remember this offer was also sent by Signý, and I trust my daughter. So, let us go to this feast and see what they have to say.’
‘But, father — ’
‘Enough.’
Sigmund threw off his helmet and stormed out of the hall.
Hjordís stood weaving on her loom. She was making a sail for the new longboat. ‘How long will you be gone?’ she asked.
‘I will not be away too long,’ Sigmund told her.
‘Very well.’
Sigmund kissed her forehead and went over to Sigurđ.
He knelt in front of him.
The boy was playing with a wooden ship, pretending it was sailing through the air. Every day, he reminded Sigmund more of himself. He had his deep brown eyes.
Sigmund put his hand on Sigurđ’s toy ship.
Sigurđ looked at his father. Anger raged in his eyes. Sigmund recognised this. Luckily, he had also inherited his mother’s level-headedness, and the anger quickly turned to affection.
‘Now, son, I am to go away. If all goes well, it will not be for long. While I am gone, you must keep your mother safe. Can you do that?’
Sigurđ nodded.
‘Seeing you reminds me of a boy I knew when I was young. He was about your age when he passed. We had not had a good harvest that year, and there was not enough food to go around. In the end, he starved to death.’
Sigmund sighed and bowed his head.
‘What I am trying to say is that the world is a cruel place. It cares nothing for our lives. We do what we must to survive. But, in the end, we always lose. Even Òđin himself is destined to die at Ragnarök. He knows this. But he does not wallow. He does not wait to die. He builds up his army, so when that day finally comes, he can die with honour. That is what we must do. It is not for us to decide what battles await us in this life, but to fight them with courage.’
Sigmund gave Sigurđ back his boat and left.
Waves crashed against the boat. The spray stung Sigmund’s eyes. He had missed being on the water. The frantic back and forth of the boat, praying to the gods that it would not sway too much and capsize. The groans and shrieks the wood made as it was pummelled by a ferocious ocean. Hopefully, the clan’s longboat would be completed by next summer, and they could go raiding again.
Sigmund turned to his father. He was gazing at the distant fjords and jagged coastlines. He had not left his homeland since he was a young warrior.
At Sigmund’s other side was Ulf. He had not been on a raid and was still uneasy at being at sea. The only reason the Chieftain wanted to bring him along was to get him used to it. He was looking downwards, trying to breathe as steadily as he could. His helmet was on his lap.
The rest of the Volsung warriors had stayed behind in case Siggeir ambushed the settlement.
Arne’s oarsmen surrounded them. They churned up the ocean with their oars. Their strokes were in perfect unison. Arne knelt at the bow, barking orders.
The journey was short. As soon as land disappeared from one horizon, it appeared on the other. Götaland was covered in dense forests. They looked the same as the forests that bordered the Volsung’s settlement. Sigmund also noticed Siggeir’s longboats were by the shore. He wondered why there was so many of them. It was the height of summer, so why were the boats not being used for raiding?
Sigmund thumped Ulf’s back. ‘You will be glad to know we will soon be on land.’
Ulf looked up. His skin was pale.
‘Leave the lad alone,’ Chieftain Volsung told Sigmund.
Ulf put his helmet back on.
They dropped anchor and waded ashore.
‘Chieftain Siggeir’s lands are up ahead,’ Arne said. He led them down a dirt path that cut through a grove of pine trees.
Branches snapped underfoot like bones crunching. The thin sea air was quickly suffocated by the thick, piny aroma of the woodlands.
He brought them to a circular fortress with thick walls made up of wooden planks and a gate that was sealed shut. There was a walkway on top so that if it was under siege, archers could stand on them, raining down arrows. Sigmund was impressed. Siggeir’s settlement had much better defences than the Volsungs settlement.
Arne went up to the gate and banged on it. ‘Open up!’
After a few seconds, the gate raised.
‘Come,’ Arne said.
When they were inside, the gate snapped shut like the hungry teeth of a guillotine.
Greeting them was more than fifty well-armed men. Chieftain Siggeir was at the front alongside Signý. She wore a fine wool dress. The years had not been kind to her. Her skin was grey and leathery. Her hair, once a radiant golden-brown, was now grey and straw-like.
Siggeir stepped forward and walked towards Chieftain Volsung. ‘Greetings, old friend,’ he said, not even acknowledging Sigmund or Ulf.
Sigmund looked at Signý. Her eyes were wide. She tried to mouth something to him, but he could not read her lips.
Sigmund noticed movement in the corners of his vision. The warriors that stood with Siggeir were spreading out.
They were surrounding them.
‘It is an ambush!’ Sigmund yelled.
But it was too late.
Siggeir took out his knife and stabbed Chieftain Volsung in the heart.
Sigmund tried to take out Gram, but the warriors around him closed in too quickly.
He felt fists and elbows slam into his back. His feet were swept away from underneath him, and he fell to the ground.
His helmet was taken from him, and he was stripped of all his weapons except Gram.
A foot pressed into the back of his head so that his face was forced into the dirt.
He could taste the soil.
‘Get him up!’ Siggeir commanded.
Hands wrapped around Sigmund’s shoulders and yanked him to his knees.
Siggeir was in front of Sigmund, peering over him. With his knife, he smeared the blood of Chieftain Volsung all over Sigmund’s face.
Sigmund spat at him.
Siggeir wiped the spit off his face. ‘Take him to the blacksmith.’
Someone punched Sigmund in the nose. Blood gushed down his face. Then, the warriors behind Sigmund shoved him back down into the dirt. They dragged him into the smithy.
Once he was inside, he was pulled to his knees again. This time one of the warriors clutched his jaw.
A cocktail of spittle, blood, and dirt frothed from Sigmund’s mouth.
‘Give me his sword,’ Siggeir said.
One of the warriors drew Gram from its scabbard and gave it to Siggeir.
He examined it.
‘Finally.’
He lay it on the ground and went over to pick up an iron smithing hammer.
‘You see,’ Siggeir told him. ‘Not long ago, an old man with a long grey beard came to see me. He claimed to be Òđin and that he would tell me how to destroy Gram. I did not believe him. Surely the All-Father would look like a great warrior and not some worn-out wanderer. When I ordered my warriors to escort the old man from my lands, though, two ravens swooped down from the sky and pecked out their eyes. The old man was Òđin, after all. He gave me a shard of metal that he had broken from Gungnir. He told me to have it smelted with iron and to forge the metal into a smithing hammer. Only then, he said, can such a divine weapon be destroyed.’
He picked up the hammer and raised it above his head.
‘Let us see.’
He slammed the hammer down on Gram, shattering the blade into pieces.
Siggeir tossed the hammer aside and smiled at Sigmund. ‘You are not the war-god the skalds make you out to be. At sunrise, you will be executed, and everyone will see what you really are.’
Siggeir spat at Sigmund. ‘Take him away.’
Sigmund was dragged to the pit house.
The warriors flung him inside and slammed the door.
Sigmund landed on Ulf. The boy had been beaten far worse than Sigmund and was a bloody mess.
The warriors jammed a spear in the door handle so the door could not be opened from the inside. They need not have bothered, though, because neither of the warriors was conscious.
The pit house door rattled.
Signý glanced back at the Chieftain’s Hall. She could hear the booming voice of the skald reciting his saga. Most of his audience were far too drunk to follow what he was saying. They banged on the tables and howled like wild beasts.
Signý quickly removed the spear from the handle and opened the door.
Sigmund and Ulf were crammed inside. Their eyes were closed, but she could tell that they were still alive because both of their chests moved up and down. Dried blood covered their faces; it had matted into their beards. Their tunics had been torn and ripped. Any exposed skin that was not stained red with blood was covered in black bruises.
‘Brother,’ she whispered.
Sigmund did not stir.
She did not think he would. That is why she had snuck out two buckets of water from the animal enclosures.
She picked up one of the buckets and emptied it over Sigmund.
The water roused him. His eyes feebly opened, and he began to cough.
‘Quiet,’ Signý whispered.
He put one of his hands over his mouth to deaden the sound.
‘We need to get you out of here,’ Signý told him. ‘I know of a boat not far from here that is not part of Siggeir’s fleet. If we can make it there without being seen, you can use it to return home.’
When Sigmund had finished spluttering, he wiped the bloody phlegm he had coughed up on the dirt wall and tried to sit up.
He was far too weak.
‘Help,’ he whispered.
Signý could not reach his arms to pull him up, so she grabbed his legs and dragged him out of the pit house.
Once he was far enough out, she let go of his legs and took his hands. She heaved him up.
It was a few moments before Sigmund was confident enough to let go of Signý’s hand. And even then, he was unsteady, swaying back and forth, constantly buckling under his own weight.
Signý picked up the spear and gave it to Sigmund. ‘Here.’
Sigmund took the spear and used it to take some of his weight.
‘Thank you,’ he whispered.
Now that he could see Signý in the half-light, he could tell that she was dressed for the wilds. She was wrapped in a fur cloak. Strapped to her back was a hunting bow, and on her belt hung an axe. There was also a bag slung over her shoulder.
She fumbled through it and took out a leather flask.
She gave it to Sigmund. ‘Drink this. It will help with the pain.’
While he drank, she helped Ulf.
She threw the second bucket of water over him and dragged him out of the pit house.
Ulf was far worse than Sigmund.
She helped him stand up and propped him against the pit house wall.
‘Here.’ She handed him a flask. ‘Quickly. We need to leave this place.’
With trembling hands, Ulf took the flask and drank it.
When he was finished, Signý snatched it and put it back in her bag.
She scooped both of them up and guided them to the side gate.
It was fastened together by thick rope.
Letting go of Sigmund, she took her axe and started severing the rope.
Without her support, Sigmund stumbled and collapsed. His spear clattered to the floor beside him.
Signý glanced towards the Chieftain’s Hall, hoping nobody had heard. She turned back and continued severing the rope.
When it snapped, she tossed it aside and pulled the gate open.
She went over and helped Sigmund back up, remembering to collect the spear.
‘We have to move quickly,’ she whispered.
At the first opportunity, they left the path and turned into the forest.
Shadows swarmed around them. Wolfs howled, and ravens cawed. Thick earthy fragrances filled the air.
Neither Sigmund nor Ulf could make out much of their surroundings because the skin around their eyes had swelled and puffed up. They found walking much more comfortable, though, because the earth beneath their feet had become soft and spongy.
The deeper they went, the wilder the trees grew. Their branches seemed to reach further, and the leaves on them were bushier. It made the forest seem more and more like a labyrinth.
They stopped by a log. Signý dropped Sigmund and Ulf on a bed of leaves. ‘Rest for a while. We are far enough into the forest that if they learn of your escape, they will never find us before nightfall.’
Sigmund began coughing violently while Ulf lay there; his eyes were barely open.
Signý went over to a tree and scraped off a strip of the bark with her axe. Then, she picked up some dry grass from the ground to place inside the bark.
Signý brought the shavings back over to the log and knelt on the ground. She took a piece of flint, a char cloth, and a fire striker out of her bag. She used them to spark a flame onto the bark and then blew on it until it grew into a fire.
Signý sat down by the log.
‘I have something for you, brother.’ Signý took out a small bag that she had hidden inside her cloak. ‘This bag contains the shards of Gram. I was able to sneak them out while Siggeir was preparing for the feast. Take them back with you to our homelands.’
She handed the bag to Sigmund, but he refused to take it. ‘I cannot return. My Chieftain is dead. To leave this land without trying to avenge his death would bring great dishonour on our clan.’
‘Very well,’ Signý said. ‘Do you also wish to stay and fight, Ulf?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then, I shall cross the water alone. I will take the shards and bring back men to fight.’
She took the bow and quiver off her back and handed it to Sigmund. The axe she left where it lay.
‘Farewell,’ she said before slipping through the trees.
Sigmund broke into another fit of coughing, each one bringing up more blood.
Ulf let out a pained groan.
They lay there, breathing heavily. The ground beneath them was soft. The heat from the fire gently warmed their aching bones. Insects scuttled around them, and the sound of a distant stream lulled them to sleep.
They were in the forest for over a week. They used the spear to catch salmon from the nearby stream and Signý’s bow to hunt for game.
On the eighth day, Signý returned.
She emerged through the trees, not as the wife of Siggeir but as a warrior of the Volsung clan. She wore a set of thick leather armour, and on her head was a helmet Regin had made for her. The iron glimmered in the golden sunlight. He had also given her a knife, a sword, and a shield.
She led two dozen warriors that were dressed for battle. One of them carried a big bag.
Sigmund got up and went over to greet her.
‘We have come to avenge our Chieftain,’ Svend told him.
Sigmund nodded and put his hand on his shoulder. ‘We will make Siggeir pay.’
‘Come,’ Sigmund said, gesturing for them to follow him into camp. ‘Let us sit for a while.’
The warrior who had been carrying the bag dropped it near to Ulf. It thudded when it hit the dry earth, and its contents clanged.
‘Regin has sent you and Ulf armour and weapons,’ Signý said.
Ulf opened up the bag and began sifting through it.
‘We will attack at nightfall,’ Signý told them. ‘They will not be expecting it, and I know the layout of the settlement.’
‘They must have seen your boat come to shore. Surely, they will be expecting an attack,’ Sigmund said.
Signý shook her head. ‘We sailed here via a different route. I know Siggeir’s scouts. I know their blind spots. They would not have seen us approach.’
The warriors looked at Sigmund.
‘You know Siggeir’s clan better than any of us, Signý. I will gladly follow your lead. It is only because of you that we have this chance. We owe you a great deal, sister.’
They waited until the sky had become so dark that they could no longer make out what was around them.
One of the warriors had set fire to a branch to use as a torch. It gave off a flickering light.
Apart from Signý ordering people not to stray, everything was quiet. It was as if the forest was anticipating the bloodshed to come.
Sigmund caught his foot on a branch and stumbled. While they had waited for nightfall, they had drunk ale from flasks. Sigmund had drunk his too quickly. His head felt heavy, and it seemed as if the earth swayed beneath his feet.
When they eventually reached the edge of the forest, they threw down the torch and stamped out the fire.
‘The settlement is up ahead,’ Signý whispered. ‘We will go in through the side gate. Now the light is gone, stay close to me.’
The warriors huddled closer together and followed Signý.
When they reached the gates, they stopped and looked up.
‘Someone will have to climb the walls and open the gates from the other side,’ Signý whispered.
‘I will go,’ Svend whispered.
While he climbed the walls, the others readied their weapons.
Signý noticed that Ulf was trembling. Whether it was because of the chill in the air or fear, she did not know.
She squeezed his arm with her free hand and smiled at him. ‘Do not fear this night,’ she whispered, ‘for tomorrow we drink in Valhalla.’
Epilogue
‘If we do not return by the first snowfall of winter, then you must assume we are all dead,’ Signý said when she left for Götaland with the Volsung warriors.
Outside, the snow had not only settled on the distant mountain peaks but was beginning to smother the trees. In truth, Signý had not intended to return. None of them had.
Hjálprek was chosen to be the new Chieftain. He was strong and knew how to handle himself in battle. There was little time for the clan to mourn. Winter was upon them, and any slip up could mean freezing to death.
The following summer, when the longboat was finished, a small group of scouts sailed to Götaland.
Siggeir’s fortress was a graveyard. The scouts walked amongst the bodies. Some corpses had limbs hacked off, some had their flesh picked away by carrion birds. The scouts went into the houses, filling their pockets with anything valuable. When they saw bodies they recognised, they dragged the corpses out of the fortress and put them on one of Siggeir’s old ships. Sigmund and Signý’s bodies were found in Siggeir’s hall, surrounded by a sea of corpses. The scouts carried both of them out and put them on a ship of their own. Once they had put all of the Volsung warriors on ships, they set the boats aflame and pushed them out to sea. They took the rest of the ships back with them, splitting up so that there were two men for each boat.
Later that summer, Hjordís, Sigmund’s widow, became ill. At first, it was a cough. But then she began to find it difficult to breathe and felt exhausted all the time. This meant that, despite his youth, Sigurđ had to take charge of the household responsibilities.
Before the year ended, Hjordís had died.
Glossary
Æsir
The principal clan of gods in Norse mythology.
Asgard
Asgard is a golden city at the top of the Nine Worlds. It is the home of the Æsir clan.
Götaland
A region that is now part of modern-day Sweden.
Gungnir
The spear of Òđin.
Niðavellir
The realm of the dwarves in the Nine worlds of Norse mythology.
Òđin
The chief deity of Norse mythology.
Ragnarök
Ragnarök is when the gods fall, and the Norse world is destroyed.
Skalds
Skalds are the poets of Old Norse.
Thór
The god of thunder.
Týr
A war god.
Valhalla
A majestic hall in Asgard that houses fallen warriors. It is ruled over by Òđin, and only those who he deems worthy may enter.
Völva
Völva’s are Viking seeresses.
