Chapter 3
Sleipnir's Kin
Djanhal, Djanamark, Gotaland
There were stories of distant lands where soft men observed all manner of ceremony when treating with lords and kings. Such customs were strange in these lands and to no one were they stranger than to Sigurd Sigmundson. As such, Sigurd burst into the King's hall unannounced while the King was feasting with his hirdmen.
'"Hjalprek King," Sigurd declared in a loud voice over the din of the feast, "I must travel to the East and I need a horse, the best one you have!"
Rather than take offense at the young upstart, the assembled hirdmen burst into laughter. Before Sigurd would have them answer for mocking him, though, old King Hjalprek raised his hand to quiet them. In those distant lands where a king must be approached with all ceremony and reverence, he would be right to be wroth, but the old King had known Sigurd all his life and saw him as his own grandson, and like a doting grandfather, he indulged the young man in his whims perhaps more than he ought to have done.
"Well met, Sigurd Sigmundson," the King said. "Had you simply asked for a good horse, I would have given it to you, and gladly, and sped you on your way, but because you have asked me for the best horse, I will have you earn it."
"What do you mean?" Sigurd asked.
The old King simply smiled and the hirdmen burst into laughter once more.
* * *
The impatient young Sigurd, being restrained from brawling with the hirdmen for laughing at him not once but twice, was made to wait until the feast had concluded for King Hjalprek to lead him to the pasturelands to the south of his hall. There he kept his stables with all his horses and the horses of his hirdmen. When the horses were not being put to use, they were free to graze and stretch their legs. It was believed that leaving the beasts a measure of their wild nature imparted upon them a more martial spirit that would serve them and their riders well in battle.
"Well, where is this horse, O King?" Sigurd asked.
"A moment, my boy," the King replied. "He knows whenever I venture out and must come to defy me."
As soon as the King said those words, a spot appeared in the distance that soon revealed itself to be a horse with at least a dozen others following after it like a faithful retinue. It was still afar off when it came to a stop but was close enough to appreciate it for what it was. It was at least a hand and or two taller than the other horses around it, well-muscled, with a sleek grey coat. It reared up on its hind legs and gave a whinny before turning back the way it came.
"You see?" the King said. "He first appeared a few years ago and has not borne a man on his back once in all that time. The day I first saw him, a strange old man appeared to me and told me that horse belonged to the line the All-Father's own steed Sleipnir the Eight-legged."
"He must have gotten the four legs from his dam," Sigurd said.
The King shrugged.
"Yes, well, whether it was true or not, who can say? Clearly he is no common horse and the old man said that any man who could ride him would be destined for great fame and fortune. I told my men of this and many have tried to tame the beast. Not one of my horse-grooms or huscarls have managed the feat in all this time. These are men who have made some of the fiercest stallions as meek as lambs. Can you do what these men have failed to do?"
King Hjalprek levelled his gaze at the young man. If the King thought this tale would cow him, he did not know who he was speaking to.
"Am I not Sigmund's son?" Sigurd replied. "Do I not have Volsung blood? If that horse is the best, then he'll be mine."
King Hjalprek laughed.
"Well said, my boy. If you can make him yours, he is yours to have. He likes to graze down by the river."
He motioned to a horse-groom bearing a saddle, a bit and bridle and other gear.
"Take it," the King said, "and good luck to you."
Sigurd accepted the gear from the horse-groom, saying, "Volsungs are natural masters of the horse. I'll have this beast mounted before the sun goes down."
The King laughed again.
"That would be a sight to see, but, sadly, I cannot stay and watch. Again, I say, good luck to you, boy."
With that, the King and his retinue withdrew while Sigurd set out toward the river to claim his prize. Said prize could be found grazing among the tall grass along the riverbed with its retinue close at hand.
Sigurd of course knew how to ride a horse, but he had never ridden one that was not already saddle-broken and did not have the slightest idea about how to do the saddle-breaking himself. If it was a contest of wills, he would not lose to some beast, of that he was certain.
Perhaps the best way was to approach stealthily and take the animal by surprise, but this hardly seemed befitting a proud Volsung. If this horse was truly descended of the mount of the All-Father, then it ought to be met boldly, face-to-face.
Standing before the horse, Sigurd called out to it in a loud voice, "You there, horse! I am Sigurd, son of Sigmund! Hjalprek King esteems you highly, says you are the best of these horses! Many have come before me, tried and failed to tame you, but I will not! I claim you as my own!"
The horse, for its part, seemed none too impressed by this, responding to it with nothing more than a flick of the ear and a swish of the tail. It would have been disappointing if it had only meekly submitted or ran off, so Sigurd was pleased that it would stand to meet his challenge.
Holding up the saddle, Sigurd told the horse, "This saddle is going on your back, this bit in your mouth. Understand?"
The horse shook its head, either as if to say it did not in fact understand or more likely that it refused Sigurd's proposal. However, Sigurd was not overly concerned with the horse's thoughts on the matter. As he walked forward with a measured pace, going neither too quickly nor too slowly, the horse turned its back to him. Was it giving up already?
"You're as tame as a kitten," Sigurd said, disbelieving the creature would be so meek. "Perhaps Hjalprek King was wrong about you."
The one who was wrong, however, was Sigurd. When he got close enough, the horse gave him a taste of its back hooves. The swift kick staggered the Volsung, but horse was not done and delivered a second kick to his face while he was lurching forward from the first. An ordinary man likely would have been killed outright, but Sigurd was no ordinary man.
Laid out flat on his back, reeling from the kick to his face, Sigurd took a moment to reflect on the actions that had brought him to this point and the actions he was about to take.
"So that's how it's going to be..."
Sigurd rose up on his feet, tossed the saddle and bridle aside and proceeded to crack his knuckles, then his neck from side to side, saying once more, "So that's how it's going to be..."
What followed was truly a sight to behold, though there were none to behold it save for the other horses. As such, it was not a tale that would be told in generations to come, but for three days and three nights, Sigurd wrestled with the horse, often quite literally, scarcely resting, never pausing for food or drink lest his opponent gain the advantage of being refreshed as well. In a thousand years, you would not likely find such a man and beast the like of these two. The beast was strong in flesh and in will, but so too was the Volsung, and in the end, Sigurd's dogged persistence won out.
At the last, the horse's legs buckled under it, and though Sigurd was not much more able to stand on his own two feet, he did not grant himself a moment of reprieve, not just yet. He recovered the saddle and bridle he had cast aside three days earlier, then put the saddle on the horse's back and fitted the bridle on its head and set the bit in its mouth.
Taking the reins, he gave them a tug and said, "Come on, horse. Up, up."
Reluctantly, yet resigned to its fate, the horse stood up, and Sigurd then led it to the river to drink. While it was drinking, he fastened the saddle about its belly. He then mounted the horse. He had been bucked off many times in his earlier attempts to get on the horse's back, but by this point, it did not have the energy to resist him.
Once the horse was done drinking, Sigurd gave the reins another tug, saying, "Let's go, horse. We've got a long ways to go."
