King Siggeir travelled to King Volsung's court to woo Sigmund's fair sister with the promise of an alliance to fight alongside King Volsung in the wars with his many foes about him. Signy misliked the match, but their father would not countenance her refusal once oaths had been exchanged between him and King Siggeir. Likewise, when King Siggeir invited King Volsung to his court, proud Volsung paid no heed to his daughter's warnings of the Sikling's ill intent in inviting them there. He would listen and so he walked right into the trap that was set for him. Though King Volsung and his sons fought valiantly against the treacherous Gotar. Many fell to their blades, bur at last mighty Volsung was slain and his sons subdued and led off in chains.

From there, the sons of Volsung were placed in stocks and it seemed that they would be left out to starve, a slow, miserable, ignominious death, denying them the honor of Valhalla that was a warrior's due. However, there was a different doom that awaited them. On the second night after their father fell, a great wolf emerged from the woods and came for Sigi the eldest. Their father's grandsire was his namesake and none could say that he shamed that name, but as he was, wounded from many blows and bound hand and foot, no matter how he struggled, there was naught he could do to deliver himself from the wolf's ravening fangs, nor could his brothers come to his aid. The stocks were no common work of iron and wood. There were the twisted runes of Troll-magic about them that no mortal man could thwart, even those with the blood of gods and Giants flowing in their veins as the Volsungs boasted. So the first of the Volsungs met his end.

The next night the wolf returned, this time for Rerir the second son. His fate was the same of the first. And so it continued night after night. Each night the wolf would come and tear a brave son of Volsung to pieces. This was the tenth night, and only Sigmund remained.

Before the sun set, the varlet returned. He bore two skins of mead, but he only needed one. The varlet was in the service of Sigmund's sister and so he obeyed his mistress' command without question, even though it most surely defied the will of the King. Perhaps he was that loyal and perhaps he was too simple to know better. Before the wolf first appeared, he was rather heavy-laden, bringing food and drink to the ten captive Volsungs, but as their numbers dwindled, his burden was lightened. Each time Signy sent him in the hope that she had not lost another brother and each time that hope was dashed. When she learned of the wolf and Sigi's fate, she devised different tricks to ward off the devourer of her kin, but each of these tricks failed, time and time again. Sigmund did not begrudge his sister for failing, for he knew she was doing all that she could, far more cleverly than any of her brothers.

The varlet said nothing, only offered Sigmund a drink of mead, a morsel of bread, a scrap of meat that was probably thrown to the dogs from the table of King Siggeir's hall as he and his surviving warriors feasted in celebration of their victory. No doubt the treacherous Siggeir was making a display of the sword Gram he had coveted so. Only Sigmund had proven worthy to draw Gram from the great tree Barnstok, the living pillar at the heart of his father's hall. Siggeir offered Sigmund gold, the sword's weight thrice over, but if Siggeir had been worthy of the sword, he would have been able to draw it himself. It was a bitter thought to think that Siggeir's lust for the sword had doomed the Volsungs, but surely even he could not be so small a man as to break faith and honor for a single blade, no matter how fine and keen a blade it was.

Whatever drove Siggeir to his betrayal, it had wrought ruin on the Volsungs. Sigmund vowed that he would see his father and his house avenged. He prayed to the All-Father that he would win that vengeance by his own or hand or, failing that, the black-clad Disir would drag wretched Siggeir down to Hel.

Sigmund's brain swam with such dark thoughts and his heart swelled with bloodlust that could not be satisfied, so the last thing he would have expected was for the varlet to take a jar he carried and proceed to daub Sigmund's face with honey.

The varlet said nothing, but then he never did. Sigmund did not need him to answer, though. He knew this was Signy's latest ploy to thwart the wolf, though he could not imagine how it was supposed to work. The varlet was not going to say. When he was done smearing the honey on Sigmund's face, he turned and began to leave, drinking from the skin Signy had prepared for Haki in the hope that yesterday's trick had worked. The dead brother's portion of mead had become his reward for these trips to the woods.

The varlet was well on his way back to the castle when the sun dipped below the horizon. It would not be long before the wolf came. There was little Sigmund could do but steel himself for the coming doom, but if there was something, anything he could do, he could not let the chance slip past him.

Even with its pad-footed step, Sigmund ears were alerted to the wolf's approach. Sigmund strained against the stocks in vain. They would not yield, just as they had not yielded even in the slightest over the past ten days. Nine brave Volsungs had fallen prey to this cruel beast, helpless as babe as flesh was rent and bones crushed by ravening jaws. And now it was Sigmund's turn.

A low growl rumbled in the creature's throat as it drew closer. In nights past, it would waste little time getting to its bloody work, but this time it snuffed about curiously around his face. Drawn to the smell of the honey, it began to lap at Sigmund's face. For a moment, he recalled the dogs around the table in his father's hall. When he was small, he would play on the floor with them while his father's warriors feasted. Those dogs would lick his face much the same way, but this was not one of those dogs. This was his brothers' bane and it would be his bane as well if he did not do something.

Unable to move hand or foot, there was only one thing he could do to strike back at this foe-beast. When it's tongue stretched out near his mouth, he seized it with his teeth, biting, pulling, and tearing it out at the roots. The beast yelped in pain, spraying him with blood as it jerked back its head. While it was gurgling on its blood, something unexpected happened. Sigmund could feel the witch-work on the stocks vanish and they were once again no more than simple wood and iron. Though weakened from his ten days of being trapped in the stocks with only the meager food and drink his sister could sneak to him through the varlet, Sigmund broke free with little effort.

He turned to face the wolf. Blood mixed with drool dribbled down from the beast's chops as it retreated a step seeing its intended prey unbound. A beaten dog will flee if it can, but a wolf is a prouder sort. Perhaps it thought Sigmund's feat of strength was all he could manage. Perhaps it simply wanted to avenge the wound that had been wrought on it. Whatever its reason, the beast lunged at him and Sigmund took hold of those dread jaws that tore his nine brothers, tearing jaw from skull in a single fierce motion.

Whatever pride the wolf had was broken and it ran off into the woods. Though Sigmund would have liked to deal the deathblow himself, he was comforted enough to know that the beast would not live long. Perhaps a slower death slinking away bleeding and broken was a more fitting end for the creature.

He tossed the wolf's jaw aside and took one last look at the bloodied stocks where his brothers met their end. He then looked toward King Siggeir's castle. Would that he could exact his vengeance then and there, but if he was going avenge the Volsungs, he needed to recover his strength first. He then turned to the woods. There he would be as a ravening wolf himself until the day would come when Volsung fury would be visited upon Sikling treachery.