Chapter 21
Hlymdalir
In the first light of dawn, Brynhildr and Sigurd made love again, their coupling urgent, primal, and raw, for today they would leave the sanctuary of the monastery and the sacred spring where they had exchanged moonlit wedding vows.
As they packed their belongings for the imminent departure, her heart was heavy at the thought of being separated from him again, so soon after being reunited and finally wedded by the waterfall pool.
She knew he was fated to avenge his faeir with the reforged sword Gramr, and that Agnar would aid him in reclaiming the ancestral Volsung lands in the Lindesnes kingdom of southern Norway.
But the thought of him leaving gnawed at her gut like sharp, relentless fangs.
After breakfast with the monks in the refectory, they loaded supplies for the ride south to Hlymdalir, the maritime kingdom of her late sister’s husband, King Heimir, whose limestone fortress lay in the vast delta at the mouth of the Rh?ne River on the Middle Sea.
Brynhildr thanked Père Clément once again for their gracious hospitality, the gift of the gowns, and the fur-trimmed cloak from the wooden trunk. She gratefully accepted several bars of edelweiss soap from Brother Pierre and filled flasks with the healing waters from the Lindsvier sacred spring.
Seated behind Sigurd atop Grani, she rode south through the alpine valley, Kveld Nightwolf following on his black stallion Skug, with Tryggvi and Hálfdan guiding their warhorses steadily behind.
They followed narrow mountain paths, descending from the alpine valley toward the vast marshland of the Camargue at the mouth of the Rh?ne River.
Each night, they unpacked bedrolls and furs, sleeping beneath the stars with the horses tethered nearby, the campfire crackling in the moonlight as the cold alpine winds gave way to warm spring breezes carrying the salty tang of the sea.
On the seventh day after their departure from the monastery, with the alpine peaks far behind, Brynhildr gasped at the scene unfolding below the crested ridge where they now stood.
The valley opened onto a vast expanse of marshes and waterways, silvered in the afternoon sun.
Strange pink birds flew over tall stalks of sea grass, their wings flashing like fire across the sunlit water.
White horses raced freely among reeds and shallow pools, their flowing manes shimmering like spun silk.
Beyond the marshes, dozens of longships lingered in brackish channels, some tied to timber jetties, others pulled up onto the soft banks where reeds bent over the water, the carved dragon prows glinting where the Rh?ne met the open sea.
And there—perched atop a rocky bluff near the river’s mouth—stood the towering fortress of Hlymdalir, its white limestone walls gleaming in the golden sun, watchtowers and defensive battlements guarding lucrative trade routes along the vital river and into the Middle Sea.
They guided their horses along a narrow path winding through the glistening marshes toward the castle of Hlymdalir, where twin watchtowers flanked a great wooden gate. A horn sounded from a sentinel, the blast carrying over the estuary and across the grassy reeds.
As they approached, the massive wooden gate swung open, allowing them entry into an inner courtyard, where banners atop the ramparts fluttered in the salty wind.
Brynhildr recognized the sigil of her late sister’s husband Heimir, King of the Camargue—a drakkar warship sailing before a gleaming white fortress, proclaiming his rule over river, sea, and marsh.
Inside the white stone walls which encircled the entire fortress, the grassy courtyard stretched before them. Timber stables, huts, longhouses, and storage sheds lined the perimeter, while the royal castle loomed ahead, white limestone gleaming in the setting sun.
From a side passage along the defensive stone wall, a stout bryti—a royal steward— emerged to greet them.
Over his dark grey tunic, a chainmail brynja glistened, his fur-trimmed cloak fastened with a silver brooch at one broad shoulder.
Four armored guards flanked him, axes and swords strapped at their hips, conical metal helmets with noseguards covering wary bearded faces.
The bryti’s deep voice rumbled with restraint. “I am Gormr, royal steward to Heimir, King of the Camargue. What brings you unannounced to Hlymdalir?”
Sigurd dismounted, lowered Brynhildr from Grani’s saddle, and bowed respectfully before the steward.
His tone was controlled but urgent. “We come seeking the protection of King Heimir of Hlymdalir.” He motioned for Brynhildr to approach.
“This is my wife, Brynhildr, daughter of Budli, the Raven King of Hrafnfjall. Her sister Brekkhildr is King Heimir’s late wife.
I have brought her here for safety amongst her kin while I embark on a fateful quest.”
Recognition dawned on Gormr’s scarred, bearded face.
“I remember you, my lady,” he murmured, folding a brawny arm across his chest and bending at the waist before Brynhildr. “Your sister was Queen of Hlymdalir. I met you at her wedding to my king….and at her royal funeral seven winters past.” He kissed her hand, straightened, and nodded solemnly to Sigurd.
“My men will care for your horses,” Gormr announced, gesturing to four awaiting stable hands.
“I shall escort you to the Great Hall, where you may speak with King Heimir.”
Kveld, Tryggvi, and Hálfdan dismounted, following Sigurd and Brynhildr as Gormr led them all across the courtyard and through the enormous double oak entrance doors into the white limestone castle.
Inside the vast Great Hall, King Heimir rose from his ondvegi throne, its high back carved with the head of a magnificent horse.
Brynhildr noted how Heimir’s long braided hair, once the color of dark wheat, was now streaked with white. His neatly trimmed beard framed the familiar face that was both stern and kind, lined from years of sea battles and governing the vast Camargue.
He wore a long, finely woven tunic dyed deep crimson, belted at the waist with a thick leather strap from which hung a sword embellished with dark red garnets..
A grey cloak lined with rich brown marten fur draped across his broad shoulders, fastened with a silver brooch engraved with the head of a horse, a fitting symbol for the magnificent white steeds of the Camargue—and the intricately detailed stallion carved into his oaken throne.
When Heimir’s gaze found Brynhildr, his blue eyes widened with a contradictory blend of recognition, delight, and shock.
He quickly descended the elevated dais at the rear of the Great Hall and strode across the gleaming wooden floor to greet her.
“Brynhildr,” he exclaimed, kissing her cheek, incredulous eyes roving over her. “The last time we met, you were but a child. And now, you’re the image of your lovely sister.” Emotion choked his quavering voice as he drew her hands to his bearded lips.
She smiled at the man who had been her systir’s husband and the faeir of Brekkhildr’s young son.
Though death had cruelly claimed them both, Heimir was still her kin, and she hoped he would welcome her into Hlymdalir while Sigurd sailed north to Sweden.
“This is my husband,” she told Heimir, taking hold of Sigurd’s hand.
“Sigurd Sea Wolf, the Dragonslayer of Sjóborg.”
Heimir clasped Sigurd’s forearms in warm welcome.
His sharp, regal gaze noted the glorious Blárúlfr cloak, the winged helm shaped like a fierce dragon, the golden brynja gilded by the setting sun, and the gleaming sword Gramr, its snarling wolf head hilt with lapis lazuli eyes sparkling like the deep blue sea.
The courteous king gestured for them all to sit at the high table upon the dais, settling beside Brynhildr as attendants served horns of mead and brought forth a platter of bread and cheese from the nearby kitchens. “To stave off your hunger until the evening meal,” he said with a hearty grin.
After they had shared the mead and bread, Heimir seemed to sense their weariness from the long journey.
He beckoned his servants and issued a gentle command.
“Escort them to their guest quarters, where they may refresh before tonight’s feast.” He smiled warmly at Sigurd and Brynhildr. “Please, make yourselves comfortable. Attendants will fetch you when the feast is ready.”
That evening, they dined on delectable fare—grilled sea bass, steamed shrimp, scallops, and crayfish, and delightful small lobsters called langoustines, served in melted butter with garlic and fresh herbs.
As Brynhildr sat with Sigurd, Kveld, Tryggvi, and Hálfdan at the high table with King Heimir, her husband informed their royal host of his imminent plans.
“A fleet of fifteen ships and warriors await my return in Heieabyr,” Sigurd said, draining his horn and wiping his blond bearded lips with the back of his hand. “We must depart at first light.”
Heimir took a long pull of mead and nodded in contemplation.
“Allow me to offer one of my own ships—a sleek snekkja to glide up the Rh?ne, then the Rhine, and along the coast of the North Sea to Heieabyr. Your horses will be well cared for here, in my royal stables, and a ship will be much quicker than the long, arduous ride.”
Brynhildr was relieved at the thought of Grani, Skug, and the two warhorses remaining at Hlymdalir, for Sigurd did not plan to take the knarr cargo vessel which had transported the horses from Norway when he sailed to challenge King Lyngvi in Sweden.
Nor did he wish to leave the valuable steeds in Heieabyr.
They would be safe here until his return.