Chapter 22
Ravens Over the Rh?ne
For three days, they snaked northward up the Rh?ne, Heimir’s skilled crew manning the oars.
When the winds were favorable, they unfurled Sjáfaxi’s white stallion sail, but against the relentless current, the speed of the snekkja relied almost entirely upon the strength of the seasoned rowers.
The past two nights, they had set up camp along the grassy banks, grilling fresh fish harvested from the vast river.
Tonight, as stars emerged over the dark moonlit waters, two ravens who had been circling overhead alighted on the dragon prow before Sigurd.
Their black eyes gleamed with silent knowing.
As Brynhildr’s golden falcon Gyllin had alerted him to Regin’s betrayal—and revealed where Odin had trapped her within the Ring of Fire—so now the otherworldly messengers spoke in the language he understood, thanks to the ability granted by Fáfnir’s dragon blood.
“A dozen Franks hold captive the two eldest sons of the River King,” croaked the first, its black feathered head tilted in warning.
“Free them, and their faeir shall owe you a blood debt. His royal ships and swords shall aid in your fateful quest.” Once the second raven had spoken, the two birds beat their black wings and disappeared into the dark night sky.
Kveld Nightwolf joined Sigurd at the prow, the amber eyes and thick fur of his black wolfskin gleaming in the moonlight. “What word from the ravens over the Rh?ne?”
“A dozen Franks camp just up ahead,” Sigurd replied quietly.
“They have captured the two eldest sons of a River King. The ravens urged me to free them, for their faeir would owe us a blood debt—and prove a valuable ally.” He leapt from the deck of the snekkja onto the riverbank, striding toward the campfire that Heimir’s crew had kindled, Kveld close at his heels.
Tryggvi and Hálfdan approached, sensing the urgency in the hushed communication between Sigurd and the Nightwolf.
“Lord?” Tryggvi’s guarded expression conveyed both wariness and readiness, his hand drifting to the bearded axe at his hip.
“We free two princes tonight, held captive by a dozen Franks just north of here.” Sigurd glanced at Ingólfr, the captain of the snekkja and commander of Heimir’s crew. “If we attack now, we take them by surprise. We outnumber them three to one.”
Ingólfr spat on the muddy ground, the blue beads in his dark beard glinting in the firelight.
“They must be the sons of King Gjúki, the Burgundian River King. He holds the Sa?ne River and the rich lands from here to the Rhine. The Franks are foe to him—and to my king, Heimir of Hlymdalir. My men and I will gladly wet our blades.”
Sigurd nodded. “Six remain to guard the ship. The rest with me.”
Ingólfr’s men buckled armor, drew swords, and lifted shields.
Like shadows in the dark, they headed north, slipping silently through the dense trees.
* * * *
The pale silver moon hung low over the Rh?ne, glinting on the river’s rippled surface. From their vantage point atop a low bluff, Sigurd and his men watched the small Frankish camp in the clearing below.
An enclosed fire burned inside a circle of stones, the flames crackling and sending swirls of smoke and the appetizing aroma of food into the still night.
Several Frankish warriors sat on simple hides, tending to skewers and bubbling stew, mugs of ale or wine in hand.
The savory scent of grilled fish and the sharp tang of smoke drifted toward the riverbank.
Two men were bound to a pair of stout oaks at the far edge of the camp.
Arms lashed behind the trunks, thick ropes cutting into their wrists, their ragged breath misted in the cool night air.
Nearby, a small canvas tent flapped in the breeze.
A few bedrolls were scattered near the fire where the Franks would sleep.
Four guards paced the perimeter, the dull thud of heavy boots on the leaf-strewn ground blending with the snap of sparks from the fire and the low murmur of deep voices.
Kveld’s amber eyes glimmered in the dark. Crouching low, he pulled aside a small branch and nodded toward the four sentinels. “I’ll take the north.”
Sigurd whispered to the two húskarlar at his side. “Tryggvi, east. Hálfdan, west. I have the south.” At his signal, they descended like shadows—silent, swift, and lethal.
Kveld sprang from the ledge, his black wolfskin blending into the dark night. The Frankish guard’s startled grunt barely escaped before the Nightwolf’s dagger silenced him, the man crumpling into the thick leaves.
Sigurd leapt over the embankment, steel flashing, and felled the northern guard with a clean stroke of his sword.
Tryggvi and Hálfdan struck in unison, axes silencing two more guards.
The remaining Franks spun toward the noise, hands grasping for swords too late.
In a single wave of shadow and steel, Sigurd and his men descended from the forested ledge. Sparks flew as blades met armor. Sweat, smoke, and the coppery tang of blood filled the cold night air.
Taken utterly by surprise, the ambushed Franks fell to precise, ruthless strikes until none remained save the two captives tied to the oaks.
“We have come to free you,” Sigurd told the wary prisoners as he and Kveld cut the ropes which bound their wrists behind the trees.
“I am Sigurd Sea Wolf, Dragonslayer of Sjóborg. And these are my companions Kveld Nightwolf, Tryggvi, Hálfdan, Ingólfr, and the warriors of King Heimir of the Camargue.”
Sigurd and Kveld helped the two freed captives to their unsteady feet.
The taller of the two, with darker hair and longer beard, nodded as he brushed leaves from his tunic and breeches. “I am Gunnar, eldest son of King Gjúki of Rh?neholl. And this is my brother, Hogni. We owe you our lives—a blood debt. Let us now swear a solemn oath of brotherhood.”
Gunnar and Hogni strode across the clearing, weaving through the slain bodies to retrieve their sheathed swords and daggers. While the two princes strapped the recovered blades to their respective waists, Heimir’s men retrieved valuable Frankish swords from the fallen soldiers.
“Ulfberht swords— forged to perfection with the finest Carolingian steel—are the most highly prized blades in all the realms.” Ingólfr grinned as he sheathed a gleaming Frankish sword beside the axe hafted at his waist. “Prestigious weapons, and worthy spoils to bring home to Hlymdalir.”
When the freed captives rejoined them, Gunnar withdrew his dagger, the steel blade glinting in the moonlight. “Sigurd Sea Wolf, you have saved us from death. Let our fates be bound together.” He sliced the sharp blade across his palm, letting blood drip into the leaves at his booted feet.
With his own knife, Hogni cut his palm, blood falling atop Gunnar’s. “We swear loyalty to one another, in battle and in life. As brothers, we stand together.”
Sigurd unsheathed his dagger úlfhjarta, the white bone hilt and lapis lazuli eyes of the snarling wolf gleaming in the moonlight. He drew the sharp blade across his palm, letting his blood fall onto Gunnar’s and Hogni’s before pressing his bloodied hand into each of the two brothers’.
All three men solemnly swore the same oath. “By the gods and by my honor as the son of a king, I swear to always stand by your side… and come to your aid in time of need.”
The Nightwolf’s amber eyes glowed in the silvery light. “Let this oath be witnessed. By river and steel, by blood and breath, your three fates are hereby bound.”
Together, they wove back through the dense forest to the riverbank where six of Heimir’s men stood guard over the snekkja. The crew had caught, cleaned, and grilled fresh fish over the open flames, alongside a savory stew of eels, mussels, and shrimp steaming in a black iron pot.
While the few injured men tended their wounds, Sigurd settled around the fire with Kveld, Tryggvi, Hálfdan, Ingólfr, and his newly sworn blood brothers.
The grilled pike flaked easily from the bone, and the stew was rich with garlic and wild herbs. As Sigurd washed down a mouthful of barley bread with a gulp of bitter ale, Gunnar began their harrowing tale.
“We were hunting along the forests of the Sa?ne when the Franks fell upon us. They slew our guards, scattered our horses, and took us captive. They meant to bring us north, to their lord, Count Adalric of Alsace, who has long been a foe of our faeir.” Gunnar tore into the grilled trout set before him, ravenous hunger overtaking royal composure.
“With Gunnar and me in chains,” Hogni continued, gratefully accepting a mug of ale from Ingólfr, “Adalric would have forced our faeir to relinquish his lands along the Rhine. The Franks covet Burgundy for its fertile fields and fine wines. They want our land to expand their profitable northern trade in Frisia, where the port of Dorestad fattens their coffers.” Hogni drained his mug, and Ingólfr promptly refilled it.
Wiping his mouth with the back of a hand, Sigurd addressed Gunnar and Hogni. “Without horses, you cannot simply walk home alone through this forest. I shall personally deliver you to your faeir aboard our snekkja. Ingólfr’s skilled crew and my men will sail us safely along the Rh?ne.”
Gunnar wiped his hands upon his tunic and rose from the fire, the flames casting long shadows across his dark bearded face.
Though weary and exhausted, he stood with the quiet dignity of a king’s son.
Gratitude laced his gravelly voice. “Sigurd Sea Wolf, you have not only saved our lives, you have bound our fate to yours. I humbly accept your generous offer, and invite you and your men to a feast with us in Rh?neholl—to celebrate your triumph and valor.”
Hogni rose beside his broeir, fierce eyes firm and resolute. “Our faeir must hear of this heroic deed with his own ears. Come to our hall as honored guests, and let us feast your victory over the Franks.”