Chapter 22 #2
Gunnar gestured northward toward the unseen bend of the Sa?ne.
“Rh?neholl crowns the riverbank like a towering sentinel of timber and stone. There, in the glorious Great Hall, we shall feast you and your men, and celebrate your triumph tonight. Let all of Burgundy know that the sons of Gjúki were freed by Sigurd Sea Wolf, Dragonslayer of Sjóborg.”
* * * *
In the early light of dawn, as mist curled along the Rh?ne, Sigurd and his men shared a quick dagmál of barley porridge, grilled trout, and dark ale with Gunnar and Hogni.
The crew swiftly loaded the bedrolls and supplies onto the snekkja, securing the prized Frankish swords, daggers, armor, and shields—which had been claimed and evenly distributed among the men—to the gunwales of the sleek longship.
With a final glance at the riverbank where they had freed the two captive sons of King Gjúki, Sigurd signaled, and Sjáfaxi glided silently onto the river.
Its white horse sail billowed in the tangy breeze, carrying them northward to the renowned fortress of the Burgundian River King.
The Rh?ne narrowed as they headed north, its broad, brown waters shouldered by reeds and willow and the low murmur of waking villages. The mist thinned with the rising sun, dispersing in silver veils, and ahead—at first no more than a dark smudge against the paling sky—Sigurd spotted Rh?neholl.
Its towering ramparts rose where the river bent sharply eastward, built upon a high bluff of stone that jutted over the swift current like the dragon prow of a grounded longship.
Timber palisades crowned the height, their sharpened stakes black against the dawn sky.
Behind them loomed the king’s enormous hall, the steep wooden gables of its high peaked roof carved with fanged beasts facing the Rh?ne.
Smoke rose from the rafters in swirling strands, and banners with the River King’s sigil—a silver serpent on a deep blue background—writhed in the cloudy sky.
Below the bluff sprawled the bustling riverfront, with storehouses on stilts, racks spread with nets of teeming fish, sheds for mending sails and repairing boats.
A broad wooden jetty thrust out into the river, its timber posts wrapped in iron to withstand the strong current.
Smaller piers branched from it like ribs, fisherman unloading fresh catch and merchants delivering supplies.
Beyond them, moored two and three abreast, lay a dense forest of furled masts.
Sigurd spotted knarrs heavy with trade goods, river craft with shallow drafts for slipping through side channels, and dozens of longships bearing the silver serpent banners of Gjúki’s royal sigil.
Armored warriors were boarding a snekkja, preparing to sail—likely to search for the two missing princes.
At their approach, a horn sounded from the watchtower above the jetty.
Men ran along the palisade walk surrounding the fortress. Shields and the glint of armor flashed from the battlements. Another horn blasted from below, triumphant and jubilant. Riotous cheers rang out across the Rh?ne.
Gunnar and Hogni had safely returned.
Gunnar stood at the prow beside Sigurd, dark hair unbound, his bearded face weary but alight with relief. Hogni gripped the mast and bellowed like a bull, his stocky frame rumbling with deep laughter.
Ingólfr steered Sjáfaxi toward the main jetty. Heimir’s crew cast lines to awaiting men who leapt forward to catch them, wrapping rope around the thick mooring posts as the hull settled against the wooden dock.
Before the gangplank was fully lowered, armored warriors were running down the jetty—húskarlar in chainmail, helms with noseguards tucked under their arms, bearded faces split with hearty grins.
At their head strode a broad-shouldered warrior with a grey beard, braided with glittering blue beads, split into two long forks.
Silver fox fur lined his deep blue cloak, clasped by a heavy silver brooch shaped like a river serpent, its sapphire eyes gleaming in the pale morning sun.
King Gjúki did not wait upon ceremony.
He came the last stretch at a near run.
Gunnar stepped ashore first. The king seized him by both shoulders, searching his scarred face as if to prove he was indeed alive and unharmed.
Hogni followed, and Gjúki drew them both into a fierce embrace, the metal of chainmail, axes, and swords clattering amidst hearty laughter.
When he released his two eldest sons, the king’s shrewd gaze shifted to Sigurd.
Sigurd stood upon the deck of the ship, the winged dragon helm atop his proud head, the golden brynja gleaming beneath Blárúlf’s shimmering blue fur, the snarling wolf head hilt of Gramr sheathed in its scabbard.
At his side was Kveld Nightwolf, the thick black fur of his wolfskin glistening in the pale morning light.
Behind them, the white stallion of Sjáfaxi’s sail whipped in the crisp spring wind.
The Frankish blades lashed to the gunwales glistened like captured silver.
Tryggvi, Hálfdan, Ingólfr, and Heimir’s skilled crew watched in solemn silence.
Standing on the wooden dock with Gjúki and Hogni, Gunnar turned toward them and beckoned. “Faeir,” he called, his deep voice carrying over water and wood alike, “this is Sigurd Sea Wolf, Dragonslayer of Sjóborg—the man who freed us and reddened the Rh?ne with Frankish blood.”
Murmurs rippled through the crowd gathered on the dock and battlements above. Several of Gjúki’s men spat at the mention of the Franks. All eyes fixed upon Sigurd.
Sigurd placed one hand on Kveld’s black wolfskin-clad shoulder and the other on Ingólfr’s armored one as he addressed the Burgundian River King.
“Kveld Nightwolf and Ingólfr charged at my side on the riverbank.” He gestured to Tryggvi, Hálfdan, and the valiant crew of Sjáfaxi.
“Not one of these men faltered when we fought the Franks. If praise is given, let it fall on all our blades.”
Sigurd leapt down onto the jetty amidst the creak of ropes and the lap of the river against wooden hulls and pilings.
King Gjúki clasped Sigurd’s forearms in a firm warrior’s grip.
“You come to Rh?neholl not as mere guests,” he boomed, his voice rough with restrained emotion, “but as the men who freed my sons and saved my bloodline. Tonight, Burgundy will blaze for you. Oxen will turn on the spits, and the mead will flow until the rafters drip. Let the wolf-fearing Franks hear our howls of triumph all the way to the Rhine!”
A raucous roar answered him as warriors shouted, striking shields with axes, spears, and swords.
Kveld, Tryggvi, Hálfdan, Ingólfr, and the highest-ranking crew members who’d received Frankish blades strapped their prized swords and daggers at their hips while servants unloaded the ship.
Boys ran alongside Sigurd’s disembarking crew, widened eyes filled with awe at their gleaming chainmail, wolfskin cloaks, fearsome weapons, and gruesome scars.
Women emerged from the storehouses, some weeping openly at the sight of the princes returned.
Above them all, the double oak entrance doors of Rh?neholl opened wide in welcome.
* * * *
The expansive Great Hall burned with firelight from the central hearth, flickering across timbered walls lined with painted shields bearing the images of Rh?neholl’s silver serpent coiled on deep blue waves.
Massive pillars and oak beams carved with beasts, claws, runes, and fangs ran from pinewood to peaked ceiling.
Above the elevated dais, silver serpent banners of King Gjúki writhed against the deep blue background, snapping with every breeze that whispered through open windows and oaken doors.
The scent of roasting ox, freshly baked bread, and spiced pike mingled with the tang of the Rh?ne, while bowls of barley porridge, honeyed mead, smoked trout, and plates of steaming root vegetables were carried on polished platters to the long trestle oak tables.
Lively melodies of lyres, flutes, and lutes threaded through the festive hall, mingling with the murmurs of armored warriors, elegant nobles, and bustling servants.
Sigurd sat at the high table with King Gjúki and the royal Burgundian family, beside Queen Grímhildr and Princess Gudrún, with Kveld Nightwolf on his right.
Chainmail glinting in the firelight, gleaming Frankish swords sheathed at their hips, Tryggvi and Hálfdan sat proudly with Ingólfr and the crew of Sjáfaxi at a table of honor below the dais.
Each man watched the high table with disciplined attention, ready to spring to action if needed, but content to share in the triumph.
Seated in an elaborate ondvegi throne at the high table, King Gjúki’s coronet etched with his serpent sigil glistened atop his silvered head.
At his right, Queen Grímhildr, resplendent in a deep violet gown, eyed Sigurd over the rim of her amethyst-studded elkhorn of mead.
Between the queen and Sigurd, Princess Gudrún sat with quiet grace, her long dark hair braided with silver beads and amethyst gems, her silk gown the same hue as her royal móeir’s.
On Gjúki’s left sat his three sons Gunnar, Hogni, and Guthorm, the youngest, their fur-trimmed cloaks fastened with silver brooches bearing Rh?neholl’s serpent sigil.
The royal table upon the elevated dais where Sigurd now sat faced the crowded Great Hall.
He’d removed his winged dragon helm, which he’d tucked beside him in his carved chair of honor, but he still wore the golden brynja and Blárúlfr, both of which gleamed in the firelight.
Over Sigurd’s right shoulder, Kveld Nightwolf quietly observed the queen, the amber eyes of the black wolf in his Sjórúlfar cloak watching her with its otherworldly gaze.