Chapter 22 #3
While Sigurd savored the tender meat of the roasted ox flavored with rich red wine, mushrooms, and wild garlic, Queen Grímhildr spoke to him across her elegant dóttir.
“Not only did you free our captive sons, Sigurd Sea Wolf,” she said with a graceful smile that belied the greedy glint in her dark eyes, “but you are the famed Dragonslayer who slew Fáfnir.” A wave of unease washed over Sigurd beneath her probing, piercing gaze.
“Dragons are known to hoard treasure. Surely your gleaming golden armor and magnificent winged helmet were part of Fáfnir’s trove? ”
Before Sigurd could respond, Gunnar leaned forward to address his royal parents.
“Faeir and Móeir, there is something you must know. Last night on the riverbank, Hogni, Sigurd, and I swore a blood oath. By life and honor, my broeir and I are bound to the Sea Wolf’s cause.
” He grinned at Sigurd, seated beside the queen.
“The Dragonslayer of Sjóborg will return to Heieabyr, where his fleet and warriors await. They shall sail from Denmark to Sweden, for Sigurd to avenge his faeir by slaying Lyngvi of Gotaland. From there, the Sea Wolf will return to Norway and reclaim his Volsung lands—and the crown of Lindesnes.” Gunnar glanced at a grinning Hogni before returning his attention to the intrigued king and queen.
“Hogni and I wish to sail with Sigurd and aid our oath-sworn broeir in his fateful quest. Will you grant us each a ship, to follow him to Heieabyr?”
Gjúki gripped the ornately carved arms of his ondvegi and leaned back in his throne, his brow furrowed in concern and contemplation as he considered Gunnar’s request. “You and Hogni have just returned from the jaws of the Franks. To send you now on a perilous voyage with the Sea Wolf—even if bound by blood oath—would risk the future of my bloodline and the heirs to the kingdom of Burgundy.”
Queen Grímhildr tilted her head, the silver coronet studded with amethysts glittering in the torchlight as she studied Sigurd beneath dark lashes.
She placed a porcelain hand upon Gjúki’s, still clutching the carved oak arm of his ornate throne.
“My husband,” she murmured, velvety voice smooth as her violet silk gown, “our two eldest sons are blood-bound to the Sea Wolf. If Gunnar and Hogni aid Sigurd in avenging his faeir and reclaiming the Volsung lands in Norway, the Dragonslayer of Sjóborg will become a crowned king—with armies, gold, and gratitude. A man of such strength, bound by honor to our house, will bring glory and lasting honor to Burgundy.”
Gjúki’s broad grin split the weathered face above his forked silver beard.
He lifted his wife’s white hand to his bristled lips and kissed her skeletal fingers.
“As ever, I am grateful for your wise counsel.” He turned to Gunnar, eyes glinting with approval.
“I shall grant your request, bequeath the two ships, and formally acknowledge your blood oath with Sigurd. Indeed—you and Hogni shall sail with the Sea Wolf, the vitki, and the two húskarlar to Heieabyr, while Ingólfr and his crew may return to King Heimir in the Camargue, spared the unnecessary journey to Denmark.”
Silver fox fur of his deep blue cloak shimmering like the serpent brooch at his broad shoulder, Gjúki solemnly rose from his ornate oaken throne.
“Tonight, we honor Sigurd Sea Wolf, Dragonslayer of Sjóborg, and the valiant crew of Sjáfaxi, King Heimir’s fearsome warriors of Hlymdalir.
” He raised his elkhorn high, the blackened runes and sapphire gems in the silver rim glistening in the firelight.
Gratitude and reverence shone in his regal gaze as he beheld Sigurd, seated beside the amethyst queen.
“You have freed my sons and brought glory to Burgundy. Let all of Rh?neh?ll know that Gunnar and Hogni, bound by blood and honor to Sigurd Sea Wolf, shall see that oath upheld. In recompense for your valor, Dragonslayer of Sjóborg, I grant you a pair of our finest snekkja, captained by my two eldest sons, and with them, sixty armored Burgundian warriors to aid in your destined quest.”
Sigurd rose from in his chair, bowing his head before Gjúki.
“Your generosity humbles me, King of Burgundy. I accept these ships with the same honor which binds me by oath to your sons. I am grateful for your alliance as I seek to avenge my faeir and reclaim my ancestral lands. Gods willing, when I return to Rh?neholl, it shall be as Sigurd Sea Wolf, King of Lindesnes, crowned by birthright and Volsung blood.”
As the mead flowed freely, Gjúki’s royal skáld Kíli entertained them with Saga of Blade and Honor, his stirring rendition of Sigurd’s heroic rescue of Gunnar and Hogni from the treacherous Franks.
At last, the festive hall slowly emptied, the echoes of toasts and triumph fading into the starlit night air.
Sigurd rose from his seat beside the queen, his golden brynja gleaming in the dying firelight, Blárúlfr draped across his shoulders, the winged helm tucked carefully under his arm.
“Good night, Queen Grínhildr. I thank you again for your generosity.” He bent gallantly and pressed his lips to her outstretched hand.
At her icy touch, a cold frost slithered up his arm. like the serpents coiling on painted shields and snapping banners upon the walls.
Dispelling the unease of Grímhildr’s frigid fingers, Sigurd inclined his head respectfully to Princess Gudrún and bid goodnight to the generous king.
Gunnar and Hogni approached, clasping Sigurd’s shoulder and forearm in a brotherly grip. “Sleep well, broeir. Tomorrow, the river winds carry us toward destiny.” Gunnar’s bearded grin was feral and fierce.
Castle servants bearing torches ushered Sigurd, Kveld Nightwolf, and the two húskarlar through the winding corridors to private chambers on the second floor of the towering fortress.
Below, Ingólfr and the crew of Sjáfaxi were guided to lodging along the river, close to their snekkja, where supplies for the return voyage to the Camargue—and the prized Frankish blades—would be secured at first light.
With Tryggvi and Hálfdan settled in the adjacent chamber, Sigurd stood alone in the quarters he shared with Kveld, gazing out the open window, watching moonlight dance upon the dark ripples of the Rh?ne.
Behind him, the heavy oaken door thudded shut.
“Beware the queen,” Kveld warned, bolting the door and hanging his wolfskin on a wooden peg. His amber eyes glowed like the ominous wolf’s in his black Sjórúlfar cloak. “She is a malva.”
Sigurd spun toward the vitki.
“Not a volva who foresees visions,” Kveld continued, his deep voice ominous and foreboding. “A malva bends seier to her will. She does not read the threads of fate—she knots them with curses. Bindings. Evil enchantments that coil like venomous snakes… and strike when least expected.”
The rushing river whispered below.
“Her admiration of your golden armor,” Kveld murmured. “That was not wonder. It was hunger.”
Silence stretched in the starlight between them.
“We must watch her carefully, Sigurd Sea Wolf. A malva does not cast without purpose.”
Sigurd hung Blárúlfr beside the Nightwolf’s black cloak, the twin wolfskins shimmering in the moonlight from the open window.
He unfastened the clasps of his golden brynja and laid it carefully atop the carved chest at the foot of his bed, the chainmail whispering softly as it settled.
In the studded leather scabbard, he stood Gramr within easy reach along the wall, placing the winged helm on the bedside table.
He shed his boots and lay back upon the sleigh-shaped bed, sliding beneath woolen blankets and soft furs.
The scent of pinewood from the stone hearth mingled with the briny tang of the river.
Though weary from battle, the voyage to Rh?neholl, and the revelry of the triumphant feast, sleep did not claim him.
Kveld’s warning lingered in the dark.
Below the open window, the Rh?ne murmured against stone, ships, and shore.
In the still silence, the cold of the queen’s glacial touch crept like a serpent through his veins.
He closed his eyes and thought of Brynhildr—the firelit gold of her long, lustrous hair, the steady strength in her shieldmaiden gaze, the delicious body that transported him to the stars.
As the ouroboros blazed above his loyal lupine heart, he longed for her from the depths of his Sea Wolf soul. Her absence cut like a blade between his ribs.
Far from the Rh?ne and its whispering shadows, she waited for him in the Camargue.
He would soon avenge his faeir in Sweden.
Reclaim his rightful crown.
And return to Brynhildr as a king, worthy of her royal hand.