Chapter 23
Hammer and Fang
After a hearty dagmál in the Great Hall, Sigurd accompanied King Gjúki, Gunnar, and Hogni down to the loading dock at the base of the cliff where the silver light of morning glimmered over the Rh?ne.
Amidst shouts, creaking ropes, and the thud of crates being loaded onto the three snekkja whose long hulls glistened in the pale mist, the wooden jetty of Rh?neholl bustled with controlled chaos.
While Burgundian warriors boarded the two ships which would sail north with Sigurd to the Rhine and onward to Denmark, the crew of Sjáfaxi loaded Frankish blades and supplies for the return journey south to the Camargue.
Blue beads braided into his dark beard glinting in the rising sun, Ingólfr deftly directed his efficient crew.
They worked quickly, securing shields along the gunwale, storing Frankish armor, prized swords, and sacks of silver—a generous gift from King Gjúki for freeing his two captive sons— beneath the oaken deck.
Sigurd strode down the dock to bid farewell to Ingólfr.
He gripped the weathered captain’s forearms in fierce friendship and unwavering respect.
“Tell Brynhildr that I love her,” he choked, emotion clenching his parched throat.
“And that I shall come for her soon. Once I am crowned King of Lindesnes. I shall bring her home to Norway for a glorious royal wedding as my bride…and my queen.”
Ingólfr clasped Sigurd’s wolfskin-clad shoulder, a broad grin splitting his scarred, bearded face. “I’ll tell her, Sigurd Sea Wolf. May the gods grant you vengeance in Sweden and victory in Norway. And may Njordr guide your sails for a swift, safe return.”
Sigurd nodded, and Ingólfr leapt onto the deck.
As Gjúki’s men maneuvered the snekkja with long poles, others waded out into the swift river and guided Sjáfaxi south toward the Camargue.
With a final heave, the longship drifted away from the shore, its sleek dragon prow gleaming in the sunlight, the white stallion on the deep blue sail billowing in the blustery wind.
Sigurd stood on the wooden dock—his golden brynja, winged dragon helm, and Blárúlfr cloak glinting in the pale morning sun—and watched until the ship disappeared from view.
Beside him along the dock, Gjúki’s men loaded the two Burgundian snekkja with sacks of grain, barrels of fresh water, salted meat, and smoked fish, storing bundles of spear heads, bows and arrows, and additional weapons beneath the rowing benches.
When they were at last ready to depart, Sigurd and Kveld boarded Gunnar’s ship, the silver serpent on the indigo sail flapping in the briny breeze.
Tryggvi and Hálfdan leapt onto the deck of Hogni’s vessel, and Gjúki’s men guided the two ships with long poles out into the Rh?ne.
On the wooden loading dock at the base of the towering fortress, the royal family of Rh?neholl stood together to see them off.
The pair of snekkja set sail from the Burgundian riverfront, the sound of the oars dipping into the water and the creak of wooden hulls filling the brisk air.
With a final wave to the distant bluff, Sigurd watched Burgundy fade behind him. The ouroboros blazed with dragonfire above his pounding lupine heart.
Ahead lay Heieabyr, the Skagerrak, and the long-sought vengeance upon Lyngvi.
And beyond all, his beloved Sun Falcon, waiting for her Sea Wolf to return a Volsung king.
* * * *
The days on the Rh?ne flowed swiftly, the longships gliding through mist, fog, and midday heat, as the mountains and distant hills slowly gave way to the flat, winding lands along the Rhine.
At night, the crews would draw the two ships ashore, anchoring them in shallow coves or along the riverbanks, where flames from campfires flickered in the moonlight under the silent stars.
The men slept on bedrolls beneath furs and cloaks, their weapons always within reach, the hooting of owls or the howling of wolves from the forest the only sounds.
After several days, the Rh?ne carried them northward to the mighty Rhine, the crisp scent of pine and rich earth drifting from the banks as the crew pushed forward.
At night, when they camped out under the moon, Sigurd longed for Brynhildr with a visceral, gnawing hunger.
He was grateful that she was safe in Hlymdalir with Heimir.
Gods willing, once his crown was reclaimed, he would soon return to her in the Camargue.
When at last they reached the familiar Danish port of Heieabyr, the bustling harbor greeted them with its familiar clamor—the sharp cry of gulls, the creak of heavily laden cargo ships, the sight of dozens of drakkar and snekkja lining the wooden jetties which jutted from the sandy shore.
Amidst the shout of merchants hawking their wares, the enticing aroma of sizzling meats and exotic spices, the scent of seaweed, smoldering tar, piney pitch, and freshly cut wood filled the crisp saline air.
As he stood on the deck of Gunnar’s snekkja, beneath the silver serpent sail of Burgundy flapping in the salty breeze, Sigurd scanned the rows of ships moored along the bustling quay.
Though their sails were furled, he quickly spotted his own fleet amidst the other vessels.
His nine drakkar were unmistakable—the deep blue dragon prow of úlfdreki, the gleaming falcon prow of úlfalkr, the snarling wolf head of úlfhrafn, and the six ships gifted by Agnar—as well as the five vessels bestowed by his foster fedir, the Wolf King of Sjóborg.
He spotted Hródvarr on the deck of Skollreier, his mentor’s warship.
Long grey beard and hair streaked with silver— and braided with lapis beads like Sigurd’s—Ironfang’s familiar grey wolfskin cloak shimmered in the pale sun.
Flashing a broad grin, the leader of the Sjórúlfar leapt from the deck of his longship and strode down the jetty to greet Sigurd.
Sigurd disembarked with Gunnar, Kveld Nightwolf, and the crew of Gjálfrmarr, the snekkja which had carried them from Rh?neholl to Denmark.
Tryggvi and Hálfdan joined Hogni and the crew of Drepamarr, clambering off their ship and following Sigurd toward the Sea Wolves gathered on the dock to greet them.
“Sigurd Sea Wolf!” Hródvarr bellowed, pulling him into a bearhug and thumping his wolfskin-clad shoulders.
“I’d recognize Blárúlfr anywhere, but Odin’s eye, with that dragon helm and golden armor—you look like a god!
” He grinned at the gleaming blade sheathed at Sigurd’s hip.
“You reforged Gramr with úlfblóer’s hilt—the wolf still snarls as it should. ”
While Hródvarr greeted Kveld, Tryggvi, and Hálfdan next, Eyvindr Waverunner—the Sjórúlfar captain who had taught Sigurd to sail a ship and fight at sea—wove through the cheering throng toward Sigurd.
Dark eyes glinting with fierce lupine affection, Eyvindr threw his arms around Sigurd’s shoulders and nearly lifted him off the ground.
“Welcome back, broeir! We’ve got the ships loaded, plenty of warriors, weapons, and armor—we’re ready to sail at your command. ”
The captain of Sigurd’s ship úlfhrafn, Strykar the Beast. strode forward. Copper wolfskin cloak bronze as his braided russet hair and thick red beard, he pulled Sigurd into a rough hug and slapped his back so hard, he knocked the wind from his lungs.
Sigurd bellowed with laughter as he returned Strykar’s fierce embrace, then gripped Eyvindr’s forearms, grinning from ear to bearded ear.
He presented his newly sworn blood brothers to the Sjórúlfar.
“Ironfang,” he called, drawing Hródvarr’s attention, “I’d like you to meet Gunnar and Hogni, the two eldest sons of Gjúki, the Burgundian River King of Rh?neholl.
Kveld, Tryggvi, Háldan, and I—along with Heimir’s crew from the Camargue— rescued them from the Franks.
To repay their gratitude, they’ve joined our cause. ”
Hródvarr, Eyvindr, and Strykar inclined their wolfskin-clad heads in respect.
“Glad to have you with us,” Ironfang remarked with reverence.
“And glad to have your two swift snekkja join our fleet.” He grinned at Sigurd, and the men gathered around.
“Come into the tavern with us. We’ll share meat and mead, book lodging for you and your crews for the night, and plan for the sea battle in Sweden.
Our men have been stocking supplies, gathering armor and weapons, and training for weeks.
We’ll firm our battle strategy tonight…and depart tomorrow on the outgoing tide. ”
Grey wolfskin glinting in the morning sunlight, Hródvarr led them all into the Gilded Dragon tavern, settling at a long table with Sigurd, Kveld, Tryggvi, Hálfdan, Gunnar, and Hogni.
The crews of Gjálfrmarr and Drepamarr clustered at side tables with the Sjórúlfar, sharing the tale of how Sigurd Sea Wolf, Dragonslayer of Sjóbjorg, had freed the Burgundian princes from the enemy Franks.
While everyone tore into salted boar dripping with honey, fresh barley bread, hot from the hearth, and platters of steaming lobster, crab, and shrimp, Eyvindr Waverunner—seasoned ship commander and expert on sea battles—swigged a long pull of mead and swiped his sleeve across his bearded lips.
He leaned forward and spoke to Sigurd across the table.
“Lyngvi’s hall, ?rnfjall, perches atop a cliff like an eagle’s nest overlooking the Skagerrak.
Our best attack is the Hammer and Fang.”
Strykar’s russet beard split into a wolfish grin as Eyvindr outlined the stratagem.
“We sail east from Heieabyr across the Skagerrak. Sigurd—you, Gunnar, and Hogni will lead a dozen ships straight at Lyngvi’s fleet anchored in the inlet below his fortress.
You are the hammer. Strike from the west—burn his warships with flaming arrows, storm the shore, and draw his defenders down from the cliffs to battle you on the beach. ”