Chapter 23 #2
“Meanwhile,” Hródvarr growled, his raspy voice rough as gravel, “Eyvindr, Stykar, and I will take five ships around the northern bend, snapping like a wolf’s fang at his rear flank, leaving Lyngvi no path of escape.”
The silver beads etched with serpents glinted in Gunnar’s dark beard. He raised his mug of mead high and proposed a toast. “To victory and vengeance in Sweden—or the glory of Valhalla!”
Amid riotous cheers of “Skál!” from the warriors who would sail with him at dawn, adrenaline surged in Sigurd’s Sea Wolf veins.
Tonight, he savored the honeyed mead.
Tomorrow, the sweet taste of revenge.
* * * *
The setting sun streaked the twilit sky with vivid shades of fire as Sigurd stood at the deep blue dragon prow of úlfdreki, the westerly wind whipping his wild hair, the salt spray stinging his bearded cheeks.
The looming fortress of ?rnfjall appeared like an eagle’s nest atop the jagged cliff over the curved shoreline where dozens of warships were anchored in the sheltered inlet.
Drakkar were moored along wooden jetties, snekkja and skeid longships beached upon the pebbled shore.
While Sigurd sailed the Hammer of a dozen ships straight at Lyngvi’s fleet, Eyvindr, Stykar, and Hródvarr circled north around the bend of the cliff with five ships to form the Fang.
As Sigurd and his men approached the cliffs, the rhythmic slap of oars against the Skagerrak and the snap of wolf sails filled the salty air.
From twin watchtowers guarding either side of the inlet, sentinels blasted shrill horns.
Armored warriors poured from longhouses, wielding weapons and wooden shields painted with Lyngvi’s black eagle sigil as they scrambled down the steep path to defend the harbor.
At Sigurd’s command, the first volley of flaming arrows arced into the blood-streaked sky.
Several snekkja caught at once, fire licking wooden hulls as smoke curled upward like coiled serpents striking the jagged cliff.
At the prow, Sigurd’s gaze locked on a dark, unnatural line stretched across the inlet’s mouth.
As úlfdreki cut closer through the burnished tide, the defensive wooden barrier emerged above the waves.
Massive pine trunks were lashed together side by side, the iron chains of the boom glinting in the molten sun.
The logs rode low in the water, blackened with tar, anchored at either rocky point of the inlet to heavy posts driven deep into stone.
Atop the cliff, shields and weapons flashed as armored guards defended the palisade crowning Lyngvi’s towering fortress. Along the jetties, Lyngvi’s warriors scrambled aboard their ships, dragging helmets over their heads and seizing bows to return fire at the advancing fleet.
Sigurd watched the tide curl white around the chained timber boom. Beyond it lay Lyngvi’s entire fleet — trapped as much as protected.
Kveld stepped beside him, amber eyes aglow like molten gold. “Penned like sheep.”
Another horn shrieked from the cliff. Archers lined the heights
Sigurd turned, Blárúlfr’s blue fur snapping in the wind. The ouroboros above his hammering heart seared his skin as dragonfire surged in his Sea Wolf veins. “Archers!” he roared. “Pitch and flame!”
Warriors leapt to obey. Bundles of resin-soaked flax were tied beneath arrowheads. Torches flared along the gunwales, smoke whipping backward in the wind.
“Row!” Sigurd bellowed.
Oars bit the choppy sea.
Twelve ships surged forward as one, the Hammer tightening its formation.
“Loose!” At Sigurd’s command, flaming arrows streaked upward and rained down upon the tarred logs. Pitch caught quickly as fire crawled like serpents along the wooden boom.
The chained trunks ignited, heat shimmering above the tide as thick black smoke billowed outward. Defenders bellowed in alarm as sparks leapt toward moored sails.
“Drive through!” Sigurd thundered.
úlfdreki, Gjálfrmarr, and Drepamarr slammed into the burning barrier with a splintering crash. The boom heaved and bucked. Chains groaned under the strain. Axes flashed as warriors hacked at smoldering ropes and splintered iron.
Behind them, more ships from the Hammer stuck in rapid succession.
Above, arrows hissed down from the cliffs.
Below, fire spread across the boom.
And beyond the smoke-choked inlet, Lyngvi’s fleet went up in flames.
The shore became slaughter as Sigurd’s warriors poured from drakkar and snekkja, storming the jetties and the beleaguered beach.
Sigurd drove forward through smoke and screaming men.
The snarling wolf on Gramr’s gleaming hilt rose and fell in relentless arcs of steel.
A shield bearing Lyngvi’s black eagle split beneath Sigurd’s savage strike.
When a spear glanced off his golden brynja, he answered with a backhand slice that tore through chainmail and bone.
Around him, the Sea Wolves howled as they advanced up the blood-soaked beach.
Gunnar fought like a war god, hammering men back with shield and blade.
Hogni’s strikes were swift and brutal, felling warriors with lethal precision.
Behind them, Lyngvi’s defenders dropped in droves, pinned between the fiery Fang at their flanks and the merciless Hammer at their throats.
Sigurd shoved past the last knot of resistance near the base of the cliff.
Above him, like a war eagle perched upon its crag, Lyngvi peered over the rocky ledge. Crimson cloak snapping in the wind, eagle crown gleaming through drifting smoke, he stared down at Sigurd like a ravenous raptor.
When their gazes locked, Sigurd began to climb.
A warrior wielding an axe lunged from the side. Sigurd seized the man’s wrist and hurled him down the steps carved into the side of the cliff. The armored body struck stone and vanished into the carnage below.
Two more guards barred his path. Gramr flashed twice, and both fell.
Sigurd continued his relentless ascent.
At last, he reached the upper landing carved into the crag.
At the summit, the coppery stench of blood and the acrid odor of burning thatch assailed his nostrils.
Behind Lyngvi, beyond the timbered hall of ?rnfjall, flames devoured the entire village. Warriors in wolfskin cloaks and gleaming chainmail surged through the rear gate, steel flashing in the firelight.
Sigurd’s snarling wolf banner snapped above them.
The Fang had sunk deep into Lyngvi’s rear flanks.
At a shrill blast of another horn, the Eagle King glanced back over his shoulder.
“You’re surrounded.” Sigurd pointed his sword at Lyngvi’s exposed throat.
The four guards who valiantly defended their besieged king shifted uneasily as Hródvarr, Strykar, and Eyvindr encircled them with heavily armed men.
But the Sjórúlfar did not interfere, for Lyngvi was Sigurd’s kill.
A grimace of disgust split the Eagle King’s braided beard. “The whelp of Sigmund lives.” Lyngvi spat on Sigurd’s feet.
“My faeir died because of your treachery.” Sigurd’s voice was sharp as steel. “Today I avenge him.”
Lyngvi lunged.
Steel rang like struck anvil. The swift blow jarred Sigurd’s shield arm. The second strike scraped sparks across his dragon helm. Lyngvi drove forward, pushing him back across stone slick with mist and ash.
Thick black smoke stung Sigurd’s eyes, blinding him, as Lyngvi advanced, blade hacking, forcing him back to the edge of the cliff.
“You avenge Sigmund?” Lyngvi taunted. “He died begging for mercy like a coward.”
The lie ignited the dragonfire in Sigurd’s Sea Wolf veins.
When Lyngvi struck again, Sigurd stepped inside the arc of his blow.. Gramr’s reforged blade bit through mail and flesh, into the traitorous heart.
Lyngvi staggered, shock etched across his stunned face. When he pressed a palm against his pierced chest, blood poured through his gloved fingers and soaked his crimson cloak.
Sigurd wrenched Gramr free.
Lyngvi collapsed onto the stone, blood pooling beneath him like deep red wine.
On the beach below, a thunderous roar and riotous howls rose as the King of Gotaland fell. Sigurd’s Sea Wolf banner lifted high over the burning inlet.
Swedish ships blazed like funeral pyres. The village smoldered behind ?rnfjall. The last of the eagle warriors threw down their arms.
Sigurd stood over Lyngvi’s bloodied body, the wind tugging at Blárúlfr’s blue grey fur.
The Eagle of Sweden had fallen.
And at long last, Sigurd’s murdered faeir, King Sigmund of Lindesnes, was avenged.
Sigurd removed Lyngvi’s bronze crown, the amber eyes of its fierce eagle glinting in the dying sun.
He unfastened the eagle brooch which secured the slain king’s crimson cape, pinning it to Blárúlfr beneath his own silver wolf head clasp.
Sliding the amber-studded scabbard from Lyngvi’s leather belt, Sigurd attached the royal blade at his own hip, the eagle head hilt glinting beside the snarling wolf of Gramr.
While the Sea Wolves executed the steadfast Swedish warriors who refused to surrender, and bound those who had voluntarily thrown down their arms, Sigurd kicked open the double entrance doors of ?rnfjall’s royal hall.
Smoke drifted in as he entered, carrying the mingled scents of blood, salt, and burning thatch.
The longhouse was vast, its vaulted beams blackened by years of hearth fire.
Shields painted with Lyngvi’s eagle sigil lined the wooden walls.
An elaborate ondvegi—its high back intricately carved with an enormous eagle, amber eyes aglow in the firelight, wings unfurled in full flight, curved talons gripping the gleaming oak—stood at the far end upon a raised dais.
Sigurd proudly strode the length of the Great Hall.
His heavy boots left blood-stained prints across the rush-strewn floor.
Servants huddled near the hearth — wide-eyed women, gray-bearded stewards, trembling thralls. None dared speak. None dared flee. Outside, the crackle of dying flames and the distant cries of the wounded drifted through the open doors.