Chapter 27
Return to Rh?neholl
The welcoming feast was superb.
Lively music from flutes and tallharpas filled the expansive Great Hall.
The silver serpent banners of King Gjúki snapped in the tangy river breeze floating through the open windows of Rh?neholl, mingling with the rich aromas of roast venison, grilled fish, fresh herbs, cinnamon spice, and rich red wine.
Kveld sat at the high table with Sigurd, savoring the sumptuous fare.
But at his side, though the wolf and raven crown glimmered atop his blond head, and Blárúlfr’s magnificent blue-grey fur gleamed in the firelight, the new King of Lindesnes sat in a vague stupor, swirls of enchantment emanating from him like slithering snakes.
Queen Grímhildr silently watched Sigurd from her royal husband’s side, dark eyes glinting with triumph, like a viper who has struck its prey and patiently waits for the venom to take hold. When she raised her gaze to Kveld, a cryptic smile crept across her pale face.
He knew what the malva had done, for he had foreseen her spell through seier.
When he, Tryggvi, and Hálfdan had been escorted to guest quarters by Gjúki’s royal húskarlar, the queen had whisked Sigurd away to celebrate in private with the royal family.
Gunnar and Hogni had undoubtedly spoken to her of Sigurd’s gold and the generous bride price he’d offered Budli for Brynhildr. And now, with Sigurd under her malevolent spell, the witch had ensnared him in her intricately woven web.
Her velvety voice was smooth as silk.
“Gjúki and I are delighted that our sons aided you in avenging your faeir …defeating King Lyngvi of Sweden…and reclaiming the Volsung crown of Lindesnes.” Grímhildr sipped her burgundy wine from a gem-studded silver goblet.
Her black obsidian eyes glinted with greed as she spoke to Sigurd.
“And we are most grateful that you negotiated the bride price for Brynhildr on Gunnar’s behalf.
With their royal marriage, Rh?neholl will be allied to Heimir of Hlymdalir, as well as the kingdom of Hrafnfjall in Norway. ”
The silver-clad queen reached across her royal husband to squeeze Sigurd’s hand in feigned affection.
“And with you wed to our dóttir Gudrún, the kingdom of Burgundy shall be bound by blood and marriage to Sjóborg, Bjarkholm, and Lindesnes.” Grímhildr flashed a triumphant smile to the dark-haired princess on Kveld’s right side.
She then spoke to Gjúki, seated upon his serpent-carved ondvegi throne.
“It is time to announce the betrothals, my husband. Let all of Rh?neholl rejoice.”
Gjúki rumbled with mirth and rose to his regal feet.
The music stopped, and the revelry halted, all eyes fixing on the Burgundian king.
He raised his silver goblet and grinned at Sigurd. “Tonight, we honor Sigurd Sea Wolf, the Dragonslayer of Sjóborg and newly crowned Volsung King. Bloodsworn broeir of my sons Gunnar and Hogni, we celebrate his triumph in Sweden and Norway. All hail King Sigurd of Lindesnes!”
Raucous cheers of “Skál!” rippled through Rh?neholl.
As Kveld raised his silver goblet and drank to Sigurd’s success, Queen Grímhildr watched him, her dark eyes veiled with menace and malice.
I do not fear you, human witch. For I am fated to serve the gods.
Though unafraid, Kveld did not wish to antagonize the queen, nor did he want to convey the extent of his own power. He would bide his time and wait for the right moment to strike. Averting his gaze from hers, he lowered his eyes and swallowed more of the rich red wine.
Gjúki bellowed from the high table. “Let all of Burgundy celebrate the betrothal of my dóttir Gudrún to King Sigurd…and my son Gunnar, to Princess Brynhildr of Hrafnfjall! Rh?neholl shall host a double royal wedding upon the next full moon!”
Royal guests shot to their feet. Shouts of joy rose to the rafters. At Kveld’s side, Sigurd sat in silence, a bewildered smile upon his blank face.
As Kveld reached for his silver goblet, his gaze fell to Sigurd’s left hand. The wedding ring that he had carved by the fire as they rode through the eastern Alps of Francia was missing from Sigurd’s finger.
The runes he’d etched inside the golden band pulsed from a pouch at Gunnar’s waist.
That evening, as he stared at the moon through the window of his private chamber adjacent to Sigurd’s, Kveld vowed to obtain that ring.
At first light, after breaking their fast with smoked fish, oat porridge, barley bread, and soft cheese, Kveld boarded úlfalkr with Sigurd, while Gunnar and Hogni sailed the two snekkja they had taken to Sweden.
A trio of royal sails—two bearing silver serpents and one with a snarling wolf—snapped in the summer breeze as the three ships departed Rh?neholl, heading south to the Camargue.
* * * *
As Brynhildr guided Grani through the reeds shimmering in the summer sun and rippled by the saline breeze, the strident blast of the sentinel’s horn streaked across the salty marshland.
Though excitement flooded her veins, and the sudden, searing blaze of the ouroboros above her heart told her that Sigurd had returned, she rode carefully, to protect the precious babe cradled in her womb.
As she slid from the saddle, handing the reins to Heimir’s stable hand, she spotted three ships docked along the wooden jetty at the port.
She recognized the snarling wolf sail and falcon prow of úlfalkr, the drakkar where Kveld had carved the triple bindrune beneath the mast. But the two snekkja with silver serpents on dark blue sails bore the sigil of the Burgundian River King Gjúki.
An icy chill shivered up Brynhildr’s spine.
While Heimir’s húskarlar were leading the crews of the three ships to bathhouses and lodging, Brynhildr entered the limestone fortress, where she was greeted by Tryggvi and Hálfdan.
She sensed immediately that something was very wrong, for neither of them smiled, and they avoided her searching gaze.
“Where is Sigurd?” Her voice trembled, nearly frantic. Surely he would come to greet her! Had he failed in his quest and been slain in Sweden? Or perished in the battle to reclaim his Volsung lands? Her heart hammered in her constricted chest. “What is wrong?”
Black wolfskin shimmering in the morning light through windows open to the sunlit sea, Kveld grasped her hand and pulled her aside.
His deep whisper was hurried and urgent.
“Sigurd is under the malva’s spell. He will not remember you and believes you are betrothed to Gunnar, the eldest son of King Gjúki.
Gunnar will claim the right to win your hand in single combat.
We will bring you back to Rh?neholl as his bride.
But trust me, Brynhildr. I shall help you and Sigurd escape.
” His head snapped toward the sound of heavy bootsteps coming down the hall.
“Come—Gunnar has spoken to Heimir and will challenge you now.” He led her back to the entrance hall where Tryggvi and Hálfdan awaited.
At the sight of Sigurd, Brynhildr nearly dropped to her knees.
His bright blue gaze was cloudy, his spark of life dimmed and dulled. When he met her gaze, his beloved face was blank.
He does not remember me. O Freyja, help me save him!
The ouroboros above Brynhildr’s pounding heart spluttered, as if the dragonfire of seier had been nearly extinguished.
Sigurd was flanked by a pair of armored warriors whose dark hair and thick beards were braided with silver beads.
The taller of the two spoke to Brynhildr, a predatory glint in his serpentine gaze.
“I am Gunnar, eldest son of King Gjúki, the Burgundian River King of Rh?neholl.” A gloating grin stretched across his scarred face.
“You swore an oath to wed the warrior who could best you in single combat. I hereby challenge you for your hand.”
His anguished face distraught with grief, Heimir appeared behind Gunnar, clutching Brynhildr’s golden corslet, falcon shield, and Sun Falcon sword that Freyja had gifted her for the Solhjarta Tournament.
Odin condemned me to never win another battle. Gunnar knows he will defeat me.
Panic gripped her heart and stole her speech.
Deeply inhaling the scent of the sea which bound her to Sigurd, Bynhildr summoned her strength and found her voice.
“I cannot marry you, for I am already wed to Sigurd.” She displayed the ouroboros band on her left hand.
The emerald eyes of the dragon swallowing its tail glittered in the golden sun.
Gunnar rumbled with sneering laughter. “Sigurd has renounced that pagan ceremony,” he spat, grinning at the shadowed Sea Wolf at his side. “Since you were not wed by a Christian priest, the marriage is invalid.” He retrieved a ring from a pouch strapped to his belt and slapped it into her hand.
It was the wedding band that Kveld had crafted.
Between the carved images of the wolf, falcon, and dragon, three gems—emerald, lapis lazuli, and amber—glistened against her cold skin.
Inside the golden band, the same trio of runes as the triple bindrune engraved in the hull of the úlfalkr ship—and etched onto the shore beneath her private tower of Hrafnfjall—pulsed in her cradled palm.
She tucked the ring into her own belt and met Kveld’s compelling gaze.
Go along with him, his amber eyes told her. And trust me when the time comes.
“I shall don my armor and meet you in the courtyard.” Brynhildr accepted the corslet, shield, and sword from Heimir and disappeared into her private chambers down the hall.
The Falkhjarta corslet—molded to fit her as the Sun Falcon Shieldmaiden of Hrafnfjall—barely fastened along her expanded waistline. She plaited her long blonde hair in a single braid down her back and donned her bronze leather leggings, golden vambraces, and falcon helmet with gleaming amber eyes.
She strapped Sólfalkr at her hip.
Gripped her Falkskjoldr shield with her gloved left hand.
And strode out into the summer sun to face her cruel fate.