For three days, they snaked northward up the Rhône, Heimir’s skilled crew manning the oars. When the winds were favorable, they unfurledSjáfaxi’swhite stallion sail, but against the relentless current, the speed of thesnekkjarelied almost entirely upon the strength of the seasoned rowers. The past two nights, they had set up camp along the grassy banks, grilling fresh fish harvested from the vast river. Tonight, as stars emerged over the dark moonlit waters, two ravens who had been circling overhead alighted on the dragon prow before Sigurd.
Their black eyes gleamed with silent knowing.
As Brynhildr’s golden falcon Gyllin had alerted him to Regin’s betrayal—and revealed where Odin had trapped her within theRing of Fire—so now the otherworldly messengers spoke in the language he understood, thanks to the ability granted by Fáfnir’s dragon blood.
“A dozen Franks hold captive the two eldest sons of the River King,” croaked the first, its black feathered head tilted in warning.
“Free them, and theirfaðirshall owe you a blood debt. His royal ships and swords shall aid in your fateful quest.” Once the second raven had spoken, the two birds beat their black wings and disappeared into the dark night sky.
Kveld Nightwolf joined Sigurd at the prow, the amber eyes and thick fur of his black wolfskin gleaming in the moonlight. “What word from the ravens over the Rhône?”
“A dozen Franks camp just up ahead,” Sigurd replied quietly. “They have captured the two eldest sons of a River King. The ravens urged me to free them, for theirfaðirwould owe us a blood debt—and prove a valuable ally.” He leapt from the deck of thesnekkjaonto the riverbank, striding toward the campfire that Heimir’s crew had kindled, Kveld close at his heels.
Tryggvi and Hálfdan approached, sensing the urgency in the hushed communication between Sigurd and the Nightwolf.
“Lord?” Tryggvi’s guarded expression conveyed both wariness and readiness, his hand drifting to the bearded axe at his hip.
“We free two princes tonight, held captive by a dozen Franks just north of here.” Sigurd glanced at Ingólfr, the captain of thesnekkjaand commander of Heimir’s crew. “If we attack now, we take them by surprise. We outnumber them three to one.”
Ingólfr spat on the muddy ground, the blue beads in his dark beard glinting in the firelight. “They must be the sons of King Gjúki, the Burgundian River King. He holds the Saône River and the rich lands from here to the Rhine. The Franks are foe to him—and to my king, Heimir of Hlymdalir. My men and I will gladly wet our blades.”
Sigurd nodded. “Six remain to guard the ship. The rest with me.”
Ingólfr’s men buckled armor, drew swords, and lifted shields.
Like shadows in the dark, they headed north, slipping silently through the dense trees.
* * * *
The pale silver moon hung low over the Rhône, glinting on the river’s rippled surface. From their vantage point atop a lowbluff, Sigurd and his men watched the small Frankish camp in the clearing below.
An enclosed fire burned inside a circle of stones, the flames crackling and sending swirls of smoke and the appetizing aroma of food into the still night. Several Frankish warriors sat on simple hides, tending to skewers and bubbling stew, mugs of ale or wine in hand. The savory scent of grilled fish and the sharp tang of smoke drifted toward the riverbank.
Two men were bound to a pair of stout oaks at the far edge of the camp. Arms lashed behind the trunks, thick ropes cutting into their wrists, their ragged breath misted in the cool night air. Nearby, a small canvas tent flapped in the breeze. A few bedrolls were scattered near the fire where the Franks would sleep. Four guards paced the perimeter, the dull thud of heavy boots on the leaf-strewn ground blending with the snap of sparks from the fire and the low murmur of deep voices.
Kveld’s amber eyes glimmered in the dark. Crouching low, he pulled aside a small branch and nodded toward the four sentinels. “I’ll take the north.”
Sigurd whispered to the twohúskarlarat his side. “Tryggvi, east. Hálfdan, west. I have the south.” At his signal, they descended like shadows—silent, swift, and lethal.
Kveld sprang from the ledge, his black wolfskin blending into the dark night. The Frankish guard’s startled grunt barely escaped before the Nightwolf’s dagger silenced him, the man crumpling into the thick leaves.
Sigurd leapt over the embankment, steel flashing, and felled the northern guard with a clean stroke of his sword.
Tryggvi and Hálfdan struck in unison, axes silencing two more guards.
The remaining Franks spun toward the noise, hands grasping for swords too late.
In a single wave of shadow and steel, Sigurd and his men descended from the forested ledge. Sparks flew as blades met armor. Sweat, smoke, and the coppery tang of blood filled the cold night air.
Taken utterly by surprise, the ambushed Franks fell to precise, ruthless strikes until none remained save the two captives tied to the oaks.
“We have come to free you,” Sigurd told the wary prisoners as he and Kveld cut the ropes which bound their wrists behind the trees. “I am Sigurd Sea Wolf, Dragonslayer of Sjóborg. And these are my companions Kveld Nightwolf, Tryggvi, Hálfdan, Ingólfr, and the warriors of King Heimir of the Camargue.”
Sigurd and Kveld helped the two freed captives to their unsteady feet.
The taller of the two, with darker hair and longer beard, nodded as he brushed leaves from his tunic and breeches. “I am Gunnar, eldest son of King Gjúki of Rhônehöll. And this is my brother, Högni. We owe you our lives—a blood debt. Let us now swear a solemn oath of brotherhood.”
Gunnar and Högni strode across the clearing, weaving through the slain bodies to retrieve their sheathed swords and daggers. While the two princes strapped the recovered blades to their respective waists, Heimir’s men retrieved valuable Frankish swords from the fallen soldiers.
