“Ulfberhtswords— forged to perfection with the finest Carolingian steel—are the most highly prized blades in all the realms.” Ingólfr grinned as he sheathed a gleaming Frankish sword beside the axe hafted at his waist. “Prestigious weapons, and worthy spoils to bring home to Hlymdalir.”
When the freed captives rejoined them, Gunnar withdrew his dagger, the steel blade glinting in the moonlight. “Sigurd Sea Wolf, you have saved us from death. Let our fates be boundtogether.” He sliced the sharp blade across his palm, letting blood drip into the leaves at his booted feet.
With his own knife, Högni cut his palm, blood falling atop Gunnar’s. “We swear loyalty to one another, in battle and in life. As brothers, we stand together.”
Sigurd unsheathed his daggerÚlfhjarta, the white bone hilt and lapis lazuli eyes of the snarling wolf gleaming in the moonlight. He drew the sharp blade across his palm, letting his blood fall onto Gunnar’s and Högni’s before pressing his bloodied hand into each of the two brothers’.
All three men solemnly swore the same oath. “By the gods and by my honor as the son of a king, I swear to always stand by your side… and come to your aid in time of need.”
The Nightwolf’s amber eyes glowed in the silvery light. “Let this oath be witnessed. By river and steel, by blood and breath, your three fates are hereby bound.”
Together, they wove back through the dense forest to the riverbank where six of Heimir’s men stood guard over thesnekkja.The crew had caught, cleaned, and grilled fresh fish over the open flames, alongside a savory stew of eels, mussels, and shrimp steaming in a black iron pot.
While the few injured men tended their wounds, Sigurd settled around the fire with Kveld, Tryggvi, Hálfdan, Ingólfr, and his newly sworn blood brothers.
The grilled pike flaked easily from the bone, and the stew was rich with garlic and wild herbs. As Sigurd washed down a mouthful of barley bread with a gulp of bitter ale, Gunnar began their harrowing tale.
“We were hunting along the forests of the Saône when the Franks fell upon us. They slew our guards, scattered our horses, and took us captive. They meant to bring us north, to their lord, Count Adalric of Alsace, who has long been a foe of ourfaðir.”Gunnar tore into the grilled trout set before him, ravenous hunger overtaking royal composure.
“With Gunnar and me in chains,” Högni continued, gratefully accepting a mug of ale from Ingólfr, “Adalric would have forced ourfaðirto relinquish his lands along the Rhine. The Franks covet Burgundy for its fertile fields and fine wines. They want our land to expand their profitable northern trade in Frisia, where the port of Dorestad fattens their coffers.” Högni drained his mug, and Ingólfr promptly refilled it.
Wiping his mouth with the back of a hand, Sigurd addressed Gunnar and Högni. “Without horses, you cannot simply walk home alone through this forest. I shall personally deliver you to yourfaðiraboard oursnekkja.Ingólfr’s skilled crew and my men will sail us safely along the Rhône.”
Gunnar wiped his hands upon his tunic and rose from the fire, the flames casting long shadows across his dark bearded face. Though weary and exhausted, he stood with the quiet dignity of a king’s son. Gratitude laced his gravelly voice. “Sigurd Sea Wolf, you have not only saved our lives, you have bound our fate to yours. I humbly accept your generous offer, and invite you and your men to a feast with us in Rhônehöll—to celebrate your triumph and valor.”
Högni rose beside hisbroðir,fierce eyes firm and resolute. “Ourfaðirmust hear of this heroic deed with his own ears. Come to our hall as honored guests, and let us feast your victory over the Franks.”
Gunnar gestured northward toward the unseen bend of the Saône. “Rhônehöll crowns the riverbank like a towering sentinel of timber and stone. There, in the glorious Great Hall, we shall feast you and your men, and celebrate your triumph tonight. Let all of Burgundy know that the sons of Gjúki were freed by Sigurd Sea Wolf, Dragonslayer ofSjóborg.”
* * * *
In the early light of dawn, as mist curled along the Rhône, Sigurd and his men shared a quickdagmálof barley porridge, grilled trout, and dark ale with Gunnar and Högni. The crew swiftly loaded the bedrolls and supplies onto thesnekkja,securing the prized Frankish swords, daggers, armor, and shields—which had been claimed and evenly distributed among the men—to the gunwales of the sleek longship. With a final glance at the riverbank where they had freed the two captive sons of King Gjúki, Sigurd signaled, andSjáfaxiglided silently onto the river. Its white horse sail billowed in the tangy breeze, carrying them northward to the renowned fortress of the Burgundian River King.
The Rhône narrowed as they headed north, its broad, brown waters shouldered by reeds and willow and the low murmur of waking villages. The mist thinned with the rising sun, dispersing in silver veils, and ahead—at first no more than a dark smudge against the paling sky—Sigurd spotted Rhônehöll.
Its towering ramparts rose where the river bent sharply eastward, built upon a high bluff of stone that jutted over the swift current like the dragon prow of a grounded longship. Timber palisades crowned the height, their sharpened stakes black against the dawn sky. Behind them loomed the king’s enormous hall, the steep wooden gables of its high peaked roof carved with fanged beasts facing the Rhône. Smoke rose from the rafters in swirling strands, and banners with the River King’s sigil—a silver serpent on a deep blue background—writhed in the cloudy sky.
Below the bluff sprawled the bustling riverfront, with storehouses on stilts, racks spread with nets of teeming fish, sheds for mending sails and repairing boats. A broad wooden jetty thrust out into the river, its timber posts wrapped in iron to withstand the strong current. Smaller piers branched from it like ribs, fisherman unloading fresh catch and merchants deliveringsupplies. Beyond them, moored two and three abreast, lay a dense forest of furled masts.
Sigurd spottedknarrsheavy with trade goods, river craft with shallow drafts for slipping through side channels, and dozens of longships bearing the silver serpent banners of Gjúki’s royal sigil. Armored warriors were boarding asnekkja, preparing to sail—likely to search for the two missing princes.
At their approach, a horn sounded from the watchtower above the jetty.
Men ran along the palisade walk surrounding the fortress. Shields and the glint of armor flashed from the battlements. Another horn blasted from below, triumphant and jubilant. Riotous cheers rang out across the Rhône.
Gunnar and Högni had safely returned.
Gunnar stood at the prow beside Sigurd, dark hair unbound, his bearded face weary but alight with relief. Högni gripped the mast and bellowed like a bull, his stocky frame rumbling with deep laughter.
Ingólfr steeredSjáfaxitoward the main jetty. Heimir’s crew cast lines to awaiting men who leapt forward to catch them, wrapping rope around the thick mooring posts as the hull settled against the wooden dock.
Before the gangplank was fully lowered, armored warriors were running down the jetty—húskarlarin chainmail, helms with noseguards tucked under their arms, bearded faces split with hearty grins. At their head strode a broad-shouldered warrior with a grey beard, braided with glittering blue beads, split into two long forks. Silver fox fur lined his deep blue cloak, clasped by a heavy silver brooch shaped like a river serpent, its sapphire eyes gleaming in the pale morning sun.
King Gjúki did not wait upon ceremony.
He came the last stretch at a near run.
Gunnar stepped ashore first. The king seized him by both shoulders, searching his scarred face as if to prove he was indeed alive and unharmed.
