Castle servants bearing torches ushered Sigurd, Kveld Nightwolf, and the twohúskarlarthrough the winding corridorsto private chambers on the second floor of the towering fortress. Below, Ingólfr and the crew ofSjáfaxiwere guided to lodging along the river, close to theirsnekkja,where supplies for the return voyage to the Camargue—and the prized Frankish blades—would be secured at first light.
With Tryggvi and Hálfdan settled in the adjacent chamber, Sigurd stood alone in the quarters he shared with Kveld, gazing out the open window, watching moonlight dance upon the dark ripples of the Rhône.
Behind him, the heavy oaken door thudded shut.
“Beware the queen,” Kveld warned, bolting the door and hanging his wolfskin on a wooden peg. His amber eyes glowed like the ominous wolf’s in his blackSjórúlfarcloak. “She is amalva.”
Sigurd spun toward thevitki.
“Not avölvawho foresees visions,” Kveld continued, his deep voice ominous and foreboding. “Amalvabendsseiðrto her will. She does not read the threads of fate—she knots them with curses. Bindings. Evil enchantments that coil like venomous snakes… and strike when least expected.”
The rushing river whispered below.
“Her admiration of your golden armor,” Kveld murmured. “That was not wonder. It washunger.”
Silence stretched in the starlight between them.
“We must watch her carefully, Sigurd Sea Wolf. Amalvadoes not cast without purpose.”
Sigurd hungBlárúlfrbesidethe Nightwolf’s black cloak, the twin wolfskins shimmering in the moonlight from the open window. He unfastened the clasps of his goldenbrynjaand laid it carefully atop the carved chest at the foot of his bed, the chainmail whispering softly as it settled. In the studded leather scabbard, he stoodGramrwithin easy reach along the wall, placing the winged helm on the bedside table. He shed hisboots and lay back upon the sleigh-shaped bed, sliding beneath woolen blankets and soft furs.
The scent of pinewood from the stone hearth mingled with the briny tang of the river.
Though weary from battle, the voyage to Rhônehöll, and the revelry of the triumphant feast, sleep did not claim him.
Kveld’s warning lingered in the dark.
Below the open window, the Rhône murmured against stone, ships, and shore.
In the still silence, the cold of the queen’s glacial touch crept like a serpent through his veins.
He closed his eyes and thought of Brynhildr—the firelit gold of her long, lustrous hair, the steady strength in her shieldmaiden gaze, the delicious body that transported him to the stars.
As theouroborosblazed above his loyal lupine heart, he longed for her from the depths of his Sea Wolf soul. Her absence cut like a blade between his ribs.
Far from the Rhône and its whispering shadows, she waited for him in the Camargue.
He would soon avenge hisfaðirin Sweden.
Reclaim his rightful crown.
And return to Brynhildr as a king, worthy of her royal hand.
Chapter 23
Hammer and Fang
After a heartydagmálin the Great Hall, Sigurd accompanied King Gjúki, Gunnar, and Högni down to the loading dock at the base of the cliff where the silver light of morning glimmered over the Rhône.
Amidst shouts, creaking ropes, and the thud of crates being loaded onto the threesnekkjawhose long hulls glistened in the pale mist, the wooden jetty of Rhônehöll 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 ofSjáfaxiloaded 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 mayNjördrguide your sails for a swift, safe return.”
Sigurd nodded, and Ingólfr leapt onto the deck. As Gjúki’s men maneuvered thesnekkjawith long poles, others waded out into the swift river and guidedSjáfaxisouth 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 goldenbrynja,winged dragon helm, andBlárúlfrcloak glinting in the pale morning sun—and watched until the ship disappeared from view.
