Chapter 3
Dvalinn’s Cave
Haldor awoke to the appetizing aroma of grilled fish, the nutty scent of barley porridge, and the tang of wild herbs and lingonberries.
Pale pink, violet, and mauve streaked the dawn sky, the first rays of sunlight peering over the cliffs and onto the dark, icy fjord.
As he stretched in his bedroll, he glanced over at Skjold, who was grilling fresh fish over the flames while simmering barley in a soapstone pot.
Like the Sámi people of the Láhpi coastal tribe, Haldor’s young acolyte was a capable fisherman.
And an excellent cook.
Skjold noticed that Haldor was awake. He grinned from ear to ear, the blue beads in his braided beard glinting in the early morning light.
“I caught us three cod.” he announced proudly, referring to the skewered white flesh grilling over the flames.
“Skinned and gutted them, offering the entrails to the áhkká spirits of the fjord. To thank them for their bounty.” He stirred the porridge, removed it from the fire, and placed the pot atop a flat stone, where he added lingonberries and wild thyme before covering it with the lid.
“I poured the blood of the fish onto the roots of the tree where we moored the boat. To thank the landvaettir of the forest for protecting it. And us.” Skjold’s limpid eyes were as blue as the sacred waters of the fjord.
And the fierce, tattooed dragon which coiled around his corded neck.
“You’ve done well.” Haldor rose and stretched out his limbs.
“I’ll be right back.” He headed into the forest, relieved himself, then strode down to the water’s edge to wash his hands and face in the icy fjord, cleaning his teeth with the small willow branch that he fetched from the pouch at his waist.
When he returned to the campsite and sat down on the bedroll, Skjold handed him a plate with grilled cod and a large chunk of goat cheese, followed by a bowl of barley porridge mixed with lingonberries and hazelnuts.
“A hearty feast!” Haldor dug into the delicious fare, nodding with appreciation as he savored the exquisite flavors. “You, Lagudi, are a fine cook.”
Skjold beamed with pride to hear Haldor address him by his noaidi spirit name.
He shoveled a huge portion of fish into his grinning mouth.
After washing it down with water from the sealskin pouch, he swiped a swarthy hand across his bearded lips.
“We need to be prepared for battle. In case the Rus raiders attack today.”
Haldor nodded as he finished his porridge. “I’ll rinse the dishes and pack up the supplies while you load up the bedrolls.”
Once the boat was ready, Haldor donned his leather armor and secured his sheathed sword along the inside of the vessel next to his seat. He needed the mobility for rowing. And for flying as a falcon.
They followed the sinuous fjord, heading northwest toward the island where Haldor had seen the snow-capped mountain. As they approached, the craggy peak emerged from the clouds, its summit ringed in misty fog and capped with icy snow.
Skjold had been rowing in silence, as if listening to the spirits of the still water.
He turned to face Haldor, seated behind him in the narrow boat.
“The dwarf’s cave is on the eastern side of the island,” he announced with a whisper of wonder.
“On a high ledge overlooking the fjord.” He rowed more forcefully, steering the boat toward the island up ahead.
When they reached the eastern side of the island, the mouth of a hidden cave became visible on a rocky ledge of the cliff which jutted out over the fjord. There was no beach for them to land on, for the cave was carved into the solid rock side of the mountain.
Haldor’s magic flared in recognition. The dwarf had enshrouded the entire island with powerful wards of protection.
Skjold must have sensed it, too. He shifted to the side of his seat so he could face Haldor. Apprehension blazed in his wary gaze. “How do we warn the dwarf? There is nowhere to land the boat.”
“I’ll fly up to the ledge and tell him the Son of the Dragon has come with an urgent message.” In a glimmer of golden light, Haldor transformed into a peregrine falcon. And swooped up to land on the ledge.
* * * *
Skjold watched from the boat as the falcon perched on the craggy rock.
A short, swarthy dwarf with long, fiery red hair and an equally long, braided red beard appeared at the mouth of the cave.
His leather apron was tooled with Nordic runes and coated with soot and ash, its pockets overflowing with tongs, chisels, hammers, and various tools.
In his meaty fist, the wary Dwarven blacksmith clutched a huge hammer — stained with soot and heavy with menacing intention.
“Who are you?” he bellowed, his wrinkled skin as scorched and scarred as his burnished apron.
When Haldor shifted from falcon to vitki, the dwarf’s clenched jaw dropped in astonishment.
“Haldor Falk, Falcon of the Faroe Islands. And my acolyte. The prophesied Son of the Dragon.” Haldor gestured to Skjold, still seated in the small spirit boat down below.
“Skjold has foreseen an impending attack of Rus raiders, intent on seizing your treasure and weapons. We have come to warn you. And fight at your side to defend you.”
The dwarf cautiously exited the cave, hammer raised and ready to strike. He peered down at Skjold with a suspicious scowl. “You claim to be the Son of the Dragon. How did you foresee this attack?”
“I have the gift of sight through water.” Skjold gestured to the three droplets tattooed under his left eye.
“The áhkká spirits of the fjord revealed it to me.” He stared up at the grim, grizzled dwarf.
“In the vision, I saw a snekkja longship with a raven prow. And a black sail, with a blood red stripe down the center.”
“Skugga.” The dwarf hissed out the name like a curse and spat with disgust. He lowered his hammer etched with ancient runes and secured it in a wide leather loop of his sooty apron.
He tugged his long red beard, thick brows furrowed in contemplation.
After a few moments, as if arriving at a decision, he addressed both Haldor and Skjold.
“Beach the boat on the south side of the island. Hide it among the willow trees near the waterfall. I’ll meet you there. ”
Haldor shifted into a falcon and swooped down to land in the boat.
After reverting back to human form, he rowed with Skjold around the base of the mountain cliff toward the south side of the island.
On the grassy bank along the shoreline, a cluster of willows grew amidst birch and rowan trees, moss-covered stones, and bracken ferns, near a waterfall which cascaded down the mountain into a freshwater pool.
Skjold hopped out of the boat, the icy water seeping into his fur lined boots, despite the oiled sealskin wrapped around the reindeer hide.
He pulled the prow up onto a grassy area along the shore so Haldor could avoid the frigid fjord.
With the hemp rope stored inside the boat, Skjold tied the narrow vessel to the low-lying branch of a willow, hiding the pale birch wood and the sculpted mermaid prow amongst the dense, silvery green foliage.
The wary dwarf stood on the craggy ledge above them, brawny arms crossed guardedly over his blacksmith’s apron as he watched them moor the boat.
“Be cautious of the stairs,” he warned, gesturing to the stone steps carved into the side of the mountain beneath the jagged outcrop where he perched overhead.
“The mist from the waterfall makes them slick, and the moss which conceals them from view also renders them quite treacherous to climb.”
The whispering rush of the waterfall was a murmur in Skjold’s ear, the cool mist spraying his bearded face as he carefully followed Haldor up the slippery stones to the craggy ledge where the dwarf awaited, his golden eyes aglow like the fire in his forge.
“Come inside… and tell me of this vision you have foreseen.” The dwarf pushed open a heavy oaken door carved with ancient runes, its crescent moon shaped arch molded to fit the mouth of the cave.
Inside the dwarf’s dwelling, a fire crackled in the stone hearth of the large central room where a woman, clad in a woolen dress, a close-fitted linen cap, and a shawl fastened around her bent shoulders, stirred an appetizing stew in a copper pot hung from a blackened iron hook.
The lemony scent of sorrel and the minty tang of thyme blended with the buttery aroma of freshly caught fish.
Skjold’s mouth watered in ravenous anticipation.
The grizzled blacksmith motioned for them to sit at his trestle table, nodding to the woman in silent command.
As Haldor and Skjold settled upon a wooden bench, the dwarf sat across from them while the woman served three wooden mugs of honeyed mead, sharply scented with birch.
She then placed a wooden platter with a loaf of freshly baked barley bread, its nutty aroma wafting on wisps of steam, and a wedge of goat cheese, crumbling at the hard edges, on the table before them.
She disappeared down the dark corridor, into the depths of the cave.
“Eat, then speak,” the dwarf grumbled in gruff hospitality. “No talk of visions on an empty belly.”
Haldor bowed his head before reaching for the wooden platter.
“Bread before burden. We thank you.” He tore off a hunk of the barley loaf, set the morsel on the table before Skjold, then broke a piece for himself.
Withdrawing the small knife sheathed at his waist, he cut a slice of cheese, placed it atop Skjold’s bread, repeated the action for his own, then set the platter on the table before their silent, suspicious host. With a nod to Skjold, indicating they should accept the dwarf’s hearth-given fare, he took a bite, chewed appreciatively, and washed it down with a hearty gulp of mead.
As if appeased by the acceptance of his proffered bounty, the dwarf finally spoke. “I am Dvalinn, known as Fjallvorer, the Mountain Guardian. And this is N?ttgraf,, the hidden cave of my Dwarven forge. How did you find me? I have enshrouded the entire mountain with enchanted mist.”
Skjold darted a glance at Haldor, who imperceptibly ducked his chin, before responding.
“I have recently become a noaidi—a Sámi spirit walker through water. The áhkká of the fjord revealed your mountain cave to me in a vision. As well as the priceless treasure and Dwarven weapons which the raiders intend to seize.”
The rolled sleeves of Dvalinn’s woolen tunic revealed his corded, sooty arms, the thick red hairs tinged with soot as he crossed them over his broad, aproned chest. He examined the tattooed blue dragon coiling around Skjold’s neck.
The fluid patterns of Nordic runes and Celtic spirals flowing up his forearms. The intricate details in the wing-shaped, overlapping plates and falcon feather vambraces of Haldor’s exquisite leather armor.
Recognition gleamed in his fiery, golden gaze.
“Falcon of the Faroe Islands.” His gravelly voice echoed in the empty, cavernous cave.
“You fought in the bloody Battle of Tórshavn. Where Brokk Sigurdsson died from a Dokkálfar blade.”
Haldor sipped from his mug of mead, eyeing the dwarf over the rim. He set the wooden cup down, a curious gleam glinting in his dark eyes. “I did indeed. How did you know that?”
“Because I forged the Dwarven blade úlfsongr, at Bluetooth’s behest. For the leader of the úlfhéenar warriors he sent into battle in the Faroe Islands. A Volsung warrior descended from Odin. The legendary White Wolf, Brokk Sigurdsson.”