Chapter 4
ísfir
At the mention of the Dwarven sword and the legendary White Wolf, memories flooded Haldor.
The bloody battle to defend his newly established stronghold in Tórshavn, which had come under attack by the same Rus raiders and Dokkálfar dark elves who were now headed toward Dvalinn’s cave.
The úlfhéenar warriors who had shifted into vicious wolves, tearing the Dark Elves apart with razor sharp claws and bloodied maws.
And the Dokkálfar spear which had penetrated Brokk’s chain mail armor under the white wolfskin cloak while he wielded the Dwarven sword, úlfsongr.
Haldor remembered how Njáll, the tall úlfhéeinn in the black wolfskin, and Bodo, the brown wolf who was Brokk’s closest friend, had taken their wounded leader west to ísland, to be cured by a skilled Ljósálfar healer that Brokk knew well.
But the White Wolf had died during the voyage, and the úlfhéenar pair had returned to the Faroe Islands without him or the Dwarven sword.
They had entrusted the legendary blade to the Ljósálfar healer, who was guarding úlfsongr until Brokk’s son Njord came to reclaim it.
Haldor thought again of úlvhild, the woman he loved.
The volva who had foreseen the interwoven threads of fate.
She’d prophesied that Njord would reclaim his father’s Dwarven sword. And that Skjold, the Son of the Dragon, would help the Wolf of the Nordic Seas fulfill his fateful quest.
She’d also predicted that Skjold—the child born to the son of the Danish king and the daughter of the Norman duke— would forge a dynasty to unite the land and rule for a thousand years.
Skjold’s deep voice interrupted Haldor’s reverie.
“In my vision,” he informed Dvalinn, “I saw your hoard of Dwarven weapons.” He gulped from his goblet, hand shaking as he lowered the wooden mug onto the table.
“Among them, an icy shield, with waves of glowing runes. And a brilliant gem encased in silver.” Skjold’s dark blue eyes danced like sunlit waves of the sparkling fjord.
“That shield sang to my soul. I am meant to wield it.”
Dvalinn drained his mead and swiped a swarthy hand across his bearded lips.
He rose from the table and indicated the stone corridor behind him with a jut of his chin.
Illuminated with torches in metal sconces along the stone walls, the narrow hallway led from the open chamber where they now sat, deep into the darkened recesses of the clifftop cave. “Come with me.”
They followed the stocky, rugged dwarf past closed wooden doors on either side of the hallway, which Skjold suspected sheltered sleeping areas for Dvalinn and his servant.
At the end of the corridor, two copper-haired dwarves, both clad in sooty leather aprons, hammered a glowing weapon, fresh from the blazing forge.
“My apprentices, Durinn and Dáinn.” At the sound of their mentor’s voice, they looked up, nodded in respect, then diligently returned to their arduous work.
Dvalinn fetched an iron key, shaped like a warhammer’s head, and unlocked a dark, burnished metal door etched with ancient runes beneath a vaulted stone arch.
Like flickers of fire curling around craggy rock, the runes glowed as the dwarf fit the key into the blackened lock.
With a creak of metal scraping against immutable stone, the heavy door swung open.
And sparks sizzled up Skjold’s spine.
As if within a cryptic tomb, the dry, metallic air hovered between stone walls etched with sigils of protective spells.
Enchanted gems, glowing like embers, pulsed inside repetitive patterns of Nordic runes carved into the rugged walls, their triangular shape evoking the image of the mountain itself.
As a trained Viking vitki, Skjold recognized the runes at once.
Algiz, the Elk, at the top of each triangle, its defensive antlers outstretched to ásgard.
Eiwaz, the yew tree, symbol of Yggdrasil, the living link between worlds, connecting the roots of ancestral spirits with the divine protection of the gods.
Othala, symbol of inheritance. For Dvalinn’s bloodline, Dwarven weapons, and heritage as Fjallvoer, the Mountain’s Guardian.
Skjold scanned the vaulted armory, where axes, hammers, spears, and swords lined the weapon racks carved into the rugged stone.
Along the southern wall, mounted hooks displayed full suits of chain mail armor, tooled leather plates, and rune-inscribed helms. Arrow slits— narrow windows carved into the western face of the cliff— peered out over the churning surf far below.
And there—on the northern wall, in a recessed corner covered in frosted stone—stood the shimmering shield that the áhkká had revealed in his spirit vision.
Shaped like an inverted droplet, it glimmered icy blue, the sapphire colored runes glowing in flowing waves. At its heart, a pale gem pulsed with power, radiating like a captured star.
Skjold stared, transfixed, as the Celtic spirals and Nordic runes tattooed amongst waves on his forearms flowed in rhythm with the symbols on the shield.
“ísfir awakens.” Dvalinn’s gruff whisper wafted on the salty wind floating through the narrow windows. “The runes recognize you. And the Hrímsúl heart beats with your own.” Golden eyes aglow with otherworldly light, the Dwarven blacksmith gestured to the shimmering shield. “Take it. It is yours.”
Pulse pounding, limbs shaking, Skjold slowly approached the frigid corner of the vaulted armory where a rear-mounted stand supported the droplet-shaped shield.
Its tip pointed downward to a crescent of glowing runes carved into the stone, as if binding a protective spell.
In the heart of the ice blue shield, the Hrímsúl gem glimmered as wisps of mist curled from the ancient stone like frozen smoke or frosted breath.
When Skjold gripped the leather- bound metal handle and lifted the shield from its stand, power surged up the runes of his forearm like a mammoth wave flooding the fjord.
He hefted the weapon—it was much lighter than he expected, as if it were a mere extension of his own arm.
He rotated it, testing the arc and the balance, feeling how it would swing, tilt, or deflect a blow.
Equally awed by the inimitable Dwarven craftsmanship and the preternatural power imbued into the runes and enchanted gem, he ran reverent fingertips over the dark blue glowing marks which flowed along the length of the silvery shield.
“ísfir—forged from the crystallized wood of a sacred ash tree.” Dvalinn watched as Haldor joined Skjold in admiring the gleaming shield.
With a calloused, sooty hand, the dwarf gestured to the stormy blue metal of the rim.
“Dwarven steel,” he grunted proudly, as the two Viking vitkar examined the elaborate patterns of Nordic runes carved into the frame.
Deeply etched into the intricate forgework, the grooves inlaid with frosted silver glimmered in the morning light.
Though the Dwarven steel was cold to the touch, the runes throbbed like living veins.
At the heart of the shield, encased within the metal boss, the pale blue faceted gem sparkled amidst runes that spiraled outward like fractals of frost.
“I found the Hrímsúl jewel entombed in ice on the northeast slope of the mountain,” Dvalinn explained as Skjold and Haldor examined the glittering gem. “Where the land is frozen solid, as if Ymir himself had exhaled his ancient, glacial breath across the frostbitten stone."
Skjold ran his thumb across an unfamiliar rune engraved on the inside of the shield, to the left of the grip.
It shivered at his touch. And—like violet fire aflame in frozen sapphire— the gem glowed with otherworldly lavender light.
“What rune is this? I do not recognize it.” He showed the carving to both Haldor and the dwarf.
“Eldhrímr. Frostfire. From the ice dragon giants of Jotunheim.” Dvalinn’s raspy voice was craggy and rugged as the cave.
“Touch the rune to release a plume of frostfire. Point it downward, as if etching the earth, and extend your arm as you rotate in a crescent or full arc. A shield wall of frostfire will defend you and your allies. It will block arrows, deaden magic, and melt enemy projectiles before they reach you.” Dvalinn’s fiery gaze blazed like the flames of his Dwarven forge.
“Or point the plume upward to destroy enemies with fire-laced frost. Melt them from within as they freeze from without.” The dwarf pointed to a second unfamiliar rune, etched into the right side of the shield’s handle.
“Kaldheimr,” he whispered. “To retract the flame back into the gem. And call the frostfire home.”
Limbs trembling in awe, a stunned Skjold glanced at Haldor, whose piercing eyes glinted with predatory intent. “You must practice wielding it. To be ready when the raiders attack.”
“Come outside. There is an area at the base of the stairs.” Dvalinn strode toward the arched doorway, leading them back into the cave.
But as Skjold followed the dwarf from the vaulted armory, past rows of polished spears, his gaze was inexplicably drawn to one.
The spear he had seen in his vision.
A pointed blade— curved like the razor-sharp beak of a raptor—was etched with runes that glowed in the torchlight.
At the base of the steel tip, a droplet shaped moonstone mirrored the tapered form of the lethal blade with an eerie, otherworldly glow.
The slender but sturdy shaft was crafted from a silvery wood veined with deep blue markings, as if hewn from a frostbitten forest. Interwoven among engraved sigils and patterned feathers were fierce falcons taking flight.
Skjold stopped in his tracks, transfixed.
“ísfálkr,” Dvalinn murmured, reaching for the spear. “Ice Falcon. Crafted from the same frosted ashwood as the ísfir shield.” The dwarf carefully removed the weapon from the stand and offered it reverently to Skjold.
As he gripped the shaft of the spear—just as he’d experienced when grasping the handle of the shield— the blue veins in the frosted wood flowed in waves like the tattoos on his forearms, sending a surge of power which rippled up his hand.
“Like Gungnir, Dwarven spear of the Allfather Odin, ísfálkr never misses its mark.” Fierce pride hammered Dvalinn’s gravelly voice.
As Skjold gripped the Dwarven spear, the image of Haldor hurling it toward the snekkja appeared in his Veil of Vision. “Falcon of the Faroe Islands,” he said, handing the spjót to his mentor. “You must wield ísfálkr. To kill the Dokkálfar who commands the ship.”
Falcon eyes agleam with a blend of honor, respect, and wonder, Haldor accepted the Dwarven spear and ducked his bearded chin in hallowed gratitude.
Dvalinn watched with stoic silence as Haldor hefted the weapon in his palm, running his fingers over the runes and murmuring an incantation, as if binding its power to his own.
As Haldor intoned his galdr chant, the inlaid moonstone glowed bright, the runes of the blade and the falcons in flight glimmering in the incandescent light.
When Haldor nodded, his spell complete, Dvalinn led them through the arched vault of the armory, locking the burnished metal door behind him.
Skjold followed the dwarf and Haldor down the narrow stone hall, through the vast hearth chamber where the servant cooked over an open fire.
Dvalinn led them down the mist-shrouded stone stairs, slick with moss and pale lichens.
When they arrived at the grassy bank where the waterfall pooled into a pond and Skjold’s spirit boat was concealed among the willows, the burly blacksmith indicated the curved end of a rocky outcrop.
“Start with a shield wall around the base of the cliff. Include the three of us behind the wall of flame.”
Skjold placed his right foot back, bracing himself and extending his shield arm as he brushed his thumb over the Eldhrímr rune.
With a crackling hiss, a fountain of ice blue fire frosted with silver and violet plumes burst forth from the Hrímsúl gem.
As Dvalinn had instructed, Skjold pointed the flame downward, rotating in a crescent and outlining the curved base of the cliff, while keeping the dwarf and Haldor behind him.
A wall of frostfire, the height of two men, arose from the charred frozen earth, enclosing the rounded edge of the mountain and the three men in a shield of protective flame.
“You can’t shield and smite with the same flame. Call the frostfire home before you unleash it to strike.” He waited while Skjold pressed the Kaldheimr rune and retracted the shield wall of flame. “Now, fire at that target,” Dvalinn bellowed, indicating a dead willow at the edge of the shore.
Skjold pointed the plume upward and pressed the Eldhrímr rune with his thumb.
The gnarled tree erupted in blue flames.
Ice flickered on burning leaves, sparkling like frosted stars, the wreaths of fire scorching and splitting the frozen bark, leaving a pale, petrified husk.
Skjold grinned from ear to ear, projecting plumes of frostfire at targeted rocks which shattered like shards of ice. He watched as Haldor hurled ísfálkr at a distant tree on the opposite side of the island. And nearly burst with pride at the sound of a satisfying thwack.
“If you lance the Dwarven spear at a Dokkálfar, it will turn him to stone.” Dvalinn snickered, gesturing to a grim statue posted atop the overhang of the cliff above his cave.
“Like that one.” The curse-marked relic served as a visible warning to show intruders how fiercely Dvalinn the Fjallvorer guarded his mountain.
While Haldor strode briskly across the rocky terrain to retrieve ísfálkr from the trunk of the tree, the trio of droplet shaped tattoos under Skjold’s left eye—his Veil of Vision—drew his attention to the reflective surface of the icy fjord.
There, in the shimmering waters, he glimpsed the crimson eyes of a scarlet-haired witch whose pallid skin was webbed with black tattoos.
As her lurid image dissolved in the waves, the snekkja longship with the raven prow and blood-streaked black sail appeared amidst a swirl of shadows.
And just as Skjold turned to warn Dvalinn and Haldor of the ship’s imminent approach, the hauntingly beautiful face of a young woman with ice blue eyes aflame with violet fire flashed on the surface of the fjord, jolting him to the very core.
She is on the enemy ship.
And we must save her from the Dokkálfar..