Chapter 6 #2
The black streaks around the wound sizzled and hissed, recoiling like writhing snakes. As the serpentine swirls disappeared, the festering flesh turned a healthy pink. Within moments, all traces of the injury were gone.
“By the gods, it’s completely healed!” Inga clutched a weathered hand over her heart, mouth agape in awe.
“Ljósálfar light dispels Dokkálfar darkness. And nen glir washes away every trace.” Skadi beamed at Haldor, her lustrous skin luminous and lucent.
“I could also cleanse the snekkja ship for you. Remove the malevolent magic.” Her sparkling gaze darted from Haldor, to Skjold, then to Dvalinn.
“That vessel is very valuable. A worthy prize for the victors.”
Dvalinn swallowed a large gulp of mead and wiped his thick red moustache with the back of a swarthy hand. “I have no need or desire for such a ship. The location of my Dwarven forge must remain hidden, and such a vessel would attract unwanted attention. You must take the snekkja when you depart.”
Haldor nodded in contemplation. “I already have a ship—Freyja’s Falcon.
” He eyed Skjold pensively over the rim of his pewter goblet as he took a long pull of mead.
The bearskin clad, bearded blond brute was a fine sailor.
Gr?skegg and the Blóesmier crew had trained him well.
And it was Skjold’s otherworldly vision that had brought them here to Dvalinn’s cave.
It was therefore fitting that the ship should become his.
“But Skjold does not,” he said, lowering his goblet to the thick oak table.
“He is highly capable of commanding a vessel, fit to take the helm. The snekkja should go to him.”
Dvalinn bellowed in agreement, raising his mug of mead to propose a toast. “To Skjold, the new commander of the snekkja. Skál!”
Amidst hearty cheers and gulps of mead, Skadi’s clear voice rose above the jubilant din.
“I can purge the snekkja of Dokkálfar darkness,” she announced cautiously, her ice blue gaze darting around the table before fixing on Skjold.
“But the raven prow and black sail—even if repaired—would be immediately recognized as one of Skugga’s ships.
” She spoke across the table to Dvalinn and Dáinn.
“Could the two of you craft a new figurehead?”
A gruff gust of laughter burst from Dvalinn’s stout belly.
“Gunnar has one already finished. A fearsome dragon, like the one coiled around Skjold’s thick neck.
” A wily grin spread across the dwarf’s bristled face, as if an idea had suddenly dawned.
“I propose we name the ship Dragonfire. For the Son of the Dragon who wields the frostfire flames of ísfir.” He glanced around the table, seeking approval, immensely gratified by the enthusiastic nods.
Skjold positively beamed, nearly bursting with pride.
“I’ll fetch it right now. My workshop is next to the armory, where you saw the weapons this morning.” Gunnar rose from the table, smoothing his grey woolen tunic/ “Dáinn, give me hand?”
The Dwarven apprentice nodded, wiped his mouth, and followed Gunnar down the hall.
“Gunnar is a woodcutter and skilled craftsman,” Dvalinn informed Skadi, Haldor, and Skjold. “He carves prows for Viking longships, which he trades for supplies in the Norse village of V?gan.”
Haldor downed a gulp of mead and wiped his bearded lips. “Skjold and I are headed to V?gan—to meet the crew of my ship. We plan to voyage south, to the Viking lands in Normandy. Now, we’ll have two vessels sailing to the Pays de Caux.”
Inga smiled, circulating around the table and refilling the mugs of mead.
She returned to the hearth and stirred the pot of simmering stew, releasing the appetizing aroma of fresh fish, garlic, and herbs.
When Gunnar and Dáinn entered the room with the magnificent wooden sculpture of a dragon balanced between them, she sat back down on the bench beside Skadi as her husband proudly placed the figurehead on the table before Skjold.
Carved from dark, salt-hardened oak, the beast’s head rose in a sinuous arc, a curved crest of ridges and knotwork scales lining the back of its serpentine neck.
Its mammoth jaws were bared in a fearsome snarl, pointed fangs carved with runes and inlaid with bronze, which glimmered like copper fire.
The elongated snout, intricately detailed with shimmering scales traced with silver, tapered to flared nostrils, as if scenting the salty air or searching for the stench of foes.
Its reptilian eyes were deep blue gems, the glittering threads of lapis lazuli gilded by the golden sunlight streaming through the western windows, like flecks of frostfire trapped beneath the icy fjord.
Skjold ran appreciative fingers over the intricately carved wood.
“The craftsmanship is superb.” At the sight of the dragon’s gemstone eyes, he stared up at Gunnar in stunned disbelief.
“Lapis lazuli is my spirit stone.” His hushed voice laced with awe, Skjold displayed the noaidi ring on his finger.
“The dragon is yours. Please accept it as my thanks for warning us of today’s attack.” Brushing a strand of silver-streaked brown hair from his proud, weathered face, Gunnar bowed his head in gratitude to Skjold.
“We even have a sail—given as payment by the Sámi people.” Dvalinn’s bearded lips curled into a sooty smile. “With a dragon, blue like the sea. Woven by the women of the Láhpi tribe.”
Skjold snapped his head in astonishment and shot Haldor an incredulous look.
“We lived among the Láhpi tribe,” Haldor explained, “where Skjold and I each became a noaidi. In truth, Skjold earned the title mere days ago. When his water spirit sought wisdom from the áhkká.” Haldor inclined his head in homage to his blond, bearded acolyte whose many tattoos symbolized the arduous aquatic journey.
“That is how I foresaw the attack of the Rus raiders,” Skjold told Skadi. “My female ancestors—the Sámi people call their spirits the áhkká— had the gift of sight through water, which they passed on to me. During my noaidi spirit journey, the áhkká revealed the vision of the Dokkálfar ship.”
“All the more reason for you to have the dragon sail.” Dvalinn grunted, wisdom wrinkling his leathery skin, blackened by years over his flaming forge.
“The Sámi women— whose skilled hands wove the threads of that sail— imbued their blessing into its fibers. Their watchful spirits will protect the noaidi who lived among them, guiding you over wind and wave.”
The burly dwarf rose from the table and motioned to Skadi, Haldor, and Skjold to follow. “Come, I’ll show you. It’s furled, wrapped in oiled leather, and stored in a crevice of the cave.”
Dvalinn led them from the hearth room, down the narrow stone hall, past a small chamber where the open door revealed a wounded Durinn, his bandaged leg slightly raised atop a pile of furs as he slept in a wooden bed shaped like a sleigh.
They continued quietly down the dark corridor, dimly lit by whale oil lamps burning in rune-engraved metal sconces along the rough stone walls.
At the back of the cave, the forge glowed bright, afternoon sunlight streaming through the lookout windows to the south and the west. “This leads to my private chambers.” Dvalinn indicated the thick door on the left at the end of the hall. “And this is where I have stored the sail.”
A narrow cleft—formed by a fissure within the solid rock of the mountain itself— was hewn into the wall between the forge and Dvalinn’s heavy door. With calloused hands, he reached into the crevice and hauled out the bundled sail of thick ivory wool, tightly wrapped in oiled sealskin.
“Here it is,” he muttered, his breath raspy and rough. “Dragonfire’s breath. To carry you over wind and wave.”
The dwarf heaved the bundled sail from the cleft, the oiled leather creaking softly as it slipped free.
When he lowered the heavy package to the floor, Haldor, Skadi, and Skjold exchanged awed glances.
As they ran reverent eyes over the runes inscribed in the sealskin, Dvalinn grumbled, “Not enough room to unfurl it here. But when the ship is ready, we’ll carry it down to the shore and unroll it over the rocks.
And I’ll tell you the tale of how I came by it.
From a noaidi who foresaw flame sail the seas in the form of a dragon. ”