Chapter 7
Dragonfire
While Gunnar headed off to catch more fish for the celebratory feast Dvalinn announced—rowing the small boat he kept concealed in a stone alcove at the base of the stairs— and Inga baked oatcakes in the kitchen area near the hearth, Dvalinn and Dáinn led Haldor, Skadi, and Skjold from the clifftop cave down to the rocky shore.
The men and dwarves quickly removed the tattered black sail and raven prow from Skugga’s snekkja ship, tossing them into a heap on the muddy, bloody bank of the fjord.
“Burn that with ísfir,” Dvalinn snarled at Skjold, spitting at the loathsome pile.
“And all these vile enemy bodies.” He gestured to the gruesome corpses scattered across the base of the cliff.
“I won’t have their rot seeping into my stone.
” He turned and barked at Dáinn. “We’ll line the Dokkálfar statues on the ledge with the other.
A grim warning of what the Fjallvorer does to those who attack his mountain. ”
Dáinn clambered aboard the snekkja, hauled the petrified Dokkálfar guard from the deck of the ship, and joined Dvalinn in the lugging the heavy statue up the stone stairs.
While the Dwarven redbeards removed the grotesque effigies from the rocky beach and heaved them onto the ledge above the cave, Skjold unleashed frostfire from his ísfir shield.
He burned the raven prow and lacerated black sail of the enemy ship, sweeping the ice blue flame tinged with violet frost over the gruesome corpses whose gouged eyes, shredded faces, and slashed throats had been ravaged by the birds Haldor had summoned from the skies.
When the last of the mutilated remains of the Rus raiders was reduced to frozen ash, and gusts of salty wind scattered the cinders out to sea, Skjold joined Haldor and Skadi near the effervescent pool at the base of the waterfall.
Its misty roar splattered into the freshwater spring, spraying the mossy stones, mingling with the briny breeze.
Skadi washed three silver bowls in the clear, sparkling water—her own, the Laguz runes etched along the rim glistening in the pale sun—and two others she had requested from Inga before exiting the cave.
“May I please borrow your dagger again, Lord Falk?” she asked, filling the silver vessels with fresh water and placing them upon a smooth rock near the underground spring.
“Of course.” Haldor unsheathed his dagger, handed it to her, and watched alongside Skjold as she pricked her finger and meticulously placed three droplets of Ljósálfar blood into each bowl.
She began to sing, her ethereal melody floating over the fjord, the water inside the bowls glowing with ice blue light.
While she continued her Light Elven song, Skadi wiped the tip of the dagger with the folds of her deep blue cloak and returned the blade to Haldor, who sheathed it at his hip.
Ephemeral and evanescent, her crystalline voice wafted on the wind as she carried, one by one, the trinity of silver bowls onto the pinewood deck of the ship, placing a glowing vessel at the prow, the stern, and the mast where she had been tied.
Wielding her Light Elven magic of nen glir, she sprinkled droplets of purifying water laced with Ljósálfar light over the entire ship from prow to stern.
While Skadi sang, purging the Dokkálfar darkness and Skugga’s shadows from the snekkja ship, Haldor etched a trio of Nordic runes along the shore with the sharp blade of his ísfálkr spear.
Dagaz, the dawn. The end of darkness and the return to light.
Berkana, the birch. For renewal and the rebirth of spring.
Tiwaz, Tyr’s rune. For victory and triumph over evil.
As the Viking vitki chanted a vardlokkur, summoning benevolent spirits to bless the desecrated shore, Skjold softly hummed a joik to invoke the ákkhá, drawing a trio of Sámi symbols to sanctify the sacred fjord.
Beaivi, the sun. Source of light and life.
Boazu, the sacred reindeer, For protection and strength.
Násti, the star. For divine guidance and safe passage from darkness into light.
Three transcendent songs, in a trinity of purifying rituals, by a triad of spiritual healers.
The sacred number nine.
Skjold glanced up at the rocky ledge above the entrance to the cave, where Dvalinn and Dáinn had arranged the Dokkálfar statues, with three facing west to the sea, and a trio overlooking the fjord.
Copper hair aflame in the golden sun, Steinvegr hoisted high above his fiery head, Dvalinn bellowed like a livid beast. “Behold the wrath of Fjallvordr! My hammer speaks, and death obeys!”
A shiver rippled down Skjold’s spine as he beheld the sinister sentinels.
Looming like undead draugar, the Dokkálfar were locked in grotesque poses, with limbs twisted in agony, grimaces of terror frozen in eyes now dulled to lifeless hollows, mouths agape in silenced screams.
A grim, gruesome warning set in solid stone.
“Your hammer speaks, and so does my net—I’ve caught plenty of fish for the fire!” Gunnar roared with laughter as he rowed the ship toward into the inlet of the fjord, jumping from the boat into knee-deep water.
While Dvalinn and Dáinn descended the stone stairs from the ledge, Haldor and Skjold helped Gunnar haul the pale birch skiff ashore.
“Four large cod and six haddock,” he boasted with a bearded grin, hoisting a dripping wicker basket from the skiff and setting it atop a large rock at the edge of the fjord.
He lifted the cover to display the pale, gleaming flesh, wrapped in fresh seaweed.
“And mussels for Inga to add to the stew.” He nodded at a second basket in the boat, which Skjold retrieved, while Gunnar poured a bucket of fresh water from the pool to wash the fish blood from the deck.
Haldor helped him store the skiff in the carved stone enclosure beneath the cave.
“Bring the fish inside,” Dvalinn hollered to Gunnar.
“While we lug the sail down to the shore, you and Dáinn can fetch the dragon prow.” He turned toward Skadi, Haldor, and Skjold.
“Now that the ship and shore have been cleansed of enemy filth, we can unfurl it on these rocks. Come, let’s fetch the sail, and I’ll tell you the tale as promised. ”
The Dwarven blacksmith led them back into the cave, where Skjold, Haldor and Dvalinn hefted the wrapped sail, lugging it carefully down the slick stairs and unfurling it across the rocks at the base of the cliff.
As Dvalinn and Haldor unrolled the sail over the rocks, Skjold stood beside Skadi, watching with bated breath as the profile of an enormous dragon emerged on the thick ivory wool.
The blue paint of the fearsome beast was deep and rich, as if the indigo dye had soaked into the very soul of the cloth.
One wing curled upward and back, unfurled in flight, the shimmering scales depicting Sámi symbols of wind, sea, and sky.
The dragon's eye was a brilliant, faceted gem of golden amber, framed by intricately embroidered stitches of Sámi symbols and Nordic runes in glittering threads of silver that sparkled like a star.
Three black talons extended from the hooked claw, and three pointed fangs painted white protruded from the massive jaw.
Like a coiled snake, ready to strike, the serpentine tail—etched with spiraling runes— tapered to the pointed tip of a spear.
Skjold stood in awe of the inimitable skill of the Sámi women who had meticulously woven every woolen fiber with ancestral wisdom, imbuing the sail with the divine protection of the sacred áhkká.
“This is no mere sail,” he whispered, his deep voice quavering.
“With this on the mast, the snekkja will fly.”
“Now give her a face the wind will fear.” Gunnar grunted, as he and Dáinn lugged the dragon prow, the fierce figurehead carefully balanced between burly woodcutter and brawny dwarf. “Wings are fine, but a dragon needs its roar. Come on then—four hands will fix her faster than two.”
While Skjold and Haldor helped Gunnar and Dáinn affix the dragon prow, Skadi and Dvalinn rolled the sail back up, which the men attached to the mast.
“We’ll keep it furled overnight, to protect it from the winds. Tomorrow morning, before Skjold and I depart, we’ll offer a sacrifice to the sea gods for safe passage.” Haldor wiped his sweaty brow and hopped from the ship back onto the grassy bank.
“This gift humbles me, Dvalinn. Your generosity shall never be forgotten.” Skjold bowed his head in gratitude to the Dwarven blacksmith.
“Thanks to your vision, I still have my forge, my weapons, my mountain—and my life. It is I who am indebted to you.” The setting sun gilded the dwarf’s golden eyes and set fire to his flame red hair.
While Gunnar and Dáinn jumped from the snekkja onto the grassy bank, Skjold stood on the shore, the salty wind whipping his long blond hair and the white fur of his bearskin cloak, admiring the gleaming prow of the Dragonfire longship, which now belonged to him.
He inhaled the cold, brackish tang of the salty fjord, envisioning the return to Normandy and his parents’ castle of Chateaufort.
In the eight winters since he’d left the Pays de Caux, Skjold had become a battle-hardened Viking warrior, thanks to the bloody Blóesmier crew.
He grinned as the bearded faces of Gr?skegg, Bjarni, and Yrjar—and memories of their ruthless, relentless training—floated on the waters of the fjord before him.
He’d also become a Viking vitki, a rune master like his mentor, Haldor Falk.
And a Sámi noaidi, a spirit walker through water, able to commune with the áhkká.