Chapter 7 #2
His father Sk?rde would be duly impressed with Skjold’s brute strength and exceptional skill with sword, spear, and axe.
And now, with the ísfir shield and the snekkja ship, he’d burst with pride in his son’s commendable achievements.
Skjold’s mother Ylva—a Druid priestess and Celtic healer—would be thrilled to see her son wield the gift of otherworldly sight through water that he’d inherited from her.
And learn how her legacy had enabled him to become a noaidi, whose vision had earned him a Dwarven shield with which he would fulfill úlvhild’s prophecy.
A flicker of light drew Skjold’s attention from his reverie to an adornment around Skadi’s slender throat.
The wind had swept her cloak away from her neck, and Skjold’s first thought was that she wore some sort of jewel.
But when he looked more closely at the blackened silver torc which encircled her pale throat, the crimson-eyed witch that he’d seen in the vision appeared in the blood red runes.
Revulsion shuddered down his spine. “What is that?” he hissed, recoiling in horror as Haldor, Dvalinn, Gunnar, and Dáinn gathered around to see.
“A cursed collar. To prevent me from wielding my power.” Skadi spat with impotent rage.
“But… you wielded nen glir to cure my wound.” Haldor bared the healthy skin of his healed forearm, where the Dark Elven blade had inflicted the gruesome gash.
“Dokkálfar darkness cannot extinguish Ljósálfar light.” A wistful smile brightened Skadi’s somber face. “It was a different power they wished to subdue. And they have, with this malevolent torc.”
“When I gazed at the runes, I saw the crimson-eyed witch—the one from the vision in the fjord.” Skjold stepped back, to allow Haldor a better view of the ominous blood-red runes. “I sense her sinister magic.”
Haldor examined the intricate pattern of interlocking runes in the charred, corrupted metal.
“These are bindrunes,” he murmured to Skjold, indicating the three interwoven symbols.
“Thurisaz, the thorn—to block power. Nauthiz, for constraint, to bind the magic. And Kenaz, the flame. To control fire. A trio of interwoven runes, to triple the strength of the spell.” His falcon eyes blazed as he spoke to Skadi.
“What power did the Dokkálfar wish to suppress?”
Skadi avoided Haldor’s question and turned instead to the Dwarven blacksmith at her side. “Lord Dvalinn, you have a vast array of magical weapons. Can you remove this cursed collar? And I will answer Lord Falk with a demonstration.”
Dvalinn bellowed with gruff laughter as he withdrew his Dwarven knife from the leather sheath at his waist. He displayed the glistening blade, adorned with an amber stone which glowed with sunlit fire.
Etched along the curved spine were arcane runes that pulsed with palpable power.
“Fjallráer. Mountain’s Might,” he grumbled, golden eyes gleaming like molten ore.
“Made of Dwarven steel. Capable of cleaving any metal throughout the nine realms, from Alfheim’s silver spires to Niflheim’s frozen chains. ”
He donned a leather glove, which he withdrew from his belt, and slipped his skilled fingers under the torc to protect Skadi’s tender throat. With a sure, single stroke, he sliced through the vile metal, severing the shackle without a scratch upon her luminous skin.
Skadi staggered, her legs nearly buckling beneath her, shuddering in audible relief.
“Many thanks, Lord Dvalinn. You’ve freed me from that wretched curse.
” Reaching her arms overhead, she stretched out her limbs, regaining her repressed power.
A radiant smile illuminated her beautiful face, her icy blue eyes glittering like frosted stars.
“And now, Lord Falk,” she said, clutching the ends of her deep blue cloak, “I will show you why the Dokkálfar contained me.”
Skadi spun in a swirl of Ljósálfar light, a whirl of blue flame frosted with violet ice. As the whirlwind whipped, gathering wind from the fjord, it shimmered with searing light. And from the blinding spiral of ice and flame, a majestic frost dragon unfurled.
Her serpentine body was graceful and sleek, the perfect balance between beauty and terror.
Enormous wings laced with shimmering scales of a pale glacial blue were edged with violet frost, like fire beneath a frozen lake.
Elegant and angular, her slender snout was lined with delicate ridges of crystalline frost, yet her powerful jaws revealed sharp, pointed fangs like lethal spears of ice.
Curved talons edged her lavender claws, forearms and massive hind legs etched with deep blue glowing runes.
Long and sinuous, her whip-like tail tapered to a pointed blade of sharply frosted crystal.
While men and dwarves gaped in astonishment and awe, Skadi spread her shimmering wings and took to the twilit sky, soaring above the icy fjord. She circled and dove, racing toward the westernmost point of the rocky island.
Where she unleashed a plume of frostfire, like the frozen blaze from the ísfir shield.
The glorious dragon swooped down to the rocky beach, landing not far from a stunned Skjold. And, in a flash of ice blue light tinged with violet frost, shifted back into Skadi.
“I am half Ljósálfar, from my mother Vélara,” she announced with a luminous grin, approaching the stunned, speechless men. “And half jótunn. For my father, Skallagrímr, was a shapeshifting frost giant.”
Skjold’s magic surged, a current of energy sparking from Skadi and mingling with his own.
His spirit stirred in her presence, as if magically drawn to her.
Skadi healed with the Ljósálfar magic of nen glir, the Light Elven song of water—like the gift of sight through water which Skjold’s mother Ylva had passed on to him.
And Skadi wielded frostfire flame as a dragon, the same magic as Skjold with his Dwarven shield.
Her ice blue eyes held his—sealing the otherworldly bond between them—as waves of water and flames of frostfire inundated Skjold’s scorching veins.
Tearing her searing gaze away from Skjold, Skadi turned to smile at Haldor.
“Lord Falk, you saved my life with your Dwarven spear,” she said, indicating ísfálkr, which leaned against the side of the mountain beneath Dvalinn’s cave.
“And you are the Falcon of the Faroe Islands, a vitki who commands winged creatures.” She reached inside a hidden pouch sewn into the lining of her woolen cloak and withdrew a silver ouroboros ring—a dragon swallowing its own tail in an infinite loop.
“Orkadrakk.” she whispered, placing the ring in Haldor’s palm.
“The force of the dragon.” Skadi traced a delicate fingertip over the shimmering silver band etched with a trio of Nordic runes which glowed with violet light.
“Fehu, for magical power. Othala, for ancestral heritage. And Gebo, for divine balance between my Ljósálfar and Jótunn magic.”
At Haldor’s inquisitive look, Skadi smiled again, radiating Ljósálfar light. “Now you may call forth a frostdragon. Touch the trio of runes and speak the command. Orkadrakk will summon me from the skies.”
Haldor slipped Skadi’s ring—too tiny for his enormous hand—onto his smallest left finger.
An array of intense emotions flickered in his fierce falcon gaze.
Honor. Gratitude. Reverence. Vehemence. Resolve.
Taking hold of her porcelain hand, he raised it to his bearded lips, bowing at the waist to bestow a noble kiss.
“Thank you, my lady. A sacred gift, which I shall always wear with honor.”
Dvalinn clapped Haldor’s shoulder, a broad grin breaking through his braided red beard. “Well earned, rune-weaver. May it serve you well.” With a swoop of his brawny arm, he invited everyone to head toward the stairs. “Come—it’s time for the feast. We’ll exchange tales over mugs of mead.”