Chapter 8 #2
Restless and agitated, Skadi darted an uneasy gaze around the table.
“I overheard them say they planned to attack the dwarf’s cave and seize the weapons, so that the Son of the Dragon could not fulfill the prophecy.
The commander of the ship—my Dokkálfar guard that you killed,” she told Haldor, “said that he would bring me and the seized Dwarven weapons to Skugga and Myrkkha. But I do not know where.”
“Myrkkha.” Dvalinn snarled, his lips puckering as if he’d tasted something vile.
“The crimson-eyed witch from your vision.” His molten gaze fixed on Skjold.
“She serves Gúldur, the Dokkálfar Blacksmith of Dorestad. And Zhúlgorr, the Dark Elven silversmith who forges evil relics and talismans. He undoubtedly crafted the collar around your neck. Which Myrkkha—a malva who wields dark seier magic—imbued with a malevolent curse.”
“I am eternally grateful to all of you for freeing me.” Skadi beamed at Dvalinn, Haldor, and Skjold.
“And for avenging the death of my father—by killing the Dokkálfar who slew him.” She raised her mug of mead.
“To friendship, solid as this mountain. To alliances forged in honor. And to victory of light over darkness. May the gods—and the áhkká—guide our path.”
Amidst hearty cheers of “Skál!”, a soft melody wafted on the briny breeze floating into the cave from the sea, the frosty chill warmed by the heat of the hearth.
With deft fingers strumming the strings of the instrument cradled in his lap, Dáinn plucked a bronze lyre etched with runes and inlaid with amber while Gunnar played a flute he’d crafted from a slender branch of birch.
Dvalinn tapped his fingers on the table, savoring the music and mead. As Dáinn’s rhythm increased, inviting movement, Gunnar—flushed with food, drink, and good cheer—set his flute aside and stood with a lopsided grin.
“Come on, woman,” he said to Inga, taking hold of her hand and pulling her to her feet, his voice rough with affection. “Let’s show our guests how we dance.”
Inga laughed, rolling her eyes as Gunnar pulled her into his arms, the two moving in a simple, rustic step born from decades of life shared together.
As if the air had been loosened, Dáinn enlivened the melody, plucking his lyre even faster. Haldor chuckled when Skjold, emboldened by music, warmth, and mead, rose to his feet and held out his hand to Skadi.
Graceful and glowing, filled with the joy of freedom and friendship, Skadi accepted his offer to dance, swirling into Skjold’s open arms like the waterfall into the pool.
Fluid magic flowed between them, with sparks of frostfire flames.
As Haldor watched his acolyte dance with the lovely Ljósálfar healer, memories of dancing with úlvhild floated into his mind.
The first time he’d met his bewitching volva, in Harald Bluetooth’s royal hall, they’d danced with their eyes fixed on each other, spirits mingling and magic merging, just like Skadi and Skjold.
He remembered Ylva and Sk?rde’s wedding at Chateaufort, when he had swirled úlvhild in his arms, just as Skjold held Skadi now.
And eight winters ago, when she’d summoned him to étretat for Haldor to accept Skjold as his acolyte and train him to become a vitki, he’d danced with her under the stars.
Odin’s eye, he missed her. But soon, she’d be in his arms again. Before the next full moon, they’d be together. His body throbbed with longing as he envisioned how warmly she would welcome him home.
Dvalinn’s gusty laugh interrupted Haldor’s lusty thoughts. “There’s magic between those two. Can’t take their eyes—or their hands—off each other.”
“Indeed.” Haldor agreed with a gruff chuckle, eyeing the lithe Ljósálfar and his obviously smitten acolyte.
“Skjold resembles his grandfather, King Harald. A blond, burly brute like Bluetooth.” The Dwarven host guzzled his mead and swiped a woolen sleeve across his red bearded lips.
An idea suddenly occurred to Haldor. “You have quite a hoard of treasure, Dvalinn. Might you have a pair of wedding rings that I could purchase? I plan to ask for my lady’s hand when Skjold and I return to Normandy.”
Dvalinn grinned and rose from the table. “Indeed I do. Enjoy the mead and music. I’ll be right back.” He disappeared down the hall and returned a few moments later, cradling a small metal box in his scarred, calloused hands. With a reverent nod, he solemnly offered it to Haldor.
Forged of burnished bronze which shimmered in the firelight, the sides of the box were etched with intricate knotwork of loops and scrolls in an endless interlocking pattern. On the lid, a pair of amber droplets which glowed like warm honey were encased on either side by a trio of inscribed runes.
“Open it.” The dwarf’s deep rumble resonated in Haldor’s bones. There was magic in the finely wrought bronze box. And in the treasure which pulsed into his palms from within.
Haldor lifted the curved latch, which was shaped like a sleek cat’s claw. Inside, on a bed of plush purple velvet, two golden rings—each adorned with an oval of polished amber—shone like twin setting suns.
“Freyja’s Eyes,” Dvalinn whispered, as if revealing a secret, ancient spell. “Made from the same amber tears as her Brisingamen necklace.”
A violent shiver rippled the feathers magically marked across Haldor’s back and chest, setting fire to the seierfjaer rune which bound his soul to úlvhild.
“Freyja will watch over the couple entwined by her sacred bond.” The Dwarven blacksmith ran a thick, charred finger over the glistening amber gems. “When the rings are joined together, her two eyes see as one.”
Haldor examined the exquisite craftsmanship of the enchanted wedding rings. The same trio of runes etched on the lid of the bronze box was also inscribed inside each golden band.
Dvalinn noted Haldor’s intense contemplation of the runes.
“Geibo, the gift. For the self you offer each other. Ingwaz, the rooting of souls, like seeds in fertile soil. And Wunjo, the blossoming joy of your sacred union.” The dwarf’s grumble was gruff with emotion.
“I forged Freya’s Tears in gold and fire, binding them in a trinity of runes.
Wedding rings woven with seier magic, blessed by the Goddess of Love. ”
Haldor was speechless. The amber gems in the wedding rings were the same tears as in Freyja’s Brisingamen necklace!
Freyja—the goddess who had taken young Haldor as her lover, bestowing him with the power to shift into a falcon and summon winged creatures from the skies.
The goddess whom úlvhild worshipped, whose seier magic she wielded as a volva, and whom she had summoned to heal Haldor, critically wounded in battle, with the divine magic of Freyja’s Kiss.
These were the perfect rings for him to wed úlvhild. Freyja’s amber in sunlit gold, forged in Dwarven flames. Like the fjorún sigil which bound their souls, Freya’s Eyes would forever seal them in seier.
Haldor carefully placed the wedding rings back into the folds of purple velvet and closed the small bronze box, securing it with the cat-shaped claw.
He smiled at the tribute to Freyja and thought of Kól, úlvhild’s beautiful black feline with golden amber eyes.
Tucking the Dwarven treasure into the leather pouch at his waist, he withdrew a small bag of silver coins and offered them to Dvalinn.
“No coin is worth your priceless craft, but I offer this with deepest honor.”
“Keep your silver, Wingmaster. You summoned birds from the skies and saved my forge. The rings are my gift of gratitude.” Dvalinn’s golden eyes glowed in the firelight as he raised his goblet of mead and nodded to Haldor.
Haldor returned the tribute by raising his own chalice, ducking his chin and locking eyes with Dvalinn as he swallowed the golden mead and savored the warm glow of friendship.
When Dvalinn set his mug down on the table, Inga and Gunnar collapsed on the bench, faces flushed, breathless with laughter. “I haven’t danced like that in ages,” Inga gasped, wiping sweat from her brow.
Lovelight shone in Gunnar’s gruff gaze as he beheld his exuberant wife. On impulse, he grabbed her hand and raised it to his bristled lips, then cleared his throat awkwardly, as if embarrassed by his sudden display of affection.
Inga beamed back at him, her still-youthful face aglow.
When Skadi and Skjold realized they were the only ones dancing, they returned to the table, faces flushed with joy rather than exertion.
Dáinn stopped playing his lyre, signifying that the feast had come to an end.
Dvalinn said, “Inga, replace the straw on my bed, and put fresh blankets and furs for our Ljósálfar guest.” He bowed his head to Skadi.
“You’ll have my chamber tonight, my lady.
Dáinn and I will sleep in Durinn’s quarters.
” He turned to Gunnar. “Fetch blankets and furs. You and Dáinn, set up beds before the hearth for our two vitkar.”
Gunnar nodded and rose to his feet. Dáinn stood, grabbed his lyre, and spoke to Gunnar. “I’ll fetch the blankets if you get the furs.” The woodcutter and the Dwarven apprentice headed down the hall while Inga cleared the wooden plates and empty platter from the trestle table.
“The feast was superb,” Skadi said to Dvalinn, inclining her head in gratitude and respect to their swarthy Dwarven host. “And the oatcakes, rich with hazelnuts and honey, were a truly delightful dessert.” Skadi’s crystalline voice flowed like a freshwater spring.
As if flustered from the effusive praise, Inga blushed, tucking wayward strands of dark hair back into her braid, which had come loose from dancing.
“I’ll go check on Durinn,” she informed Dvalinn, grabbing a leather pouch of herbs from the wooden shelf.
She smiled at Skadi. “And sprinkle the fresh straw on your bed with crushed juniper berries and thyme—to keep away bugs and help you sleep.”
When Inga disappeared down the hall, Dvalinn refilled the mugs of mead.
“You said you and Skjold were headed to V?gan, to meet the crew of your ship. And sail south to the Land of the White Chalk Cliffs.” He took a pensive pull of mead, brows furrowed in contemplation and recollection.
“The Viking territory ruled by Richard the Fearless, ally of your grandfather, King Harald,” he said to Skjold.
“That’s right,” Skjold agreed, drinking from his pewter goblet. “And Jarl Rikard is my grandfather as well. My mother Ylva is his daughter.”
Gunnar and Dáinn returned with armfuls of blankets and furs, which they arranged in two beds on the stone floor before the hearth.
Inga reappeared and announced that Durinn was sleeping soundly and that Skadi’s bed was now ready.
“I’ll fix us oat porridge with lingonberries, hazelnuts, and honey for dagmál.
With barley bread, hard cheese, and dried fish. ”
“And Inga will pack food for your voyage,” Dvalinn said with a gruff grin. “If the wind holds, you’ll make V?gan before sunset tomorrow. If not, then you’ll have provisions for nattmál when you make camp.”
“Many thanks, Fjallvorer. Skjold and I are grateful for your warm Dwarven hospitality.” Haldor inclined his head, as did Skjold.
“Come, my lady. There is a basin of spring water and herbal salve for you to wash with. I’ll see you to your chambers, and assist you in preparing for bed.
” Inga wiped her hands on her apron and smiled at Skadi before saying goodnight to Haldor and Skjold.
“I’ll see you fine gentlemen in the morning. ”
“Thank you for the delicious feast, Lord Dvalinn.” Skadi bent to kiss the Dwarven blacksmith’s bristled cheek. Dvalinn grunted but grinned from ear to bristled ear.
“Goodnight, Lord Falk.” Skadi inclined her pale blonde head to Haldor, then flashed a bright smile to Skjold. “Goodnight, Skjold.” Violet frostfire blazed in her ice blue eyes as she held Skjold’s raptured gaze.
Skjold took hold of Skadi’s sleek hand and bent at the waist, lowering his blond bearded lips to bestow a gallant kiss. “Goodnight, my lady. Sleep well.” Skjold’s longing gaze followed the sway of Skadi’s slender hips as Inga led the lovely Ljósálfar down the dim hall.
“Rest well. May the mountain’s strength refresh you. See you at dawn.” Dvalinn ducked his bearded chin. With a reverent nod, Gunnar and Dáinn followed Dvalinn, leaving Haldor and Skjold alone to settle down on furs before the fire.
Haldor removed his boots, the belt at his waist which contained the small bronze box, and sank into the soft pile with a contented sigh.
“Tomorrow, we’ll return to the Láhpi tribe to say goodbye before we sail to V?gan.
We’ll show Jaskka the Sámi sail on your new ship.
He’ll be pleased to learn that the dragon in flames from his vision was you. ”
Skjold’s white teeth shone like moonlight in the darkened hearth room. His deep murmur was heavy with emotion. “After living amongst them for the past two summers, it will be very hard to say goodbye.”
“Indeed it will. And difficult for you to leave Skadi.”
“Já.” Skjold sighed with audible yearning, pulling a thick reindeer hide over his rugged shoulder. With a groan that was more like a moan, he turned his back to Haldor and settled down to sleep.
Flat on his back in the pile of furs, Haldor bent an arm across his forehead, closed his heavy lids…
And dreamed of offering Freyja’s Eyes to úlvhild.