Chapter 13
Return to Fálkholl
Skjold sat with Haldor at a wooden table in the smoky hearth hall where musicians playing flutes and tallharpas entertained travelers and traders who exchanged tales and silver over steaming bowls of haddock stew and mugs of frothy ale.
They’d arrived in V?gan that afternoon, mooring Dragonfire next to Haldor’s ship, Freyja’s Falcon, on a timber post along the pebbled shore of the sheltered bay.
The four men who had helped them sail the snekkja from the Sámi village—Ellef, M?htte, Niillas, and Mikkel—had decided not to stay for a meal, since the autumn sun now set early, and they wanted to return before nightfall.
After heartfelt farewells, they had rowed Skjóld’s spirit boat with the shining mermaid prow back to the Láhpi tribe.
“I was looking forward to a warm winter in the Pays de Caux,” Gr?skegg, named for his thick grey beard, downed a hearty gulp of ale and swiped his mouth with the woolen sleeve of his tunic.
The captain of Freyja’s Falcon sopped up the remainder of his stew with a hunk of warm barley bread.
“But if úlvhild has summoned you back to Tórshavn, we’ll reach Fálkholl in eight days, if the sea doesn’t swallow us first.”
Bjarni, the old swordsman who’d had been brutally efficient in training Skjold, gestured to the ísfir shield and ísfálkr spear with a savagely scarred hand.
“With those Dwarven blades, if we do sail into battle, the gods will surely grant us victory.” He grinned at the ouroboros ring that shimmered like violet fire on the smallest finger of Haldor’s left hand.
Haldor had told the Blóesmier crew how Skadi had gifted it to him for saving her life.
“A frostdragon,” Bjarni whispered, his gravelly voice laced with awe.
“Odin help us. That’s a beast fit for Ragnarok. ”
Yrjar, the burly berserker whose wild mass of dark, unruly hair and thick, untamed beard gave him the look of an enormous brown bear, growled his approval of Skjold’s rugged appearance.
“In two winters, you’ve gone from wolf cub to war ox.
Now you wear the bearskin, like me. And fill it like a beast born to it.
” He raised his mug of ale. “To the cub who grew teeth. To the boy who became a bear. May your heart and your blade never falter.”
With raucous cheers of “Skál!”, fists and palms hammered the table in thunderous rhythm, shaking mugs and sloshing ale, as the Blóesmier crew toasted Skjold.
Skjold grinned from ear to ear, his thumping heart nearly bursting with pride.
“Now, for a willing wench to warm your bed. You choose first. The rest of us will fight over what’s left.” Yrjar slapped Skjold on the shoulder, eyeing the women who hovered nearby, casting sly glances at their table.
Skjold opened his left palm and revealed the fjorún mark to Yrjar. The blue droplet, edged in silver with a heart of violet flame, blazed in the firelight from the stone hearth. “I am soulbound.” He shook his head and smiled. “I want no woman but Skadi.”
Yrjar scoffed and guzzled his ale, slamming his mug down on the table.
“So be it. Let the young bear sleep alone. As for me—I’ll take that one.
Soft in all the right places.” He growled with laughter and rose from the table.
Boots heavy on the timber floor, he strode toward the pretty blonde who welcomed him with an inviting smile.
Gr?skegg and Bjarni followed the berserker’s example, rising to their feet to seek female companionship as well.
“We’ll meet here for dagmál. And sail on the morning tide.
” Gr?skegg flashed a wolfish grin at Haldor.
“You’ll be with your woman soon enough. But I need one tonight.
” As the ship’s captain sauntered off toward the women mingling with the sailors, Bjarni inclined his head to Haldor and Skjold. “See you in the morning.”
Skjold watched the Blóesmier disperse with their chosen women, disappearing down a dark hallway toward private sleeping quarters in the rear of the vast tavern.
He turned to Haldor, who eyed the lusty crew with a smirk as he sipped his ale.
“I always wondered why you never took a woman in any of the ports we visited. But now I understand.” Skjold met Haldor’s piercing falcon gaze.
“I am bound to Skadi, as you are to úlvhild. Heart, body, and soul.”
Haldor smiled wistfully, as if lost in thoughts of his volva. He drained his mug, set it down on the table, and rose to his feet. “Ready? Let’s get some sleep. We leave at first light.”
Skjold nodded. And followed Haldor down the dim hall to their quiet shared chamber.
* * * *
Skjold now sat on the deck of Dragonfire with Bjarni—the old swordmaster who once served Skjold’s grandfather, King Harald Bluetooth—and several of the hardened warriors they’d taken on in V?gan to complete the crew of his new ship.
Haldor had distributed some of the oarsmen from Freyja’s Falcon onto the snekkja, and they’d engaged an experienced captain, for although Skjold was a competent sailor, they needed a highly skilled shipmaster to navigate the wild Western Sea between Norway and the Faroe Islands.
Hjálmarr Ironhelm was named for his renowned iron helmet with the head of a fierce dragon engraved across the brow, the bronze eyes of the beast ablaze with copper fire, the fanged maw forming the noseguard, as if the jaws would clench on enemies foolish enough to draw near.
Hjálmarr had lost his magnificent drakkar ship, Járnvingr—Ironwing—in an attack by Rus raiders and Dokkálfar who served the infamous Skugga, like the band of mercenaries who had attacked Dvalinn’s cave.
Broad-shouldered and battle-hardened, Hjálmarr was eager to restore his reputation and earn enough silver to buy a replacement ship.
For now, he and his loyal crewmembers who had survived the Rus attack would sail to Tórshavn with Haldor and Skjold.
Once it was determined why ?lvhild had summoned them to the Faroe Islands, then Hjálmarr could decide whether to remain with Skjold as captain of Dragonfire or seek return passage to Norway.
For the past few days since they’d left V?gan, the strong easterly winds had been favorable, allowing the crew to rest and recover during the day while the dragon sail carried them swiftly across the Western Sea.
They’d made swift passage, lowering the sail at night for Hjálmarr to navigate by the stars while the crew rowed in shifts, following Freyja’s Falcon in tight formation toward the Faroe Islands.
And Haldor’s clifftop fortress of Fálkholl.
“So, Ironhelm, how did you lose a ship full of silver to Rus dogs and Dokkálfar?” Bjarni, always blunt and brutal, washed down a mouthful of dried cod with ale from his sealskin pouch, which he handed to the grizzled captain, who accepted it with a nod and took a long pull.
“We raided a Rus trading post near Novgorod. Took on lots of silver, furs, and amber. We were headed home to V?gan when I spotted a snekkja coming toward us, closing fast. The sky turned black, and dark shadows swarmed my ship—couldn’t see the sun, the rocks, or the jagged cliffs.
The snekkja rammed us, grappling hooks clamping onto the gunwales and rigging.
In seconds, the Dokkálar were upon us, slaughtering my crew with deadly blades while the Rus stormed the ship and stole the treasure.
We slammed into a jagged rock, and the hull cracked, sea water flooding the deck.
A huge wave washed me and half the crew into the black, icy sea while the snekkja disappeared into the shadows.
I grabbed a broken oar, some of my men clung to barrels or planks, and we made it ashore.
Crawled out of the sea, half frozen, half dead.
No ship, no steel, just salt in our wounds.
We followed the coast north, scrounging food, sleeping in driftwood shelters.
A fishing crew took pity on us, gave us passage back to V?gan,” Hjálmarr took another pull of ale and passed the sealskin to Skjold, a shrewd glint in his hard gaze.
"We drifted, we begged, we bled, and still the Norns kept spinning. Reached V?gan with nothing but scars. And there you two were, looking for a captain and a crew. Seems the gods aren’t done with me yet.
" Hjálmarr rose to his feet, brushing crumbs off his woolen breeches and leg wraps, which were whitened and stiff with sea salt.
"Back to the helm for me. You two get some sleep before the wind turns foul.
" With a nod to Skjold and Bjarni, he stepped across the pinewood deck toward the stern, where the slate sea stretched in cold silence behind them.
Skjold finished his dried cod and flatbread, guzzled the remaining ale in his own sealskin pouch, and said to Bjarni as he settled down to sleep on his pile of blankets and furs, “Sound advice. We’ll need every bit of strength when the wind shifts. Our turn at the oars will come soon enough.”
Three days later, as Dragonfire followed Freyja’s Falcon along the sinuous, rocky coastline of Streymoy—the largest of the Faroe Islands—rounding the craggy headland and navigating the narrow, treacherous waters of the icy silver fjord, they arrived at the Norse settlement of Tórshavn.
Situated atop a towering black ridge overlooking a sheltered harbor, Haldor’s imposing fortress of Fálkholl perched like a predatory falcon atop the craggy cliff.