Chapter 13 #2
Like Siguresholl in Orkneyjar, Haldor’s stronghold was an enormous timbered longhouse as tall as six men, built of sturdy oak, weathered by wind, salt, and age.
At the top of a stalwart mast anchored firmly in the rocky soil, Haldor’s crimson banner with a falcon in flight flapped above the high peaked roof.
The supporting beams of the massive hall were carved with falcons, wolves, dragons, and runes.
And atop each of the towering pillars that flanked the hall’s elaborately carved double entrance doors, a massive wooden sculpture of a peregrine falcon served as a sentinel, its mammoth wings unfurled as if shielding the fortress below.
Three drakkar longships were beached on the black stony shore, their sails furled, but banners flying high, as if to signal they had come in peace, not war.
Skjold did not recognize the deep green painted dragon prows with silver scales which shimmered in the shifting light, or the dark green banners with the striking image of a fierce white wolf.
From the western watchtower overlooking the fjord, the sentry’s clear shout carried across the cliff. “The Falcon returns!”
After two grueling winters in the wild north of Norway among the Sámi tribe, Skjold was relieved to return to Fálkholl. The home where he’d lived with Haldor and the Blóesmier since he’d been ten winters old.
* * * *
Haldor stood proudly at the prow of Freyja’s Falcon, watching a crowd gather at the top of the cliff to welcome him home.
He recognized Njáll, the tallest man he’d ever met, unmistakable in his black wolfskin cloak.
And úlf, the great grey wolf, with Bodo, Flóki, and Hrólf Redbeard, the úlfhéenar who had fought at his side to defend Tórshavn against Rus raiders and Dokkáfar in the battle that took Brokk Sigurdsson’s life.
When Haldor spotted an enormous warrior clad in a white wolfskin cloak, for a moment he thought it was Brokk himself, then realized it could only be his son.
The white wolf destined to retrieve úlfsongr, Brokk’s legendary Dwarven sword.
Therein lies the reason for úlvhild’s summons. To accompany Brokk’s son on his prophetic quest.
As Freyja’s Falcon maneuvered the winding fjord, headed toward the rocky shore of the sheltered cove, Haldor spotted the towering blond Ljósálfar Lugh, with his lovely sister Luna at his side among the group.
There were several other Light Elven warriors, their luminous presence easily discernable in the pale afternoon sunlight.
And there—on the edge of the cliff, wild black hair whipping in the wind, glowing moonstone staff tightly gripped in her slender hand—stood úlvhild.
The woman he loved more than life.
At the sight of her, a surge of desire flooded his shaking body, the seierfjaer mark on his chest aflame, as if her magic poured into him, setting his soul on fire.
Gr?skegg beached Freyja’s Falcon beside the three unfamiliar drakkar ships who flew a dark green banner with the head of a fierce white wolf.
These vessels must belong to Brokk’s son.
Haldor remembered hearing tales of an exceptional warrior known as the Wolf of the Nordic Seas, whom King Harald had sent from Norway to Denmark as his appointed Jarl of Ribe. Haldor grinned at the thought of meeting the illustrious son of his close friend who had died defending Fálkholl.
And how proud Brokk would be of his son, the White Wolf warrior so very much like his úlfhéenar father.
Viggo’s charcoal grey cloak flapped in the wind as the bryti of Fálkholl led Haldor’s elite band of nine huskarlar warriors down the stone steps from the Great Hall to the rocky shore where Freyja’s Falcon and Dragonfire had just beached beside the three drakkar.
Dark hair streaked with grey, his bearded, weathered face breaking into a joyful grin, Viggo grasped Haldor’s forearms in a firm welcome as the Falcon of the Faroe Islands returned to his clifftop nest after two long winters in Norway.
“The Falcon returns to his roost. All is as you left it, my lord. Your men and I stand ready to serve.”
Haldor, who had leapt from his ship onto the slick black rocks of the seaweed-strewn shore, returned the bryti’s affectionate grasp. “You have guarded more than stone and timber. You have guarded my honor. And my home. Well done, my friend.”
Pride illuminated Viggo’s wrinkled face. The highly competent and fiercely loyal bryti stepped aside so that the hersir Thorbjorn—leader of Haldor’s huskarlar—could welcome their jarl home.
Clad in a distinctive cloak bearing the deep red color of Haldor’s heraldic banner, Thorbjorn bore weapons carved with the head of a falcon and carried a painted red shield with a falcon in flight, like all nine of the warriors who valiantly defended their jarl’s fortress.
Yet, unlike the silver falcon clasps which fastened the red cloaks of his huskarlar, Thorbjorn’s ornate brooch, symbolic of his prestigious rank as hersir, displayed the Goddess Freyja in falcon form, evoking the name of Haldor’s renowned drakkar warship.
Chain mail brynja glinting in the pale golden sun, Thorbjorn removed his helmet, bowed his head, and placed a clenched fist over his armored heart as his steadfast gaze proudly held Haldor’s.
“My jarl, Fálkholl welcomes your return.”
Haldor grasped Thorbjorn’s forearms, grateful for his unwavering loyalty as a hersir and unsurpassed skill as a swordsman. “You’ve kept Fálkholl strong in my absence. You have my thanks, my respect, and my trust.”
Honor blazed across Throrbjorn’s noble face as he donned his helmet and ducked his bearded chin.
Haldor gestured for Skjold to join him, his acolyte having disembarked along with Hjálmarr and the crew of Dragonfire. At the sight of the beardless boy who was now a beast of a man clad in bearskin and covered with tattoos, the huskarlar whooped with joy.
“He left a whelp and came back a wolf!” Leif hollered, thumping Skjold on the shoulder.
Shouts rippled through the salty wind, the laughter and jeers like waves crashing against the cliff.
. “Gods help us, he’s taller than Haldor!”
“Careful, lads—he’s a noaidi now. He might curse your balls off if you mock him!”
“Look what the wind dragged home. A bear in boots!”
“Is that really Skjold, or did Haldor trade the boy for a berserker?”
When the good-natured mockery eventually subsided, Haldor introduced the captain and new crew members they’d taken on in V?gan.
“You’ll want to know how we came by the second ship, Dragonfire.
Hjálmarr here earned his place at the helm.
I’ll tell you the tale tonight over mugs of mead.
But first, there are old friends waiting.
Let’s not keep them.” Leather armor with overlapping plates like wings of a falcon gleaming in the golden sun, Haldor led the procession from the rocky beach, up the stone stairs, with Skjold close behind him.
When they reached the top of the cliff, the úlfhéenar surged forward, howling and hugging Haldor as their long-lost brother-in-arms. Eyes flashing with recognition, his grin as sharp as his teeth, úlf caught Haldor in a crushing embrace that lifted him off his feet.
“Still got bones, or did the sea turn you to fish?”
Hrólf Redbeard thumped his back hard enough to rattle his ribs, then threw back his head and howled. When the others joined in, their raucous roars echoed like thunder across the fjord. It was wild, primal and raw—the way wolves welcome their own.
After returning the back-breaking hugs and shoulder slaps, Haldor spoke to the white wolf with eyes as blue and deep as the Nordic Seas.
“You’re Brokk’s son. I recognized you at once.
” His low voice was laced with reverence.
"Fálkholl still stands because of your father’s sacrifice.
And now… here stands his son." Haldor pulled the White Wolf warrior into a firm embrace which honored the bloodshed and shared grief that bound them.
“This is Brokk’s son, Njord. Known as the Wolf of the Nordic Seas.
” Bodo, clad in his brown wolfskin cloak over chain mail armor, formally introduced the White Wolf warrior to Haldor and Skjold.
The úlfhedinn gestured to a lovely young woman with long brown hair streaked with gold whose striking eyes were a vivid blend of blue and green, like the sea.
“And Njord/s betrothed. Lady Elfi Thorfinsdóttir, the Heiress of étretat.”
Haldor remembered meeting Elfi years ago as a child, when he had come to Normandy and accepted Skjold as his acolyte.
“I remember you as a lovely young girl. And now, your beauty is even more radiant, like dawn blossomed into day.” He took her hand and lifted it to his bearded lips, bestowing a gallant kiss upon her slender fingers.
Haldor greeted Lugh and Luna, the Ljósálfar siblings who guarded the alabaster coast of the Pays de Caux for Jarl Rikard, the Duke of Normandy whom Haldor considered a close ally and fiercely loyal friend.
He met the remaining Ljósálfar at their side, then presented Skjold and Hjálmarr to the assembled group.
While the Blóesmier and the crews of Freyja’s Falcon and Dragonfire followed the huskarlar toward the bath houses and communal lodging for warriors behind the Great Hall, Haldor strode across the windswept grass toward úlvhild, who stood apart from the others, patiently awaiting his approach.
Without a word, he swept her into his arms, his eager lips tentative, then claiming, as they sought hers, offering a silent promise of what was yet to come.
When he finally tore himself away, he rested his forehead against her brow, his deep voice rough with emotion. “I should never have left you so long.”
She reached up to stroke his bristled cheek, her golden eyes glimmering with tears. “Welcome home, my love. I cannot wait until we are alone.”
“Nor can I.” Haldor’s spirit soared as he took her hand and led her toward the others. With a broad smile and a full heart, he invited them into his hall. “Come inside. Let us drink to old friends and new beginnings.”