Chapter 15
Welcoming Feast
Haldor’s cooks, Hildr and her daughter Ragna, had prepared a sumptuous feast of roast mutton with garlic and onions, grilled haddock with roasted carrots and turnips, barley bread with creamy sheep cheese, and oat cakes with hazelnuts and honey.
Vigdis, the talented bruggyfr, had brought forth the barrel of her famous bilberry mead known as Fálkamjoer—Falcon’s Mead—which she had brewed and reserved in cold storage for the welcoming feast when Haldor returned home.
As úlvhild savored the delightful contrast in flavors between the sweet honey of the mead and the tart tang and earthy spice of the deep purple berries, she sipped the violet brew which captured the firelight like the shimmery falcon feathers which trimmed Haldor’s magnificent grey wool cloak and the leather vambraces strapped to his rugged forearms.
How handsome he looked, seated upon the ondvegi—the elaborately carved, elevated wooden seat, reserved for the jarl of Fálkholl, whose massive oak was intricately detailed with falcons, feathers, and runes.
úlvhild admired his deep red woolen tunic with falcon motifs embroidered in shimmery silver thread which glistened along the collar and hem.
She had lovingly braided deep red garnets and silver beads, etched with the head of a falcon, into his thick dark hair and glorious beard.
The sparkling gems exuded both beauty and power, just like the man himself.
Two more nights. I shall soak up every drop of the love he offers. Treasure every moment, for this is our last time together. I’ll pour my new sólrún magic through the seierfjaer mark which binds us. Fortify him as much as I can. For he must survive the battle of ísland. Even though I shall not.
As úlvhild listened to Skjold share tales of his long, arduous journey to become a Sámi spirit walker—days spent in isolation in dark caves without food or water, swimming naked in the freezing fjord, breaking free from tightly bound animal sinew, enduring the endless jab of bone needles as the ash, woad, and reindeer fat ink was embedded into his skin—she relived her own training to become a volva, pushing her body to the limits of physical endurance in order to open her spirit to the Otherworld.
She marveled at Haldor’s acolyte—the young boy of ten winters he had brought to train in Fálkholl, then among the Sámi tribe who had raised Haldor himself— remarking how very much Skjold resembled his father Sk?rde as the tattooed blond brute described his final test to become a noaidi.
The Blóesmier, Ljósálfar, and úlfhéenar were equally enthralled as Skjold related his spirit journey in which the áhkká—his female Breton ancestors from whom he had inherited the gift of sight through water—had revealed an impending attack on an unsuspecting dwarf with a hoard of treasure and a cache of Dwarven weapons hidden inside a secret cave.
“Skjold used his gift to find the cave,” Haldor told the attentive allies gathered in the Great Hall.
“We informed the dwarf that Skjold was a noaidi who had foreseen an impending attack by Rus raiders and Dokkálfar intent on seizing his weapons and treasure. We offered to fight at his side, and Skjold explained that he had foreseen two weapons in the vision—a shield with a shimmering gem that projected fire, and a spear with a curved blade shaped like the beak of a falcon. When the dwarf invited us into his cave, he gifted the shield to Skjold and the spear to me. We used these Dwarven weapons in the battle to defeat the raiders and turn the Dokkálfar to stone.”
Haldor rose from the ondvegi at the head table where he sat with úlvhild and Skjold and fetched the spear which hung on elegant display hooks on the wall behind him.
“ísfálkr,” he proclaimed, proudly displaying his unerring spear, the falcon feathers carved into its frosted ashwood shaft shimmering with violet ice in the firelight.
“Like Odin’s spear Gungnir, it never misses its mark. ”
He reverently returned the spear to its place and retook his seat at the high table.
“I freed a young woman who was imprisoned on the enemy ship by killing her Dokkálfar guard with that spear. To our astonishment, she was half Ljósálfar—Odin be praised, for she healed my wound, inflicted by a Dokkálfar blade—and half jótunn frost giant. With the astounding ability to transform into a dragon.” Haldor flashed the ouroboros band on his finger, which shimmered with the same violet frost as his spear.
“She gave me this ring as a gift of gratitude—with the power to summon her in battle.” Haldor grinned at Skjold, seated on his right.
“Skjold was quite smitten with Skadi. Indeed, he has promised to meet her in álfheim on the night of the winter solstice.”
Gr?skegg raised his horn of mead and bellowed a toast. “"To Skjold, who speaks with spirits and fights like a storm. And to Skadi, winged daughter of frost and fire. May their bond be strong and their saga long. Skál!"
Hjálmarr’s deep voice arose from the table near the dais where he sat with the Blóesmier and high-ranking crew members of Freyja’s Falcon and Dragonfire ships. “You battled Rus raiders and Dokkálfar? And survived to tell the tale?”
Skjold grinned at his new captain. “Haldor is the Falcon of the Faroe Islands. He can transform into a falcon and take to the skies. Or summon winged creatures to attack.” He flashed a dazzling smile at Haldor.
“The birds fell like spears from the skies, blinding the enemy while we attacked with Dwarven weapons. And frostfire flame.” Arising from his own seat, Skjold fetched the inverted droplet shaped shield which hung on a display hook near Haldor’s spear.
He carried the weapon down the stairs from the dais, striding across the pinewood floor of the Great Hall to stand beside the hearth fire in the center of the gathered guests.
He gestured to the Hrímsúl gem which glowed with violet ice in the golden firelight.
“Behold the frostfire flame.” Placing his thumb on the Eldhrímr rune inside the shield, Skjold projected an enormous plume of brilliant blue flame tinged with violet frost into the roaring fire enclosed within the stone hearth.
After retracting the blaze with the Kaldheimr rune, he announced to the grinning faces, “That is how we defeated the band of Rus raiders and Dokkálfar. And how I obtained my Dragonfire ship.”
Amidst thunderous applause and howls of approval from the úlfhéenar, Skjold returned to the high table, hung ísfir on the hook beside the ísfálkr spear, and took his seat at Haldor’s side.
úlvhild waited for the cheering to subside before standing to address the rapt crowd.
“Like Skjold,” she announced, nodding to the tattooed blond brute on Haldor’s other side as her clear voice echoed through the silent hall, “I have foreseen an impending attack of Rus raiders and Dokkálfar.” She cast a wary gaze over the wolf warriors and Ljósálfar gathered at the tables of honor.
“They will attack us in ísland, for they wish to seize úlfsongr, the Dwarven sword which belonged to your fallen brother Brokk.” Murmurs of unease rippled through the still chamber.
“Njord is destined to reclaim his father’s Dwarven sword and fulfill a prophecy.
To slay Gúldur—the Dokkálfar Blacksmith of Dorestad.
Yet Gúldur seeks to avenge his slain brother Nithrak,” she warned, fixing her gaze on the copper-haired, golden-eyed Ildris.
“By slaying the Ljósálfar Lord of Starlight who killed him.” She raised her catskin-clad arms to silence the menacing growls and muttered curses.
“Gúldur and the Dokkálfar sail with a band of Rus raiders led by a fearsome Snake Warrior.”
“Skugga!” snarled Hjálmarr, leaping to his feet as all eyes snapped to the glowering, scowling shipmaster.
“One of his snekkja—with Dokkálfar on deck— destroyed my ship Járnvingr. They summoned shadows that darkened the skies, bewildered my crew, and blinded us. They rammed us, stole our treasure, and sank the ship. Most of my men drowned, but a handful of us made it to shore. We’re part of Skjold’s crew now, and if you’re sailing into battle in ísland against Skugga, then you can count on my blade—and my oath to the crew and ship that I lost.”
A warrior from Hjálmarr’s crew raised his horn and shouted “Skál!”
As resounding cheers thundered through the Great Hall, Haldor rose to his feet and raised his commanding arms, the falcon feathers woven into the leather vambraces shimmering with otherworldly light.
“Your oath is heard, Hjálmarr. And it is honored.” Haldor paused, letting the silence add weight to his words.
He raised his ornate elkhorn of bilberry mead, the silver band around the elaborate mouthpiece intricately embellished with falcons, blood red garnets, and blackened runes.
“To the fallen…and to those who raise steel to avenge them. Skál!”
Skjold, as commander of the Dragonfire ship whom Hjálmarr served, waited a few moments to honor Haldor’s toast before rising to his feet as well.
He nodded to the shipmaster who still stood amidst the suddenly silent, expectant crew.
“We’re bound now. By salt, by steel, and by sworn oath.
If you seek vengeance against Skugga and the Dokkálfar, you’ll have it.
Borne by blood and blade.” When he raised his elkhorn in tribute, all followed his lead.
“To vengeance. To valor. And to victory. Or Valhalla!”
The entire hall erupted in riotous cheers as the crowd shot to their feet, horns raised high.
Haldor grinned and turned toward the corner of the hall where his musicians awaited his summons, instruments ready to play. Just as he was about to hail them, Njord’s deep voice rose above the raucous din.
“Jarl Haldor, Falcon of the Faroe Islands, I too have sworn an oath.”