Chapter 16
íssla
Gr?skegg maneuvered Freyja’s Falcon into the bustling harbor of ólafsvik, the Norse trade center on the Snaefellsnes peninsula in western ísland.
As Haldor gently helped her to an unsteady stand, úlvhild gripped the gunwale to ease her seasick belly as she gazed at the crescent shaped shore where dozens of drakkar warships lay beached on the black sand like sleeping sea dragons, their carved prows snarling into the snapping wind.
Rough-hewn timber piers extended far from the coast out into the icy water, creaking under heavy boots and guttural groans as worker hauled nets filled with silvery fish, rolled barrels of mead, wine, and ale, and carried pelts of furs, bales of hay, and wooden chests filled with amber, silver, and glass.
Along the teeming shoreline, the tantalizing aroma of roasted meats and freshly baked bread filled the salty air as shouting merchants offered stuffed barley cakes, steaming fish stew, and sizzling skewers of grilled lamb, goat, or seal.
In nearby huts and leather tents, blacksmiths hammered weapons over an open forge, while shipwrights repaired sails and planks, and applied pitch or tar to seal gaps and caulk seams in the clinker hulls of damaged vessels.
Amidst the hub of activity, set back from the beach but facing the vibrant port, stood a large timbered hall with a turf roof and carved wolf heads along the posts which framed the sheltered entrance.
Above the enormous oak door, a deep blue banner with the image of howling silver wolf displayed the name úlfskál—Wolf Toast— evoking both the savagery of a wolf and the fierce brotherhood of warriors.
As if to illustrate the tavern’s name, a pack of grim lupine men huddled around the flaming stone firepit, drinking mead from heavy wooden mugs.
The crews of their newly arrived ships hoisted wooden planks from the decks of the four drakkar and single snekkja vessels onto the shore for passengers to disembark.
As Haldor led úlvhild from the deck of Freyja’s Falcon, Skjold’s recently formed Dragonfire crew joined the Blóesmier and Njord’s Danish warriors in mingling with the villagers and merchants who flocked to greet them.
The úlfhéenar and Ljósálfar aboard Njord’s three ships— Drakkúlfr, Hrafnvarg, and Skollrokr, each bearing fierce lupine names and heraldic banners of the Wolf of the Nordic Seas—all came ashore and waited while Njord escorted Elfi, Njáll helped Luna, and Bodo aided Sif onto the black sandy beach.
Amidst the hollering, hammering, and heaving of crates, a tall, aging úlfhedinn warrior clad in a silver wolfskin cloak and chain mail brynja emerged from úlfskál.
Like the Allfather Odin, he was missing a right eye, the shadowed hollow covered by a black leather patch with the rune Ansuz etched in silver.
A savage scar ran the length of his ravaged face from brow to chin, a gruesome reminder of his brutal, violent past. Long grey hair and beard were both streaked with silver, braided with carved bones and glinting beads.
A fine sword was strapped at his waist, its grip wrapped in worn elk leather, the pommel etched with the god rune Ansuz, like his eyepatch.
Upon his right hip, a bearded axe hung heavy from a leather loop of his belt beside a sheathed dagger with a polished bone handle.
As the wolf warrior scanned the newcomers, noting the luminous Ljósálfar and battle-hardened úlfhéenar, úlvhild remarked that the silver wolf of the fur cloak was missing its right eye, just like the man himself.
He approached Njord, the pale morning light reflecting off an enormous silver wolf head brooch which fastened his ash fur cloak.
“Welcome to ólafsvík, warriors and kin of the wolf.” He grasped Njord’s forearms first, then úlf’s and Hrólf Redbeard’s, commanders of the three drakkar ships whose wolf banners flapped in the frosty wind.
“I am ólaf One-Eye, former úlfheeinn and chieftain of this hall.” He greeted Bodo, Flóki, and Njáll with the same wolf warrior’s grip of welcome.
ólaf One-Eye turned toward the six Ljósálfar warriors whose scales of frostdragon armor shimmered with violet ice.
“Guardians of frost and light,” he murmured, his deep voice layered with humble homage, “your radiant presence honors this land.” He bowed his wolfskin clad head.
“And skalds sing of your Light Elven blades here in the halls of íslyra.” The silver wolf gestured to an ice fortress carved into the cliffside of the craggy mountain which loomed ahead.
He returned his singular gaze and addressed úlvhild, Haldor, and Skjold with reverence and respect.
“Seeress, spell weaver, and spirit walker, you are welcome beneath my sky.”
Two warriors wearing wolfskin pelts over leather armor, formidable weapons strapped at their sinewy hips, stood behind their chieftain, awaiting his orders.
“Take the crews to the bathhouses and lodging,” ólaf told them.
He glanced at the ships, where the villagers were mingling with the men.
“Let them eat, wash, and warm their bones.” As the two guards strode off to obey, the silver wolf spoke to the ship commanders and elite guests who remained.
“Queen íssla awaits above the waterfall in her hall of frost and light. Long has she expected your arrival. Come this way. Follow me.”
ólaf One-Eye led them away from the black sandy beach of ólafsvik, where smoke curled from the úlfskál longhouse, its thatched roof crowded with cawing gulls and guillemots.
The enticing aroma of roasting fish and the scent of pine fire clung in the briny breeze as they marched toward the immense cliffside which rose before them like an impenetrable wall of black obsidian and glacial ice.
Carved into the face of the frozen mountain, a narrow and winding stone stairway curled up into the pale, frosted mist.
úlvhild placed a catskin-booted foot on the first frozen stair and began the treacherous ascent beside Haldor, his strong grip steady in her shaking hand. Far above them, a fortress of ice and crystal glimmered like a crown of frozen stars.
“Watch your step,” ólaf hollered over the thunderous roar of the waterfall which tumbled from a precipice overhead to their left. “The Lyravél mist makes the stones slick.”
Indeed, a cascade of crystalline water fell from the heights of the ice fortress, concealing the mouth of a secret cave. As she climbed the slippery steps and passed by the hidden hollow, úlvhild peered into its mysterious depths.
And felt a pulse of power at the glimpse of glowing runes.
After what felt like hours of endless trudging, they finally arrived at the top of the stone stairs before a great arch of translucent blue ice, etched with ancient runes, in a courtyard rimmed with frosted ashwood trees and silvery mist. Two Elven sentinels clad in scale armor of shimmering leather, luminous faces aglow behind masks like blindfolded gods, flanked an enormous gate forged from frosted steel.
ólaf removed his leather glove and approached, extending his bare hand face up.
One of the sentinels stepped forward. Without speaking, the Ljósálfar guard placed gloved fingers against ólaf’s palm. And as the runes across the gate flared to life with an iridescent glow, the frosted wrought iron gate swung open.
The towering sentinel, clad in ice-burnished dragonscale armor and bearing a blade that shimmered like winter moonlight, led them beneath the arch of the outer gate into a luminous courtyard, where the stone underfoot was black rock veined with silver light.
Columns of clear ice rose like frozen trees, reaching toward the open sky, and delicate frost flowers bloomed amidst beds of pure white snow.
Light from the pale morning sun filtered down through the high clifftop towers, reflecting across the crystal spires and casting vivid colors across the translucent walls.
“Welcome to íslyra.” The Ljósálfar sentinel gestured to the imposing arched doors which led into the royal crystal fortress.
Carved from glacial ice the color of moonstone, the elegant entrance was etched with Elven runes of silver filigree and inlaid with gildir starstones, like the brooches which fastened the cloaks and adorned the pommels of daggers and swords carried by Lugh, Ildris, Olvir and the other Ljósálfar warriors among Njord’s men.
Withdrawing an intricately detailed silver instrument shaped like the horn of a ram, embellished with moonstones, gildir starstones, and Elven runes, the Ljósálfar sentinel placed it to his clean shaven lips and blew three times.
The low musical notes were ethereal and haunting, like wind passing through ancient stone.
From within, the dual doors opened to reveal a floor of polished crystal over frozen fire, the green and violet colors of the northern lights trapped beneath the icy surface.
Columns of clear ice supported a vaulted ceiling that mimicked the starry night sky, with gildir gems and threads of silver reflecting light from the narrow windows which lined the towering walls.
Delicate runes spiraled up the pillars, glowing softly as the Ljósálfar sentinel approached, as if recognizing and responding to his Light Elven blood.
In the elegant throne room, several Ljósálfar attendants stood beside the seated queen, whose opalescent skin shimmered like moonlit snow.
Pale blonde hair, soft as spun gold, tumbled in long waves to her slender waist. Her silvery gown and gossamer sleeves were embroidered along the curved neckline and above the elbows with runes of pale violet and ice blue, embellished with gildir gemstones that sparkled like captured stars.
A slender crown of Elven silver, adorned with glistening gems and etched with runes, sat upon her golden head.
When the arrivals entered the throne room and bowed before the Ljósálfar Queen, ólaf One-Eye’s gruff voice echoed in the silent hall.
“Queen íssla,” he announced with a formal bow, the wolf tattoo on his right forearm catching the incandescent light.
“The White Wolf has returned. To reclaim his father’s Dwarven sword. ”
íssla’s regal gaze fixed upon on Njord. Her breath hitched and her beautiful face crumpled, overwhelmed with years of grief and sudden joy. Rising from her crystalline throne, she rushed forward, silver skirts sweeping across the frosted floor, to welcome her prodigal son.
Tenderly, she caressed his bearded face, tears spilling down her smiling cheeks.
“You look so much like your father,” she whispered with awe, running her hands over Njord’s broad shoulders, caressing the white fur of the wolfskin cloak.
She pulled him into a fierce maternal hug, cradling his dark head against her pale breast. “You have come to reclaim úlfsongr.” She kissed his thick, braided hair.
“I have kept it safe, as I promised Brokk,” she whispered.
“It has waited for you all these winters… just as I have.”
Njord lingered in her embrace for a few moments, then raised his head and stepped back, grasping his mother’s glowing hand.
“Móeir,” he murmured, raising íssla’s slender fingers to his bearded lips, “there is much to say, but little time. First, you must meet my betrothed.” He reached for Elfi, standing behind him, and brought her forward to greet his mother.
“This is Elfi Thorfinnsdóttir. The Heiress of étretat. She and I must marry at once, for the volva,” he said, gesturing to úlvhild, “has foreseen that Dokkálfar and Rus raiders will soon attack. To steal úlfsongr, and prevent me from fulfilling the prophecy. And to abduct Elfi—so the Frankish count intent upon seizing her father’s castle can acquire it through a forced marriage to his daughter.
We must marry this very evening. And prepare for the impending battle. ”
Queen íssla inhaled deeply and nodded, regaining her royal composure.
“Welcome, daughter of two realms,” she said, smiling as she took hold of Elfi’s hands.
“You carry Njord’s child, and Ljósálfar blood blooms in your womb.
” íssla kissed Elfi on each cheek. “But I sense another magic in you as well.”
“My mother was a billow maiden mermaid,” Elfi replied with a soft smile.
“And I inherited her sjóvaettir magic.” She looked up at Njord, who fervently kissed her hand.
“I carry the thrice-blessed daughter of the Wolf of the Nordic Seas. Our child has the sjóvaettir blood of my grandmother, the Sea Goddess Rán.” Elfi beamed at Queen íssla.
“She has your Ljósálfar blood as well. And the Volsung blood of Odin, through your úlfhéenar husband, Njord’s father Brokk. ”
“The thrice-blessed daughter of the Wolf of the Nordic Seas,” íssla whispered, running a gentle hand down Elfi’s long, golden brown locks. “I cannot wait to hold her.” She smiled, lost in reverie, then turned toward ólaf, the commanding queen once again.
“ólaf, the wedding shall be held here tonight, beneath the starlit vault. A feast will follow. Let our halls remember joy, before war returns to our gates. Arrange for roasted meats, root vegetables, fresh fish, and barley bread for the humans and úlfhéenar, while my attendants prepare proper fare for the Ljósálfar.” The queen turned to her maids and guards, her voice rising like wind through crystal.
“Ready the halls. Prepare the rites. Let the fortress of íslyra sparkle and shine.”
íssla spoke to the Ljósálfar sentinel who had escorted them into the throne room. “See that our guests’ trunks are brought up from the beach. They will be lodged here for the wedding and the feast.”
úlf stepped forward, his grey wolfskin cloak damp with sea mist. “Queen íssla,” he said, bowing slightly. “Allow my úlfhéenar to guide your men. Our ships carried much—and only we know which trunks are needed.”
íssla gave a nod, regal and efficient. “Very well. But the mountain path is narrow. Be cautious on the slick stone steps.”
As the wolf warriors departed with ólaf One-Eye and the Ljósálfar sentinel, the queen spoke to Haldor, úlvhild, and Sif.
“My attendants will show you to guest quarters here in the fortress. Since you carry neither Ljósálfar blood nor magic, you cannot accompany us to álfheim.” She smiled at Njord.
“For that is where I have kept your father’s sword all these winters.
Come, the portal is behind the Lyravél waterfall.
Through the cave to the crystal bridge.”