Chapter 18
úlfsongr
Skjold marveled at the appetizing array of refreshments which Queen íssla’s attendants laid upon the long table of carved ice and stone.
Silver platters offered Ljósálfar guests food from álfheim to restore and enhance their Light Elven magic, while others displayed slices of roasted meats and smoked fish for the heartier appetites of the úlfhéenar, who had returned from the beach with the royal sentinels.
Moonflower Mead—a surprisingly delightful Ljósálfar blend of sweet honey brewed with delicate moonflower blossoms, golden plums, and silverleaf herbs from álfheim—shimmered like liquid gold in slender crystal goblets.
Pale blue frostberries in silver bowls were artfully arranged amidst stone plates topped with soft goat cheese and crushed hazelnuts.
Dark loaves of Elven bread crusted with nutritious seeds and fresh herbs rested on silver trays beside small bowls of wildflower honey.
Once everyone had eaten, royal servants escorted the úlfhéenar and the humans—úlvhild, Haldor, and Hjálmarr—to their respective guest quarters in the crystal fortress so they could rest after the exhausting morning and prepare for Elfi and Njord’s evening wedding.
Since Skjold had inherited the Ljósálfar magic of nen glir from his mother Ylva, and Elfi carried Njord’s child, they would accompany Queen íssla and the Ljósálfar to álfheim.
Skjold nodded goodbye to his mentor as Haldor exited the Crystal Hall and disappeared down the shimmering corridor with úlvhild and the other guests who would remain in the fortress and rejoin them later for the wedding and feast.
íssla’s crystalline voice, limpid as a lyre, flowed like liquid silver across the shining hall. “You who carry Ljósálfar blood or wield its magic. Come with me to álfheim.”
Four Light Elven sentinels, clad in frosted dragonscale armor and bearing Ljósálfar swords and daggers, fell into formation behind the queen as she led the group from the Crystal Hall out of the fortress through the carved ice entrance doors.
They descended a separate stairwell that wound down the opposite side of the mountain from the path which led to the black sandy beach of ólafsvik.
Skjold followed the ice-frosted stone steps beside Ildris, the Ljósálfar Lord of Starlight who imbued gildir starstones in Ljósálfar brooches and weapons with powerful Light Elven magic.
They descended the steps behind Elfi and Njord, Luna and Lugh, and the Ljósálfar who had sailed with them from Normandy—Olvir, áryndor, Runar, and Veldar.
As they approached the base of the winding stairwell, the thunderous roar from the Lyravél waterfall increased to nearly deafening intensity.
The glittering cascade of clear crystals and shimmery silver concealed a cave mouth which opened into the solid black rock of the mountain.
Along the crescent shaped arch opening of the grotto, a trinity of runes glowed with silver light.
Algiz, for protection. Reidho, for a sacred journey.
And Perthro, for secrets, hidden knowledge, and the unknown.
Alternating with the trinity of etched runes was a pattern of three glittering gems. Radiant gildir starstones, deep blue lapis lazuli with threads of shimmering gold, and luminous moonstones—like the trio in Luna’s distinctive necklace which glowed at the base of her throat—were inlaid into the solid rock.
“Only those with Ljósálfar blood or Light Elven magic may pass through the waterfall and cross the crystal bridge. Follow me... to álheim.” Queen íssla slipped through the silver sheet of water and disappeared into the secret cave.
Skjold and the others followed the queen through the waterfall which, to his surprise and delight, did not saturated his white bearskin cloak, for it was not liquid which tumbled from the top of the cliff, but a clear cascade of crystal.
The interior of the grotto was pearlescent, like moonstone, aglow with ethereal, otherworldly light.
They emerged from the cave into an enchanting land bathed in twilight and luminous swirls of billowy clouds.
íssla and her four Ljósálfar sentinels led them across a radiant arc composed of countless clear crystals which glittered like stars and emitted a soft golden glow.
They ascended, as if climbing into the clouds, arriving at a lush landscape of luminescent forests with towering trees whose foliage ranged in verdant hues from frosted sage to deep emerald green.
High cliffs of pearlized rock sheltered a brilliant blue sea, with cascading waterfalls, glimmering lakes, and crystalline springs.
Beneath a pale turquoise sky, the clean scent of pine mingled with the sweet floral fragrance of white flowers blooming amidst soft meadows and clear flowing streams. In the distance, tall spires of translucent stone and luminous crystal, intricately woven with dark green vines and snowy blossoms, revealed the clifftop dwellings where the Ljósálfar resided.
“The Elandrian Sea!” Elfi gripped Njord’s hand, her pretty face alight with joy.
“Where I first shifted into a mermaid for you. And showed you my sjóvaettir power… by hurling a wave at those distant cliffs.” She nodded to the opalescent rocky bluff on the opposite shore of the brilliant turquoise sea.
As they followed íssla across a meadow strewn with fragrant white flowers, Elfi indicated the grassy bank of a shimmering lake fed by a stream which flowed from an underground spring.
“And there, near the ísilwen Spring, is where Ylva, Luna, and I healed úlf, when he was wounded by a Dokkálfar blade.”
Luna gestured to a grove of radiant trees whose deep green leaves sparkled with violet frost. Clusters of white flowers with five delicate points swayed gently in the soft autumn breeze.
“Look, Elfi! The frosted starfruit trees are full of blossoms now. Soon, they will produce fruit that will ripen for the winter solstice.” The lovely blonde Ljósálfar dazzled Skjold with a radiant smile.
“Frosted starfruit trees are only found here. On the eastern shore of the Lyrian Lake.”
Skjold immediately recognized the name. “The Lyrian Lake? This is where I have promised to meet Skadi, on the night of the winter solstice.”
At the inquisitive looks of the Ljósálfar gathering around Queen íssla—who had halted near the trunk of an enormous ash tree—Skjold displayed the fjórún mark which glowed inside his left palm.
“Skadi and I are soulbound,” he explained, demonstrating the violet frostfire flame engulfed inside the silver-edged droplet of water.
“She is half Ljósálfar and half jótunn. And can transform into a frostdragon who unleashes a flood of ice blue flame.”
He grinned at the astonished, luminous faces of the Ljósálfar queen and royal guards.
“Tonight, at the wedding feast, I’ll tell you the tale of how Haldor and I freed her from a band of Rus raiders and Dokkálfar.
And how he and I aided a dwarf to defend his treasure and cache of Dwarven weapons.
” Skjold wanted to display the glorious frostfire plume of his ísfir shield, strapped across his back over the white bearskin cloak, but decided to wait until evening.
Now was not the time, since they had come to álfheim for Njord to reclaim his father’s legendary sword.
And the serene, luminescent realm of the Light Elves was not the place for fire and fury.
“Our Ljósálfar armor and leather scabbards are made from the discarded scales of frostdragons. We obtain them on the V?gakallen Mountain. In the Lofoten Islands of Norway.” Lugh gestured to the shimmering scales in the magnificent leather armor that he, his Ljósálfar companions, and Queen íssla’s royal sentinels all proudly wore.
Skjold wanted to tell them that the V?gakallen Mountain was where he and Haldor had defended Dvalinn, but since the dwarf wanted the location of his clifftop cave kept secret, he held his tongue and complimented the Ljósálfar armor instead.
“Impeccable craftsmanship. It exudes the fierce strength and sleek grace of the dragon.”
Pride illuminated Lugh’s noble face as he inclined his pale blond head in the acknowledgement of skilled Elven artistry. He then turned his emerald gaze toward the Ljósálfar queen who stood regally before the pale, pearlescent trunk of the towering ash tree.
“This is ísilvé, the sacred ash tree of álfheim, nourished by the pure waters of the ísilwen spring, much like the roots of Yggdrasil are fed by Urearbrunnr, the hallowed Well of Urd.”
Near the bank of the Lyrian Lake, the enormous tree swirled upward from the bubbling crystalline spring in graceful spirals toward the cloudless sky.
The translucent surface of its massive trunk was veined in silvery blue beneath its smooth, polished bark.
Majestic branches stretched wide, their long, slender leaves a deep emerald green frosted with silvery sage and sheer violet ice.
At the base of the trunk, in the heartwood of the tree, was a sheltered hollow etched with Elven runes that glowed with pale blue light.
“Your father’s sword has rested here for nearly twenty winters, waiting for you to come claim it.
” As Queen íssla approached the sacred ash tree, the protective swirls of its heartwood hollow spiraled outward, unfolding like the delicate petals of a blossoming flower.
And there—in the center of the sacred ísilvé tree, sheathed in a leather scabbard of frostdragon scales embellished with a trio of Hrímsúl gems—was the úlfsongr sword forged by Dvalinn.
The same Dwarven blacksmith who had crafted Skjold’s ísfir shield.
And Haldor’s ísfálkr spear.
At the sight of the glowing Hrímsúl gem which pulsed in the heart of the Dwarven pommel, a ripple of frostfire power shivered up Skjold’s spine and into his trembling limbs.
While Skjold watched with bated breath beside Elfi and the Ljósálfar, Njord stepped forward, awestruck and silent before the magnificent sword. As if awakening in his presence, the frostfire gem blazed with violet flame and the runes etched into the hilt glimmered with icy blue light.
Njord reverently removed his leather gloves and tucked them into his belt, his bare skin gripping the leatherbound handle of the blade which was wrapped in the same frostdragon scales as the scabbard in which it was sheathed.
At his touch, the runes etched along the opening of the heartwood hollow in the sacred ash tree—and the ones engraved in the hilt of the sword—glowed a silvery blue, while the gem pulsed with violet flame.
Queen íssla’s crystalline voice echoed across the Lyrian Lake. “úlfsongr recognizes the blood of the White Wolf.”
Njord slowly unsheathed the Dwarven sword.
As he held it aloft, the Hrímsúl gem in the pommel pulsed, as if in rhythm with his heart.
He turned the gleaming blade in his hand, its sleek surface catching the pale glint of the grove.
For a long breath, he said nothing, as if weighing both Dwarven steel and the burden of prophecy.
Then he stepped forward, raising the sword in both hands and clutching it over his fierce lupine heart.
“I shall honor my father’s legacy,” he vowed, his deep voice reverent and rough.
“And wield his sword to fulfill my fate.” A breeze stirred from the ísilwen Spring, curling across the roots of the sacred ash tree.
Njord swept Brokk’s blade through the mists of álfheim.
A silent oath, sworn in steel.