Chapter 25
The Dragon Herald
Skadi’s long blonde tresses cascaded over her pale shoulders, glowing in the moonlight from the narrow window in the timbered hut they shared in V?gan. She had disrobed and now waited in their bed while Skjold unstrapped his Dwarven shield and weapons.
“I’m nervous about meeting your parents,” she whispered, her icy blue eyes wide with apprehension. “How will they react to a jótunn who transforms into a frostdragon?”
Skjold stood naked by the bed and smiled at her.
He sat down at her side and took hold of her trembling hand.
He pressed warm, bearded lips to her cold fingers.
“They will love you, as I do.” He kissed her hand again.
“My father Sk?rde has been friends with Haldor for twenty winters. Haldor’s ability to shift into a falcon has been crucial in many battles.
” He brushed a long lock from her beautiful, worried face.
“Indeed, it was Haldor—as a falcon—who freed my uncle Sweyn, when he had been imprisoned in Paris as a young boy by the Frankish King Lothaire.” With a curved finger, he gently lifted her chin so that she would look at him.
“Njord and the úlfhéenar are all shifters, too. And Elfi can transform into a mermaid.”
He leaned forward and claimed her tempting lips, drawing them into his own. He didn’t want to talk—he wanted to lay her down upon the bed and drive her wild with his tongue. But she needed reassurance, so he tamped down his lust and comforted her with words instead.
Wrapping her in his arms and kissing her golden hair, Skjold told Skadi about his childhood in the Pays de Caux.
How he, his brother Tryggvi, and their little sister Vivi had lived in the clifftop castle of Chateaufort.
How he’d been sent at the age of seven winters to train as Dag Thorfinsson’s squire in étretat.
He explained to her that Elfi planned an honorable burial in the sacred grove for her fallen brother.
“Dag was slain by the Frankish Count of Soissons, who stole the Ljósálfar sword Galadir that Lugh had forged for him at my grandfather Jarl Rikard’s request. Dag was my mentor before Haldor, and I trained with him for three summers.
I want to attend the ceremony, to honor him with my presence. And offer him my burial gift.”
Skjold arose from the bed, crossed the room, and fetched the tapered piece of driftwood protectively wrapped in leather which was tucked inside his trunk on the floor. He brought it to Skadi, who traced a slender finger over the pale, smooth wood.
“It washed up on the shore of the fjord,” he explained, as she admired the smooth curves which rippled like waves.
“It’s ashwood—rare this far north. I took it as a gift from the Norns.
” He indicated the trio of runes he’d engraved into the wood with his noaidi dagger.
“Laguz—for my spirit element of water, and the fjord which brought this gift for me to offer Dag. Algiz, to protect his hamr in the afterlife. And Ansuz, to connect his spirit to Odin.”
Skjold rubbed his thumb over the glistening lapis lazuli stone he’d embedded in a knot of the ashwood.
“Lapis is my spirit stone,” he told her, showing the ring he’d been given as a noaidi.
“I chanted a joik—a Sámi sacred song—as I imbued my spirit into the stone. To protect him with the essence of water.”
“It’s perfect. Your spirit, imbued into a sacred gift, to protect Dag’s hamr in the afterlife.
A loving tribute to your first mentor.” Skadi returned the carved driftwood to Skjold, who carefully rewrapped it and stored it back inside the trunk.
“I’m glad that I will be there—to share that moment with you.
” She opened her arms, beckoning him back to bed.
“Come. Let’s make love in the moonlight. ”
Skjold willingly complied.
* * * *
In the morning, after dagmál, Skjold and Skadi bid the Blóesmier farewell at the dock in front of the mead hall in V?gan.
“Thank the gods, úlvhild recovered.” Bjarni handed Skjold the waterskin, which he tucked near Skadi’s feet in the small faering they would row to the island of Skrova. “It would have killed Haldor if she hadn’t.”
“We’ll bring them supplies. Every five days, until you return.” Gr?skegg placed a small blessing stone, etched with Algiz for protection, between the oarlocks of the boat where Skjold and Skadi would see it as they rowed. “May the gods watch over you. and guide you safely back.”
“Row true, Skjold. Keep Skadi close. And bring her home safe.” Yrjar grinned through his thick, dark beard as he gave the boat a firm shove, pushing it away from the shore and out into the icy fjord.
When Skjold and Skadi took up their oars, the splash mingled with the squawks of gulls as they rowed southeast toward the island of Skrova.
Pale morning light shimmered on the dark waves of the fjord, the salty air carrying the crisp, clean scent of pine.
In the distance, the roar of the waterfall grew louder as the island’s dark silhouette became clearer, crowned with willows that whispered in the wind.
They beached the boat on the narrow shore, the clinker hull grinding against wet stones. Together, they dragged it up the muddy hill and tipped the faering on its side, covering it with low branches and dense ferns until it vanished among the willows.
The thunderous cascade was deafening as they climbed the slick, mossy slope. Mist clung to their skin and hair, turning their breath to steam in the cold autumn air. A shimmering veil of water plummeted from the rocky cliff, concealing the mouth of the secret cave within the crashing spray.
Skjold reached the opening first, bracing himself against the wet rock. He turned, extended a hand to Skadi, then ducked with her behind the roaring cascade. Within his natural element, the water welcomed him—recognizing, renewing, and revitalizing his spirit as a noaidi.
They entered the cave, following the dim, twisting path toward the glow at the end of the tunnel.
From there, they crossed the crystal bridge into álfheim, where Skjold glimpsed the familiar turquoise waters of the Elandrian Sea and the shimmering shore of Lyrian Lake.
“Gods willing, we’ll return here soon to celebrate the winter solstice with Elfi, Njord, Luna, and Lugh. ”
“That’s their cottage, overlooking the sea.” Skadi pointed to a pearlescent dwelling with windows of gleaming crystal that sparkled in the morning sun. “Lugh and Luna have invited us all to join them for Jól.”
Skjold spotted the trees filled with unripened fruit. “I know Elfi can’t wait to try the frosted starfruit.” He grinned as he led Skadi toward the portal to étretat. “Nor can I.”
They emerged from the tunnel into another waterfall cave, its thunderous cascade spilling over the open mouth.
But this one emptied into a secluded cove, enclosed on three sides by towering white chalk cliffs.
Shaped like a rounded bottle with a long, narrow neck, the cerulean waters of the sheltered inlet flowed out into the Narrow Sea.
Skjold gripped Skadi’s hand as they stood in the misty cave, where the salty scent of the sea mingled with the tang of freshwater cascading from the clifftop precipice above into the churning pool below.
“When I was a boy, Dag and Elfi would bring me here. We’d jump through this waterfall, into the inlet below, and swim every day in the summer. ”
Skadi’s blue gaze, wide with wonder, shimmered like the sunlit waters of the hidden shore.
“Dag called it the Mermaid Cove.” Skjold gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “Elfi used to pretend she was a sjóvaettir—a sea spirit—when she swam here.” He chuckled and looked at Skadi. “Turns out, she really is the daughter of Dúva. One of the nine billow maiden daughters of Rán.”
“No wonder she can hurl giant waves, summon the Mélusines, and shift into a mermaid. She’s the granddaughter of a sea goddess!” Skadi’s radiant smile lit up the entire cave.
“Come, the sacred grove is this way.” Skjold led Skadi behind the waterfall, out of the cave, and into the shadowed stillness of the dark forest.
They arrived at a clearing near the castle where servants were setting up tables under a canopy of massive beech trees in preparation for a feast. Some were stringing garlands of ivy among the limbs, tucking fragrant pink églantine wild roses, boughs of purple heather, and sprigs of sweet-smelling lavender into the dark green vines.
The armored sentinels at the double entrance doors of le Chateau Blanc tensed as Skjold and Skadi emerged from the shadowed forest.
It had been eight summers since he’d last stood here, and the wary guards eyed Skjold with suspicion—a blond brute draped in a massive bearskin cloak, braided beard and tangled hair, tattoos winding across his arms like living runes, a blue dragon curling up his thick neck.
Their hands drifted toward their swords as whispers passed between them.
"Halt! Identify yourselves," one barked.
Skjold’s voice was steady and low. "I am Skjold, son of Sk?rde and Ylva. Known as the Son of the Dragon.”
The castle sentinels exchanged uncertain glances. Slowly, the weapons lowered, replaced by stunned nods.
"Odin’s eye...Skjold, is that you?" Heavy boots thudded down the stone steps and hurried across the grassy glen. Bjarke, the first knight of Chateau Blanc who had been Dag’s closest friend, had also trained Skjold with axe, spear, and sword.
He reached out and grasped Skjold’s broad shoulders, his grip firm and grounding.
“By the gods,” he rasped, his voice rough as gravel.
“You’re even more of a bloody beast than your faeir! ”
Bjarke’s gaze softened as he appraised Skadi with admiring eyes. A slow grin spread beneath his weathered beard. “Skjold, you’ve brought quite the fierce shieldmaiden with you. She looks as wild and strong as you do.”