Chapter 29 #2
Instead of returning to his fortress in Soissons, Alberic and his armored guards rode south through the thick forest of Laon.
To meet the Dokkálfar Dark Lord Zhúlgorr.
* * * *
The Black Boar Alehouse stood along the forested road southeast of la Montagne Couronnée, its weathered timber walls darkened by smoke and age.
A faded carving of a fierce black boar adorned the sign above the heavy oak entrance door, swaying in the crisp autumn breeze.
Alberic and his men dismounted, tossing the reins to waiting stable boys who would feed, water, and ready the horses for the return ride to his fortress in Soissons.
Hungry, haggard, and humiliated, Alberic led his tense men into the boisterous inn.
Inside the tavern, smoky air was thick with the scent of roast boar sizzling on a spit, hearty stew simmering in a pot over the hearth, and fresh barley bread just pulled from the coals.
Deep voices and raucous laughter mingled with the crackle and hiss of the fire as boar fat dripped into flickering flames.
Roughhewn tables bore the scars of countless brawls and whispered deals, making it the perfect place for a clandestine meeting.
Alberic’s wary guards settled at tables and ordered food and ale. Senses sharp, they remained alert, ready to defend their lord should the need arise.
Seated alone in a shadowed corner, Zhúlgorr drank from a battered tankard, while a half dozen Dokkálfar gnawed on salted boar at nearby tables.
Like Alberic, the Dark Lord from Dorestad was exceptionally well defended.
He looked up at Alberic’s approach, a snide grin stretching the withered skin of his reptilian face.
“Greetings, Alberic of Soissons.” The Dark Elf gestured to the empty chair with a gnarled, scaled hand. “Please, join me.”
Alberic took the proffered seat and accepted a mug of ale. He slaked his thirst, wiped his mouth with the back of a hand, and stated the reason he had summoned Zhúlgorr.
“King Lothaire is furious that we failed in ísland. Not only is he enraged that Gúldur, Narglok, Myrrkha, and Skugga were all slain in battle, but now Richard the Fearless claims that Lothaire has violated the treaty of Saint-Clair-sur-Epte—through Frankish attacks against the Pays de Caux and the attempted abduction of Elfi Thorfinsdóttir in ólafsvik.”
Alberic took a long pull of ale and slammed his mug down on the table.
“Hugh Capet, the Count of Paris, has called for a coalition of Norman and Frankish nobles and clergy to convene in the Christian church of Noyon on the vernal equinox. They plan to dethrone Lothaire for breaching the treaty—and elect Capet as the new Frankish king.” He exhaled sharply, forcing the foul breath of failure from his lungs.
“Lothaire has ordered me to amass an army, enlist Dokkálfar allies, and strike with his royal Frankish forces when that coalition meets. We’ll ambush them from the forest surrounding the castle.
Arrest them as traitors. And execute them for treason.
” Alberic met Zhúlgorr’s disquieting reptilian stare.
“Send five dozen Dokkálfar to hide in the forest surrounding la Montagne Couronnée just before the equinox. They will join my men and attack the traitors with the royal army of King Lothaire.”
The Dark Elf’s raspy voice was a serpentine hiss.
“You have my word. Five dozen Dokkálfar on the vernal equinox. To hide in the forests surrounding Lothaire’s castle.
” Like a python posed to strike, the vertical slits of Zhúlgorr’s golden eyes narrowed with suspicion.
“But the vernal equinox falls in four months. Why summon me now?”
Alberic slid a sack of coins onto the table. “Because I have an urgent personal request.”
At the sight of silver, Zhúlgorr flashed a greedy grin, revealing a revolting array of rotting yellow fangs. “How may I serve the Count of Soissons?”
“Do you have access to Skugga’s ships? I need two snekkja, loaded with three dozen of your best Dokkálfar, to meet me at the seaport of Saint-Valéry-en-Caux in seven days.
I will be there with three dozen of my finest Frankish knights.
We sail to étretat—keeping well offshore to avoid detection—and lay siege to Chateau Blanc on the night of the howling moon.
” Alberic rumbled with repressed laughter.
“A perfect night for your Dokkálfar to slaughter the úlfhéenar in la Forêt du Loup—the Forest of the Wolf.”
Hesitation and disbelief distorted Zhúlgorr’s hideous face.
“Three dozen knights and three dozen Dokkálfar to storm a castle?” He drained his tankard and swiped his parched, peeling lips.
“Thorfinn has at least a hundred men. And Elfi’s new husband— the Wolf of the Nordic Seas—arrived from Denmark with five hundred Viking warriors.
How can you expect to succeed with such insurmountable odds? ”
From the leather pouch secured at his belt, Alberic withdrew two heavy iron keys.
“With these.” He flashed a wicked grin. “There is a secret tunnel leading from the sacred grove into the bottom of the castle keep.” He held up the larger of the two keys.
“This one unlocks the door at the foot of the stairwell. And this one,” Alberic said, displaying the smaller key, “gets me into Elfi’s private chamber at the top of the steps.
” Heart hammering, pulse racing at the thought of finally conquering the castle which had become an obsession, Alberic unfolded his ingenious plan.
“My spies inform me that the Wolf of the Nordic Seas and Bluetooth’s bastard, the Dragon of Denmark, have sailed to Heieabyr, leaving the castle lightly guarded.
Myrkkha’s curse on the sword Galadir—recently buried beside Thorfinn’s son in the barrow near the castle—has nullified the protective Ljósálfar wards in the forest. Now your Dokkálfar can move through la Forêt du Loup and the sacred grove without hindrance.
” Alberic gripped the table, nearly overcome with excitement.
“I’ll slip into Elfi’s room and take her hostage.
Force Thorfinn to surrender the castle. While your Dokkálfar eliminate the úlfhéenar and the Ljósálfar in the sacred grove, I’ll open the gates for my men.
I shall slay Thorfinn and Richard the Fearless—who is currently a guest at the keep. ”
Hand trembling as he raised a tankard to his parched lips, Alberic drank deeply before setting it down on the table.
“I will show King Lothaire I am not a failure.” His resolute voice hardened with conviction.
“He ordered me to abandon the assault—but I cannot. The Wolf and the Dragon are both gone. The vitki who commands the birds is in Norway, nursing the wounded volva that Myrkkha nearly destroyed. Richard the Fearless is vulnerable. This is my chance to take what should rightfully be mine.”
Alberic’s fingers curled into a shaking fist. “Once I hold the castle—and eliminate the Viking leader who has defied my king for more twenty years—then Lothaire will honor his word. And proclaim me the Frankish Duke of Normandy.”
Zhúlgorr secured the sack of coins to the leather belt at his waist. “Agreed,” he hissed, predatory eyes fixing on Alberic like prey.
“Two of Skugga’s snekkja. Three dozen Dokkálfar will meet you at the port of Saint-Valéry-en-Caux in seven days.
To attack Chateau Blanc on the night of the howling moon.
” He raised his goblet, grin sharp as a Dokkálfar blade.
“To the future Frankish Duke of Normandy. Alberic of Soissons.”