Chapter 36
No Mercy for Noyon
King Lothaire burst into the Sapphire Chalice Tavern in Dorestad with all the majesty, might, and menace of West Francia’s reigning monarch.
Flanked by two dozen royal guards in glittering mail armor and blue surcoats bearing the golden fleur-de-lys emblem, he brushed aside obsequious servants who seated him at their best table and served him a sapphire-studded silver chalice of their finest Frankish wine.
Adjusting the gold circlet upon his scowling brow, he smoothed the elegant white ermine fur trim of his blue velvet cloak and demanded to see the proprietor of the prosperous waterfront inn.
“Bring me Zhúlgorr.”
The young female servant, clad in a dark blue gown and silver apron—signature colors of the lucrative Frisian trade center—bowed before him, her voice quavering, eyes widened with fear. “At once, Your Majesty.”
A few moments later, Zhúlgorr emerged from the back of the tavern. His wiry black hair, murky wrinkled skin, and alarmingly reptilian yellow eyes sent shivers of dread snaking up Lothaire’s royal spine.
The repulsive Dokkálfar, proprietor of the boisterous tavern and the adjacent Sapphire Sands Silver— the shop where he secretly crafted and sold cursed talismans and deadly Dark Elven weapons—seated himself warily at the polished table.
Golden eyes with the vertical slits of a viper fixed Lothaire with a predatory stare.
The serving girl quickly poured a mug of golden mead, placed the ornate silver chalice encrusted with sparkling sapphires in front of Zhúlgorr, and discreetly disappeared.
Lothaire wasted no time on frivolous banter.
“Alberic of Soissons defied my direct order and attacked le Chateau Blanc. Not only did he fail in his futile attempt, he was beheaded.” Pulse pounding, Lothaire drained his goblet and slammed it on the solid oak surface.
“Richard the Fearless took the severed head to Hugh Capet in Paris—irrefutable proof that the Franks violated the treaty of Saint-Clair-sur-Epte by attacking étretat.”
Lothaire squeezed his goblet as if it were the Duke of Normandy’s vile Viking throat.
“Capet has summoned a coalition of nobles to convene in Noyon on the vernal equinox. I want you to place five dozen Dokkálfar in the dense forest surrounding la Montage Couronnée and aid my royal Frankish army in ambushing them en route to Noyon. I shall arrest them as traitors who dare defy their king—and execute them all for treason.” Livid with rage, Lothaire spat. “Including Hugh Capet.”
Zhúlgorr drank slowly from his goblet, unnerving golden glare fixed on Lothaire.
“Richard the Fearless has otherworldly allies. úlfhéenar… Ljósálfar…and, if the tales of our disastrous defeat in ísland are to be believed…a frostdragon who hurls frozen flame.”
Silent and deadly like a coiled snake poised to strike, Zhúlgorr simply stared, waiting for Lothaire to explain why he had come all the way to Frisia. And why he had summoned him now.
“Your Dokkálfar will destroy the wolf warriors and Light Elves while I attack Richard the Fearless and Hugh Capet. We strike on the vernal equinox. As the Frankish king who rules Frisia—and therefore, your lucrative establishment here in Dorestad—I expect your unwavering loyalty and immediate obedience.”
Zhúlgorr inhaled deeply and released a slow hiss.
“My Dokkálfar blacksmith Gúldur perished in the disastrous battle of ísland. As did my ally Skugga, and my volva Myrkkha. We lost hundreds of men… five ships…I sent dozens of Dokkálfar to their deaths.” He grimaced, revealing a revolting array of rotten fangs.
“When Alberic of Soissons tried to seize Chateau Blanc by stealth, three dozen of my Dokkálfar perished with him. Now you demand five dozen more?”
Lothaire smoothed the white ermine fur of his royal blue velvet cloak. “I do indeed. For you, Lord Zhúlgorr, need this victory as much as I.”
Suppressing a shudder of revulsion, he fixed Zhúlgorr’s serpentine stare.
“If the council convenes in Noyon and elects Hugh Capet as the new king, do you truly believe he will permit you to sell Dokkálfar wares in Dorestad?” Lothaire pressed both bejeweled hands upon the polished oak table and leaned forward, his steely voice soft as silk.
“You and your Dokkálfar army will aid mine in eliminating this threat to my crown. Now tell me, Lord Zhúlgorr—master of dark arts and dealer in death—how will you slay the frostdragon?”
Zhúlgorr’s eyes flicked to the window where thick smoke from a forge swirled upward into dark, heavy clouds.
“I have the means to sear its wings and topple it from the skies. But first—my price. You will name me Duke of Dorestad — by formal writ and Frankish seal. Let the royal decree plainly state that the title shall not be voided by your death, nor revoked by any future king.”
Lothaire nodded once, firmly. “So be it. But as long as I draw breath and my blood wears the crown—you shall continue to serve me.”
Zhúlgorr rose from the table. He didn’t even glance at the two dozen royal guards tensely awaiting Lothaire’s command. His raspy voice was the hiss of a snake. “Come with me. Alone.”
Lothaire’s legs shook under his blue velvet robe. He would never have named Zhúlgorr as Duke of Dorestad by choice. Yet, if he did not concede to the Dokkálfar’s demand, he would never hold his crown. And Zhúlgorr had the means to bring down the dragon.
With a slight nod, Lothaire stood. “Wait here,” he ordered his captain. “If I do not return within the hour, come retrieve me by blade.”
Chain mail clinking as his shoulders squared, gloved hand on his gleaming sword, Baldric’s voice was as sharp as Frankish steel. “As you command, my king.”
Lothaire followed Zhúlgorr out the side door.
They crossed the narrow dirt path from the tavern toward the blacksmith’s forge, where patches of churned mud clung to deep ruts worn by boots, wagons, and hooves.
Amid clumps of ash and soot, discarded broken tools, and the endless clang of hammer on anvil, Zhúlgorr’s heavy footsteps kicked up dust as he led Lothaire through choking smoke toward the heavy oak door bound with iron bands.
With a swift shove, he flung it open.
Blistering heat shimmered off scorched stone walls, sparks soaring in swirls of dark smoke. The acrid stench of molten metal and smoldering soot hit Lothaire like a blow to the gut.
Before them lay the blazing core of the forge. Where a hulking beast lurked, shadows slithering like snakes from its jagged maw.
A creature of ridged scales and coiled sinew, it stood taller than any man, with reptilian hide like blackened iron. Twisting horns curled back from its misshapen skull, and beneath its heavy brow, golden eyes burned with malice and menace.
As though flames surged just beneath the blackened skin, the beast’s massive right arm pulsed like glowing coals from curved elbow to clawed fingers. Like the forge itself, swirls of heat shimmered from it, distorting the thick, smoky air.
Lothaire’s breath hitched as his hand instinctively dropped to his sword.
Zhúlgorr stepped past him, his voice rasping with pride. “Meet Zorvik. Born of a mountain troll and a fire giantess. His body was forged in the furnaces of Muspelheim… and his molten blood sings with flame.”
He stopped beside the smoldering brute.
“Though full-blooded trolls can assume any shape—such as Narglok, the spy who served your slain Count of Soissons—Zorvik is limited to human form.” Zhúlgorr flashed a revolting reptilian smile. “But any human form he chooses.”
With a nod from Zhúlgorr, Zorvik transformed.
Before Lothaire’s very eyes, the plated scales sloughed off like ash, bones grinding like scraped stone as the curved horns retracted. The molten glow of the beast’s right arm dimmed, the fiery cracks vanishing beneath smooth, pale skin. Within seconds, the creature was gone.
And in its place stood a man.
With the dark wavy hair, handsome features, and regal bearing of Hugh Capet.
Lothaire stared in stunned stupefaction, mouth agape.
The Dokkálfar cackled, harsh and dry. “My volva foresaw the prophecy. ‘The Son of the Dragon will shield the cape and defend the future crown.’” He snickered with snide delight.
“When you march on Noyon, he will shield the wrong cape. While you, my king, slay the real Hugh Capet. And eliminate the threat to your West Frankish crown.”
Lothaire walked slowly around the impressive impostor, admiring the incredible likeness. He raised an inquisitive brow. “How will I know which is Zorvik?”
Zhúlgorr nodded sharply to the beastly blacksmith with the face of Hugh Capet.
With a slow blink, Zorvik’s eyes flared with molten fire, glowing fiercely against the deepening twilight.
“By the fire within,” Zhúlgorr hissed. “He can summon and retract it at will—so only you will see.”
Wiry black hair curling like smoke from the forge, Zhúlgorr grinned from ear to pointed ear. “You have seen Zorvik’s ability as a troll. But now, behold his power as a firegiant.”
At Zhúlgorr’s nod, the beast shifted back, smoke surging as Zorvik raised a clawed right hand. From the molten fire simmering beneath his scaled skin, he summoned a blazing sphere of flame.
He stepped out of the sweltering blacksmith shop, Zhúlgorr and Lothaire close behind.
With a mighty heave, Zorvik launched the fireball high above the riverfront harbor of Dorestad, trailing sparks across the starlit sky.
Far beyond the longboats and trade vessels docked at the port, the ball of flame crashed into the dark waters of the Rhine, sending a hiss of steam high into the cool air, like the molten steel of a quenched sword.
As Lothaire stood in awestruck silence, warning flared in Zhúlgorr’s sinister golden stare.
“But there is a price for this power, my king. While Zorvik hides behind human skin… his fire sleeps. He can only hurl flame as a beast. Should the frostdragon appear while Zorvik wears the face of Hugh Capet…you’ll have your false Count of Paris.
But not the fire to sear a dragon’s wings. ”
Lothaire swept his blue velvet cloak as he turned to face the Dokkálfar lord and formidable, fiery beast. “Once I slay Capet, I want Zorvik to shift back—and burn both enemy and dragon.” He adjusted the crown upon his regal brow, then signaled to the alert captain of his royal guards watching from the window, indicating his intent to depart.
“Send Zorvik along with the five dozen Dokkalfar to la Montagne Couronnée just before the vernal equinox. When we strike down the traitors who dare defy the Frankish king…”
He paused, letting his proclamation fall like an executioner’s axe.
“We shall show no mercy for Noyon.”