Chapter 43 #2
He gently lifted her chin with a curved finger. “Jarl Rikard has offered us land in Veules-les-Roses,” he whispered, kissing her lips softly. “Midway between étretat and Dieppe. Close to all we call kin.”
Like the melody of lyres and lutes floating in the festive air, úlvhild’s heart soared as she finished her delicate fish and sipped her sweet honeyed mead.
Ylva’s voice drew her quickly back to the table. “With war looming, I would like to craft amulets of protection for my two sons, as you and I did years ago, when we created the emerald talisman for Sk?rde.”
úlvhild nodded, pensive. “And I would like to craft one for Haldor of golden amber—Freyja’s sacred stone.
” She glanced at the Dwarven wedding rings which Dvalinn had gifted to Haldor.
Freyja’s Eyes, crafted from the same amber as the legendary Brisingamen necklace.
The perfect stone to protect her Falcon.
She smiled at him and squeezed his beloved hand.
Sif, seated beside Bodo, leaned forward to speak to úlvhild and Ylva. “Though I have no magic of my own, I would ask for your help in creating one for Bodo.”
úlvhild nodded and thoughtfully sipped her mead. “We’ll meet at my cottage tomorrow morning. I have gems, herbs, silver bezels, and tools. My volva’s hearth and moonstone staff will both burn bright.”
Ylva’s brow furrowed in concern, her expression becoming solemn.
“Our men will need protective talismans,” she whispered, her voice trembling.
“I had a recent vision… I saw Haldor’s birds plummeting like spears from the skies—and a hideous troll with reptilian scales and veins of liquid fire.
” Face pale with fright, her seeress eyes darted to Skadi.
“He was hurling balls of flame at a silver frostdragon soaring overhead…” Ylva reached across the table and grasped the hand of her son’s new wife.
“I shall craft a talisman for you, too.”
Elfi spoke across the table to Skjold. “Trolls can assume any form,” she warned, her shieldmaiden gaze sharp as a blade.
“The one I slew in ísland had taken the form of Njord’s wolf—to lure me into a trap and prevent him from fulfilling the prophecy.
” She unfastened the trollkors talisman from behind her neck and placed the iron amulet into Skjold’s broad palm.
“Wear this into battle. If the Frankish king sent ships bearing Dokkálfar and a troll to ísland, he might well try to thwart you in Noyon.”
Skjold traced the runes etched along the edges, running fingertips over the trio of deep blue gems whose golden threads glittered in the firelight.
“Lapis lazuli… my spirit stone as a noaidi,” he murmured in awe, his incredulous gaze fixing on Elfi.
“Surely this is a gift from the Norns.” He lifted his long blond hair for Skadi to tie the black leather cord behind his neck.
Tucking it beneath his deep blue woolen tunic, he let his braided locks fall over his broad shoulders, gratitude and destiny ablaze in his warrior gaze.
They returned to their plates heaped with fresh fish, while servants refilled goblets and horns with golden mead.
The scent of juniper in the flickering hearth reminded úlvhild of Haldor’s tender nurturing in the Dragon’s Leap cave.
When nostalgic tears filled her eyes, she quickly hid them by sipping her honeyed brew.
Haldor washed down a mouthful of haddock with a gulp from his horn, wiping his dark moustache with the back of a scarred hand. He asked Njord, “Did your moeir return to the íslyra castle?”
“Já,” Njord replied with a grin. “I escorted her home to ólafsvik through the waterfall cave portal. While there, I ordered the crew of my ship—the one I took to Denmark to speak with Sweyn—to return in time to sail to Paris. They arrived this week.” He took a long pull of mead.
“I have three longships ready to meet Tryggvi at Le Havre, on the mouth of the Seine. He commands the three drakkar sent by Sweyn.”
“Freyja’s Falcon will sail with you to Paris. My Blóesmier crew are adept at sea warfare.” Haldor lifted his horn and nodded to Njord.
Skjold grinned at Haldor. “Hjálmarr thirsts for vengeance against the Dokkálfar who cost him his ship.” His fierce blue eyes fixed on Njord.
“Dragonfire will sail with your fleet, as will my new vessel, Hrímdreki, which uncle Sweyn bequeathed to Skadi and me as a wedding gift.” He raised his wife’s pale hand to his blond bearded lips and bestowed a gallant kiss.
“That makes nine ships for you to sail to Paris—the sacred number nine. Surely the Norns will weave the threads of our fates with victory,” Skjold raised his horn high.
“Or Valhalla.” Haldor’s deep voice sent a ripple of dread down úlvhild’s spine.
“To victory or Valhalla! Skál!” Njord raised his horn, and they all drank in tribute.
As servants cleared away the platters, and the music took a lively turn, Haldor rose from the table. “Enough talk of battle,” he grunted, grasping úlvhild’s hand and helping her to a stand. “Come, wife,” he growled with a feral grin. “I want to hold you in my arms… and dance beneath the stars.”