Chapter 46 #2
“Hold the line!” Njord bellowed, his booming voice carrying across the narrow channel as enemy vessels slammed against the chained longships, clinker planks groaning and cracking under the explosive impact.
Screeching oars and the hiss of ropes filled the air as grappling hooks caught rails, pulling snekkja alongside Drakkúlfr, Hrafnvarg, and Skollrokr.
Armored Rus raiders and deadly Dokkálfar leapt onto the decks, shields clanging, axes biting wood and bone, while the scent of salt, blood, and the acrid smoke of flaming arrows and burning pitch choked the salty air.
As Njord sliced through the charging Dokkáfar with his Dwarven sword, úlfsongr sang—a low, resonant rumble like the growl of a wolf.
When the gleaming blade bit into their dark reptilian skin, a crackling hiss arose, sharp as ice splintering on a frozen lake.
The eerie creak became a brittle snap as black scales turned to grey stone, light searing through the sealing fissures like molten silver and white-hot flame.
Aboard Dragonfire, Hjálmarr buried his bearded axe in the skull of a Rus raider, then impaled a Dokkálfar with the Ljósálfar dagger gifted him by áryndor.
úlf wielded sword and axe to repel Rus raiders swarming Hrafnvarg’s rails.
Njord saw him take a garish slice across the face by a Dokkálfar blade.
His grey wolfskin cloak splattered with blood, the enormous úlfhéeinn roared with rage, impaling his attacker with the same deadly dagger that had once belonged to áki.
The Dokkálfar blade that had nearly claimed the great grey wolf’s life, which Lugh had cleansed in álfheim and infused with Ljósálfar light.
Creaking and hissing as skin turned to stone, the Dokkálfar petrified into a statue, which úlf kicked off his ship into the swirling storm of the Seine.
Long, luminous fingers glowing with brilliant ethereal light, Olvir quickly healed úlf’s wound, the hideous gash and Dokkálfar darkness disappearing under his Ljósálfar touch.
Chain mail brynja glinting in the morning sun, Tryggvi fended off Frankish soldiers and Rus raiders clawing to board Vindbjorn.
When dozens of Dokkálfar swarmed the deck of the Danish drakkar, áryndor raised his gildir starstone, petrifying them with the blinding brilliance of the midday sun.
Swirls of smoke coiled from their writhing bodies, slithering like snakes as obsidian scales hardened, hideous faces contorting into eternal grimaces of pain.
Tryggvi and his Danish warriors heaved the lifeless statues overboard, the heavy thuds splashing as they vanished beneath the waves, swallowed by the blood-streaked sea.
Chaos and carnage engulfed the line of nine chained ships.
Shields splintered, oars snapped, and the air rang with the clash of iron and the roar of men locked in deadly, desperate combat.
Njord saw warriors he’d fought beside for ten winters cut down around him—valiant men who had sailed with him from the rugged Nordic coasts down the Volga River to the Caspian Sea.
Fearsome Danes who had followed him from Ribe to étretat, bound by brotherhood and battle-song— now lost before his grieving eyes.
On Haldor’s ship, the old sword master Bjarni defended Freyja’s Falcon against a rush of Rus raiders, buying his Blóesmier crew precious time before he fell beneath their ruthless blades.
Aboard Skjold’s new ship Hrímdreki, the helmsman was struck down as he angled the hull to absorb the impact of a ramming snekkja prow.
The chained ships groaned under the strain, the force splintering planks and hurling men to the damaged deck.
Even critically wounded, Durk fought on, his right arm slick with blood, his axe rising and falling in the hailstorm of arrows, spears, and swords.
Throughout the endless day of clanging steel, shrieks of agony, and the relentless deluge of arrows and crossbow bolts, Njord and his Viking crews valiantly held the line.
Muscles screaming, bodies bruised and bleeding, every wave slammed their chained ships like a blacksmith’s hammer on glowing iron.
Finally, night fell.
The brackish wind carried the stench of blood, entrails, and burning pitch across the darkened sea.
The wooden decks were slick with seawater, vomit, and gore, the wounded groaning softly where they lay against splintered planks and hulls.
Men moved like wraiths—bleeding, bone-weary, their arms shaking from the incessant swing of sword or axe.
Shields were shattered. Quivers were nearly empty.
Every shift of the tide strained the chains which joined Njord’s nine ships.
Yet still they held, vessels and men alike groaning under the unyielding pressure, Viking valor the final barrier between river and ruin.
In the gloom of the rising moon, the enemy ships drew back, torches bobbing like hungry, predatory eyes as they pulled away to regroup and rally. The reprieve was brief and brittle, the calm only sharpening the dread.
For they would attack again at first light.
With another merciless storm.
* * * *
Elfi moaned as endless waves of pain gripped her belly like iron bands twisted around her womb.
She lay amidst the pile of furs on her bed, no longer able to stand or walk, her limbs shaking violently with the intensity of pain.
For two interminable days, she had drifted in and out of darkness, growing steadily weaker, now convinced that she was destined to die in childbirth like her moeir Dúva.
In the throes of agony, a trio of female voices floated to her from far away.
“Freyja, grant your courage to la Louve Blanche, the Shieldmaiden of Chateau Blanc.” The rhythmic thump of úlvhild’s moonstone staff accompanied her melodic chant.
“Frigg, guide her child safely into this world.” Vivi’s sweet, young voice was a gentle whisper in Elfi’s ears.
Liquid cooled Elfi’s burning skin as Ylva wiped her brow and bathed her trembling limbs. “Rán, may this water from the Narrow Sea infuse her sjóvaettir spirit with your divine strength.”
Through the narrow slits of her weary eyes, Elfi glimpsed the last golden rays of the setting sun stream into the vast chamber.
She deeply inhaled the salty wind which carried the tang of the sea through the open windows.
The sweet scent of beeswax from shimmering candles mingled with the pungent aroma of herbs.
úlvhild pressed a steaming mug to Elfi’s lips. “Drink,” she urged, her voice calm but insistent. “Valerian root, to help you sleep,” she whispered, mopping Elfi’s hot brow. “And blue cohosh, to open your womb.”
The bitter brew slid down Elfi’s throat, warm and heavy. Her eyelids drooped as the ragged edge of awareness dimmed.
“Sleep now, She-Wolf of the Sea,” Ylva whispered, her priestess hands caressing Elfi’s skin in soothing circles. “Let the herbs open the way, and the tide carry forth your child.”
Elfi’s head swam, the world narrowing to the soft thrum of the moonstone staff against the pinewood floor, the distant, melodic chant invoking protective goddesses, and the steady lull of the pounding surf against the chalky cliffs.
Through the herb-induced haze, the radiant light of three ethereal goddesses brushed her blurred vision, lifting her beyond the brutal edge of anguish.
Though the clamping clawed at her, a calm seeped through her limbs, and the tide of exhaustion pulled her under the relentless sea of pain.
* * * *
Dawn broke over the Seine like a bruised sky, the pale light glinting off blood-slicked planks and the jagged remnants of shattered shields.
The brackish breeze carried the acrid scent of smoke, salt, and iron, curling around the chained line of nine Viking longships as they strained against the tide.
Every deck was a battlefield of splintered wood, overturned barrels, and the groaning of the wounded mingled with the rasping cough of smoke from smoldering pitch.
Njord stood on the deck of Drakkúlfr, white wolfskin cloak soaked with seawater and splattered with blood, lupine eyes narrowing against the glare of the rising sun.
Across the narrow channel, the snekkja and Frankish warships bobbed in the current, unable to strike all at once—a tactical advantage which had allowed Njord’s fleet to hold the enemy at bay.
But if a single snekkja pierced their line and sank one of their ships, the chain would snap, and the enemy would surge through like a flooding river overflowing its banks.
The first wave slammed into them.
A sleek snekkja rammed Drakkúlfr’s side, jolting the ship with a shriek of twisted iron.
Njord lurched but kept his grip on úlfsongr.
Sparks flew as his Dwarven blade sang its Wolfsong, meeting the honed, bloodied edge of a bearded Rus axe.
The thunderous clash of steel rang out across the Narrow Sea, reverberating in shocks up his sword arm.
Danish warriors grappled the narrow walkways between the chained ships.
Njord pivoted, sweeping the blade in a low arc, knocking two Rus attackers off the deck and into the Seine, their cries of agony swallowed by the churning, bloodied river.
A hiss of arrows sang and thwacked as the missiles struck shields and pierced armor, tearing through the shrieks of wounded men and the cracking of wood as crossbow bolts found their marks.
On the deck of Skollrokr, chained to Njotd’s ship, Hrólf Redbeard battled two Dokkálfar, an axe in his right hand and the Ljósálfar dagger—gifted by áryndor—in his left.
He impaled one with the enchanted knife, turning the Dark Elf to stone, but the second attacker sliced Hrólf’s cheek from eye to chin with a sinister blade etched with serpentine scrolls.