Chapter 46 #3
Dragonscale armor gleaming in the sun, áryndor petrified the second Dókkálfar with the gildir starstone in his silver brooch, hurled the hideous statue into the sea, and bathed Hrólf in radiant Ljósálfar light.
As úlf’s wound had healed aboard Hrafnvarg, the gruesome slash across Hrólf’s bearded face sealed without a trace.
Each of the nine ships had one Light Elf to cleanse deadly Dokkálfar wounds.
But Njord watched with horror as Thalen fell from Freyja’s Falcon and Lóvarr was slain on the deck of Hrímdreki.
With each fallen ally, the Dokkálfar’s advantage grew, a grim reminder that without Ljósálfar healing magic, every untreated wound promised death.
A shout rose in warning, followed by a scream of terror on one of Tryggvi’s ships.
A Rus raider had toppled a barrel of burning pitch, and flames spread like wildfire across the deck of Bjárnatonn.
As flames licked at the splintered planks, a sailor hurled a bucket of water—but it hissed in a plume of scalding steam, splattering droplets of molten pitch high into the air.
Men leapt back, howls of pain cutting through the roar of battle, until thick blankets smothered the flames in a cloud of choking smoke.
As darkness finally fell, and the second grueling day of battle came to a brutal close, the eight snekkja retreated back into formation with the four Frankish ships.
The roar of combat faded to a tense hush.
Huddled warriors gnawed on salted meat, flatbread, and dried fish, their hands quaking from exhaustion and adrenaline.
Between bites, Ljósálfar healers moved from deck to deck, cleansing cursed Dokkálfar wounds with radiant light, while injuries inflicted by mortal men were treated with honey and yarrow to staunch bleeding.
They bound splintered flesh in linen bandages and blessed the dead, whose bodies would be buried at sea, if the fighting continued, or ashore, should elusive victory become theirs.
The iron chains linking the ships rattled in the rocking waves, each ominous creak a reminder that the enemy would return with the dawn. Though fatigue weighed on his aching shoulders and shaking limbs, Njord ate quickly and slept fitfully, for the next day would bring another merciless steel tide.
* * * *
Elfi heard the distant roar of a river, the clashing of swords and the shrieking of wounded men.
Ships collided, warriors falling into the sea, as Dokkálfar swarmed over the rail of Njord’s ship.
His white wolfskin cloak was drenched with blood as he parried blow after blow, lunging and striking with úlfsongr, while Rus raiders and Dark Elves stormed the splintered deck.
She awoke with a start, heart pounding, distraught from the horrifying dream, the echo of battle fading into a terrible pressure between her legs. Swept away in an irresistible, uncontrollable wave of pushing, she released a long, guttural grunt.
“That’s it, Elfi,” said úlvhild, standing between her parted legs, where clean linens had been placed beneath her. “As the pain crests, bear down hard. Your daughter will soon be born.”
Elfi clenched her teeth when the next wave came, her cry mingling with the crash of the sea against the tower walls.
Ylva braced her back, murmuring encouragement, but the hours endlessly dragged on.
Her legs trembled, her strength waned, and still the babe did not come.
Sobbing with frustration, Elfi collapsed onto the bed, strands of her long hair plastered to her face with sweat.
“Rush down to the beach and fill this with sea water,” Ylva whispered to Vivi, handing her a silver flask. “Quickly—before the next wave of pain.”
The fire crackled and snapped as úlvhild tossed juniper berries into the hearth, the sharp pine scent mingling with the brine that drifted through the open windows.
Thumping her moonstone staff against the floor, the volva began to chant, Ylva joining her ephemeral voice to the rising rhythm of the tide.
When Vivi returned, breathless, Ylva bathed Elfi’s dry skin with the cool seawater.
“She has the sjóvaettir blood of a mermaid,” Ylva said softly to Vivi.
“The sea will restore her.” She soaked Elfi’s feverish brow, quivering arms, and trembling hands.
“Rán,” Ylva murmured, “through the curative waters of the sea, grant Elfi the strength to bring forth her child.”
A tremor rippled beneath the floor and up the limestone walls as a thunderous wave slammed against la Tour d’ écume. Sea foam sprayed high into the air, the glittering mist wafting into the sunlit room, hovering over Elfi like floating, ethereal fingers.
Elfi deeply inhaled the briny spray, her eyes brightening, her skin flushed with renewed vigor.
When the next surge of pain came, Ylva helped her sit up.
Elfi rolled forward with the wave, gripping her thighs, and howled—a long, low lament that echoed the cry of the sea itself—as the She-Wolf of the Sea finally gave birth.
* * * *
The pale grey sky of dawn was streaked with dark red like the blood-soaked Seine.
As the third day of conflict began, the relentless thunder of oars and the blare of war horns announced the deluge of attacking Rus.
Sleek snekkja surged forward through the morning mist, raven sails streaked with soot and ash, as Dokkálfar shadows leapt on the decks, flickering like flames of black fire.
The Vikings held fast, the nine chained drakkar straining against the incoming tide and the relentless assault of enemy ships.
Arrows hissed through the fog; steel clashed on shields slick with blood.
Njord fought like a berserker, white wolfskin cloak splattered with gore and drenched with salt spray, úlfsongr singing death in his skilled hands.
Through the din of battle, his lupine ears detected a distant sound.
Faint at first, increasing in intensity, until it thrummed in his spirit and reverberated in his bones. A long, lamenting howl, carried across the sea.
The Wolfsong of la Louve Blanche, She-Wolf of the Sea.
Elfi had given birth.
The chaos of battle dimmed. The clashing of blades faded to a distant murmur. Distracted by the haunting howl of his lupine mate, Njord reacted too slowly when a Dokkálfar lunged from the smoke, his malevolent blade etched with arcane runes that slithered like snakes.
Pain ripped through Njord’s side and across his belly, the shadowed steel biting deep through the chain mail brynja.
His grip on úlfsongr faltered; his knees buckled as the Dwarven sword fell upon the deck.
The explosive impact from the blow sent him crashing into the rail and over the gunwale, plummeting into the cold, black sea below.
The Seine swallowed him whole.
His sodden wolfskin cloak weighed him down. Chain mail clung to his weakened limbs, dragging him under the tumultuous waves. Blood poured from his gaping wound.
The raging battle above the sea’s surface blurred into shadow and foam. He kicked once, twice, lungs burning, but the weight pulled him deeper into the watery abyss.
As the light faded, Njord thought of Elfi— his siren with the sea goddess eyes.
Her long, light brown hair streaked with gold. The blue and green scales in her mermaid tail. Making love to her in the waterfall cave. The Miralir castle which awaited them in álfheim.
He thought of Brokk, killed in the Battle of Tórshavn twenty winters ago while defending Haldor Falk’s new stronghold in the Faroe Islands.
So this is how it ends. I will die like my faeir.. Slain by a Dokkálfar blade.
As Njord succumbed to the numbing darkness, he clutched the turquoise talisman, sending his spirit across the sea in a loving farewell to Elfi.
* * * *
Elfi lay trembling, her newborn daughter swaddled at her breast. Joy overflowed her mermaid heart as she gazed into Nyssara’s wide blue eyes and caressed her delicate skin.
The golden glow of the setting sun gilded the waves of the Narrow Sea and bathed Elfi’s chamber in warm, radiant light.
The tangy air still smelled of salt, birth, and blood, mingling with the spicy scent of juniper and herbs in the fragrant smoke of the hearth.
Outside, the wind whirled and whistled with the breath of life.
Then she heard his voice—faint as a whisper through the waves.
Njord.
His plea rose from the depths, broken and distant, carried on the tide that lapped against the stone walls of la Tour d’écume. Her heart seized. She could feel his pull—the drowning weight, the fading warmth—like a tide receding from her soul.
úlvhild had placed the afterbirth in a large silver bowl, its rim etched with Laguz runes, moons, and wavelike scrolls.
The vessel gleamed like a captured tide as the volva midwife veiled the sacred flesh with linen.
With her sacred dagger, Freyja’s Whisper, úlvhild cut the cord close to Nyssara’s tiny belly, tying it with a leather cord and swabbing it with pure honey.
“I must go down to the sea.” Elfi cried to úlvhild, her voice breaking on a choked sob. “You and Ylva must help me. Njord has fallen…”
With Ylva’s help, Elfi struggled to rise, placing her tightly swaddled daughter in Oda’s loving arms. “Keep her safe, amma”, she whispered. “If I should not return…” Elfi swallowed against the tight lump in her throat as she kissed her amma’s soft, crinkled cheek. “Raise her…as you did me.”
Her frantic eyes searched the bedside table. “My necklace…” she said to Vivi, who scrambled to fetch it for her. “Please fasten it behind my neck.” When Vivi quickly complied, Elfi added, “Please, bring the afterbirth. I will offer it to Rán.”
“Elfi, you are too weak.” Clutching the swaddled babe to her breast, Oda’s worried gaze darted from Elfi to úlvhild. “You have lost so much blood. You cannot descend the stairs.”
“I must get to the sea.” Elfi, leaning on Ylva, turned desperate eyes to her trusted midwife. “úlvhild, help me…”