Chapter 46 #4
“Of course. Lean on me. I will not let you fall.” úlvhild wrapped one of Elfi’s arms around her neck, supporting her shoulder as Ylva did the same. When Vilde opened the heavy door, the two women guided Elfi down the winding stairs.
Vivi followed close behind, the silver bowl with the afterbirth cradled in her arms.
When they emerged at the base of la Tour d’ écume, the brilliant sun lingered on the horizon just over the water. Waves broke against the chalky cliffs, spraying them with foam, as Elfi’s midwives led her across the pebbled shore. There, at the very edge of the tide, she sank to her knees.
Placing both hands into the cold, frothy brine, she sang from the depths of her mermaid soul.
As her melodic voice rose over the sunlit waves, the healing magic of mir glir—the Ljósálfar Song of the Sea, wedding gift from Njord’s mother, Queen íssla—poured forth, a radiant blue light spilling from her, flowing westward like a swift current to Njord.
She touched the necklace at the base of her throat and continued to sing, her sjósongr magic—gifted by Rán—pouring into the brilliant turquoise stream.
When her fingers traced the lapis lazuli center stone in the lowest tier, her song changed to a Ránlokkur chant, invoking her grandmother goddess.
úlvhild placed the silver basin beside her, the afterbirth within gleaming like a crimson moon.
Elfi lifted it in trembling hands, her fingers slick with salt and blood, as she lowered it into the waves.
“Amma,” she implored, her voice quavering with desperation, “take what once bound my babe to me…and with its life, give Njord breath.”
As if Rán had heard her prayer and accepted the sacred offering, the afterbirth drifted outward on the tide, waves and sea foam whirling as it slipped beneath the surface and vanished into the deep.
“I must summon the Gallizenae with le Chant des Sirènes.” Once again, Elfi placed her hands into the waves, sending her sjóvaettir spirit into the sea. “Mélusines, heed my call. Send the sea dragons to sink the enemy ships at the mouth of the Seine, upon the Narrow Sea. Save my husband Njord...”
Exhausted, her limbs shaking and her mouth parched, Elfi turned to úlvhild and Ylva at her side. “Please… help me rise. I have no strength left. Take me back up the stairs to my babe. I long to hold my daughter…”
* * * *
Njord struggled to stay afloat and remain awake, fighting against the current, his saturated cloak and heavy chain mail dragging him down into the Narrow Sea.
The Dokkálfar blade had struck deep, and darkness clawed at his mind, venomous shadows stealing his strength.
Gurgling, he felt the icy waves pressing in, the world narrowing to the cold, relentless pull of the tide.
From the east—la Tour d’ écume—a glowing stream of radiant blue light flowed toward him, swirling around him in a luminous, loving caress.
Warmth seeped into his chilled bones as Elfi’s spirit merged with his, her Ljósálfar light dispelling the Dokkálfar darkness and sealing the gash across his wounded belly.
Turquoise light flowed into his lupine body, filling his lungs and limbs with life.
Elfi… his She-Wolf of the Sea had sung her Wolfsong—the mir glir gifted by his moeir íssla.
The Ljósálfar Song of the Sea that cleansed, healed, and restored.
He glanced down at his bare hands, amazed to see that they glowed from within, like sunlight sparkling on the sea.
A mammoth shape crashed through the waves beside him.
Ulf, his wolf brother, had plunged into the surf.
He’d shed his grey wolfskin cloak and chain mail armor, swimming now toward Njord, his teeth bared and eyes frantic to save him. Ulf’s hands closed around him, firm and unyielding, hauling him upward through the swirling tide.
Ahead, his ship Drakkúlfr loomed, its gunwale cutting against the foam. Strong, eager hands of his crew reached down, hauling him onto the deck. They lifted úlf next, and Njord clung to him, shaking, spluttering, half-drowned.
úlf barked with incredulous laughter. “You glowed! A blue light flowed from the sea, right into you. That’s how I saw you, Njord…I swam to you, and pulled you free.”
Njord coughed, wheezed, and gasped, Elfi’s turquoise light still pulsing through his veins and throbbing in the turquoise talisman above his heart. He shivered, freezing and wet—yet desperately glad to be alive.
But around them, the brutal battle still raged.
The drakkar pitched beneath the blows of Rus raiders, Dokkálfar claws clamped over the rails, and the shouts of Frankish warriors carrying across the Narrow Sea.
úlf gripped his forearms and shouted into his ear.
“I must get back to my ship—I need my wolfskin, my armor!” Teeth bared in a feral snarl, he roared, “The blood of the wolf flows in us, Njord. May Odin lead us to triumph!”
Drakkúlfr heaved, an enormous wave surging onto the deck, as Rus raiders rammed Njord’s ship, splintering planks and sending his men sprawling. Grappling hooks gripped the gunwale, and Dokkálfar leapt onto the ship, curved claws and deadly blades flashing.
Njord seized his faeir’s Dwarven sword from the bloodied deck. As he lunged and sliced, úlfsongr sang its Wolfsong of death.
Hrolf Redbeard’s resounding bellow rang above the din like a war horn.
“Sea dragons!”
As the golden light of the setting sun dipped below the horizon, enormous dark shapes appeared beneath the turbulent sea, each massive beast twice the length and width of the snekkjas lurking at the mouth of the Seine.
Njord’s lupine heart surged at the stirring sight.
Elfi had summoned the Mélusines.
Powerful spiked tails slammed into enemy hulls, hurling shrieking warriors into the raging surf.
Monstrous reptilian heads with pointed horns and sharp fangs ripped apart the drowning men.
Mammoth scaled bodies with mace-like barbs splintered the snekkja and Frankish cogs, swirling in spirals, dragging the dozen enemy ships down into the maelstrom of treacherous depths.
Njord’s chest heaved, his lupine senses still thrumming with the lingering pulse of Elfi’s mir glir.
Waves sloshed against the hulls of the nine chained drakkar, salty spray stinging his face.
Though the enemy ships had been sunk by the Mélusines, the decks were far from secure.
Desperate, deadly, and dangerous, armed Dokkálfar, Frankish warriors, and Rus raiders still fought atop the drakkar.
Njord bellowed like a bear. “Clear the decks!”
úlf and Hrolf Redbeard shifted into wolves, a frenzied fury of fur, fangs, and claws, tearing the last of the Dokkálfar apart.
Stunned by sea dragons, sunken ships, and snarling wolves, the remaining Rus and Frankish warriors were struck down with brutal axes and bloodied swords.
When the last enemy fell, Ljósálfar healers cleansed Dokkálfar wounds with radiant light, tending injuries and broken bones with bandages and herbs.
From the depths of the Seine, the brackish waters swirled, and Njord glimpsed the midnight blue locks and shimmering scales of the sea goddess Rán. A radiant blue shimmer traced the river’s curves, stretching like living light across the estuary before Njord’s nine chained ships.
Elfi’s Wolfsong lingered in the deep, weaving a magical barrier to guard their fleet and the entrance to Paris until Jarl Rikard and Hugh Capet returned to l’ ?le de la Cité.
Small skiffs transported the wounded to shore, where priests, monks, and nuns could treat them alongside Ljósálfar healers in the hospital near the church. Other small ships carried the bodies of the dead for honorable burial and memorial tribute.
Tryggvi strode across the wooden planks adjoining their chained drakkar. He clapped a heavy hand on Njord’s shoulder, the sodden white wolfskin cloak dripping onto the splintered deck. “The Seine is ours.”
Njord nodded, gazing toward the blue glow curling amidst the waves. “Já,” he said quietly. “We’ll hold it. Mend our ships, tend our wounded, and keep watch over Paris—until Jarl Rikard returns... with our newly crowned king.”