Chapter 47
Fire and Ice
Haldor rode with Skadi and Skjold in the center of Jarl Rikard’s column, flanking Hugh Capet and the council of clergy and nobles, as the army of five hundred followed the old Roman road from Paris to Noyon.
For six interminable days, they rode through intermittent squalls and biting wind, the winding road slick with melted snow and incessant rain.
Each evening, they raised tents and spread bedrolls, the army encircling Hugh Capet, the three archbishops, eight bishops, and twenty Frankish and Norman nobles who would soon elect the new king.
As twilight fell, the army slowed and drew together, forming a protective ring of warriors, tents, and wagons around Capet and the electoral council.
Wind hissed through the trees, snapping banners and scattering the sizzling smoke of a hundred low fires.
Warriors had stacked weapons and shields, tethering and tending the horses.
With the slow drizzle and thick mist hanging heavy in the forest, the scents of wet leather, horse dung, roasting meat, and pine smoke clung to every breath.
As battle commander and leader of their army, Jarl Rikard’s tent was much larger than the others.
Its dark green canvas was tautly stretched over stout wooden poles, his ducal crimson banner with its duo of golden lions rampant flapping from the high central peak.
A small stone brazier burned in the center, acrid smoke curling in gray wisps through an opening at the apex, casting flickering shadows across maps and parchments sprawled on the rough-hewn table.
Weapons and shields leaned against the canvas walls, gleaming in the incandescent glow of oil lamps and firelight.
At the duke’s war council table, Haldor sat alongside Jarl Rikard, Hugh Capet, Skjold, Skadi, Luna and Njáll, forming the inner circle of command.
Across from them, grouped together at the opposite side of the table were Geoffroy, the Count of Anjou, Guillaume, the Duke of Aquitaine, and Adalbero, the Archbishop of Reims who would crown the new king.
The rhythmic thump of horses’ hooves, the splash of puddles, and muffled shouts announced the arrival of Thorfinn’s scouts.
The canvas flap of Jarl Rikard’s command tent snapped open, and a pair of mud-slicked riders tumbled inside, rainwater dripping from their cloaks and boots as they bowed before the duke.
“Three banners, my lord,” Eydric panted, bracing himself against the wet canvas.
“Audric of Amiens holds the western ridge with two hundred men. Vermandois— the Count who replaced Alberic of Soissons—waits south of the castle with two hundred more. And Gauzlin, Count of Reims, commands another two hundred in the eastern woods.”
The second scout, Runar, tugged back his dripping hood, holding it in one gloved hand, as he shook the rain from his cloak before kneeling.
“Dokkálfar swarm the forest, Jarl Rikard,” he gasped, struggling to catch his breath.
“I counted at least fifty, with most lurking in the dense forest to the west. But their beady golden eyes glowed like serpents in the eastern woods as well.”
Murmurs of discontent and unease passed among the nobles. Archbishop Adalbero traced the sign of the cross, and the Duke of Aquitaine hissed into his mug of mead.
Jarl Rikard turned to Geoffroy of Anjou.
“Lothaire will strike from the north. He’ll lead his royal army down the hill from la Montagne Couronnée.
I shall meet him head on with the vanguard.
You and your men—engage Amiens to the west. Prevent him from flanking our column.
” He tugged on his blond braided beard, his shrewd gaze darting between Njáll and Lugh.
“Fifty Dokkálfar hidden in the woods. Anjou will need úlfhéenar and Ljosálfar to fight them.”
Dread deepened Lugh’s low voice. “Our gildir starstones cannot reflect sunlight in the shadowed woods. We would rely on weapons only, and the odds weigh heavily against us. Better to draw them out, where we can turn them to stone.” His verdant eyes gleamed at Skadi.
“And our frostdragon can petrify them with flames of ice.”
Rikard took a long pull of mead and swiped his bristled lips with the back of his hand before speaking to Njáll. “You, Bodo, and Flóki—go west with Anjou. Shift into wolves and drive the Dokkálfar from the woods.”
The duke’s commanding gaze fixed on Lugh. “Take two dozen Ljósálfar and wait at the western edge of the forest. Turn them to stone as they emerge.” He grinned at Skadi. “And you, dear Skadi—take to the skies and reduce the rest to ash.”
Rikard turned to the towering blond Duke of Aquitaine. “Guillaume, you and the rear guard will strike Vermandois from the south—ensure he cannot rise from behind to seize Capet, the clergy, or the council. Defend our rear flank at all costs.”
Haldor studied the map spread across the table and pointed to the dense woods east of Lothaire’s castle.
“Sk?rde lies hidden in the forest here. He has two dozen Ljósálfar, but as Lugh said, their gildir starstones cannot reflect sunlight in the dark woods. When Gauzlin moves, Sk?rde will strike—but he’ll need the wolves and Skadi, just like Anjou. ”
The amber eyes of the fierce black wolf over Njáll’s furrowed brow glowed with an eerie golden light. “Once we drive them from the western woods, Bodo, Flóki and I—in wolf form—will herd the Dokkálfar right into Skadi’s path.”
Skjold’s bearskin cloak glistened in the firelight, the blue dragon coiled around his neck seething as if alive.
“Lord Capet, when the conflict begins, I will defend you, the bishops, and the council members inside a wall of flame with my Dwarven shield.” He gestured to the glowing weapon strapped across his back.
The etched runes along the rim shimmered with silver ice, the Hrímsúl gem at its heart pulsing with pale blue frost and deep violet flame.
As Capet and the Archbishop Adalbero nodded in agreement, úlvhild’s voice floated to Haldor through the seierfjáer mark which bound their souls.
“Elfi’s babe has been born. Mother and child are both well.
Njord and Tryggvi triumphed in Paris against four Frankish ships and eight snekkja bearing Rus raiders and Dokkálfar.
They will defend l’ íle de la Cité until you and Jarl Rikard return with the newly crowned king.
I love you, my Falcon. May Freyja lead you to victory in Noyon. ”
Haldor gazed across the table at Hugh Capet, remembering how the Count of Paris had once helped him and Sk?rde free young Sweyn, imprisoned by Lothaire in the north tower of le Palais Royal twenty winters past. Now, Haldor would help Capet dethrone Lothaire and be crowned the new king who would reside in that very same Royal Palace of Paris.
He grinned at the irony and shared úlvhild’s triumphant tidings with Capet.
“Njord and Tryggvi defended Paris against Frankish ships and snekkja commanded by Rus raiders and Dokkálfar. They will hold l’ íle de la Cité until you return as king. ”
Capet’s exuberant grin matched Haldor’s.
“Then Paris still stands—and so do we. My thanks, old friend. When the crown is mine, you shall drink first from the king’s chalice.
” He inclined his head to the men and two women gathered around Jarl Rikard’s war council table.
“I shall retire now, and dine in my own tent. We ride at first light. May God grant us victory on the morrow. Good night, and God bless.”
The future king and the archbishop who would soon crown him—should they prevail in the imminent battle—arose from the table, as did the Count of Anjou and the Duke of Aquitaine.
Guillaume of Aquitaine clasped Jarl Rikard’s forearms. “Good night, Duke Richard. May victory be ours come dawn.” He nodded to the others and departed with his guards.
Geoffroy of Anjou and Archbishop Adalbero followed in his wake, leaving the great tent quiet, save for the crackle of flames in the brazier and the soft murmur of rain on the canvas.
“We’ll retire as well, Jarl Rikard.” Skjold rose, helping Skadi to her feet. Their tent stood between Jarl Rikard’s and Hugh Capet’s, so that Skjold, the prophesied Son of the Dragon, could defend the future crown. The couple inclined their heads in quiet acknowledgement and slipped away.
Njáll and Luna rose next, bidding Rikard and Haldor goodnight before retiring to their small tent nearby.
When everyone had left, Rikard’s attendants set shallow wooden bowls of oat porridge and plates of cold salted boar on the table before him and Haldor, alongside a dense loaf of barley bread and a small wheel of cheese.
They refilled mugs of ale, the dark liquid sloshing in the two cups, setting the pitcher down before exiting the tent.
The dull roar of rain on the canvas dimmed as the salty scent of pork mingled with the tang of goat cheese and the appetizing aroma of barley. Haldor lifted his wooden mug of ale and took a long pull, the welcoming fire warming his belly.
Rikard’s eyes glimmered in the flickering light as he raised his own mug. “To Tyr and Freyja. May they guide our blades and shield the just.”
Haldor clinked his mug lightly against the duke’s. “To victory—and to Hugh Capet, our future king.”
They ate in companionable silence, exhausted from the long day in the saddle and the strain of the upcoming battle.
After draining his mug, Rikard stretched his shoulders, while a squire entered the tent and helped him out of his armor.
The duke reclined on his bearskin with a groan of contentment.
“Odin’s eye, it feels good to be rid of that heavy armor after all day on horseback.
” He pulled the fur over his shoulder and settled down to rest. “Sleep well, old friend. May Odin grant us victory tomorrow.”