Chapter 47 #2
Haldor removed the leather cuirass of his falcon armor, recalling úlvhild’s loving hands helping him into it the day he had ridden to Rouen to meet Rikard.
His heart clenched at the thought of her—carrying his child—so far away in étretat.
As he arranged his bedroll on the floor of the tent and laid down amongst the furs, tantalizing images of her beautiful face and luscious body floated before him.
“I love you, úlvhild,” he told her through the soulbound rune.
“Now and forevermore. In this life and the next.” He nestled into the furs, the warmth of the meal and ale easing his aching limbs, and drifted off to sleep, úlvhild’s face lingering in his mind like a soft, comforting flame.
* * * *
The brazier flickered inside their tent, the warm light making Skadi’s skin shimmer like starlight on snow as Skjold sank deep inside her.
She wrapped long arms around his back, strong legs around his waist, pulling him into her delicious depths.
He pounded her soft flesh, the tension mounting, until he plunged in and gave her his seed, waves of pleasure crashing over them both, carrying them away in the tide.
After a few moments, he lay beside her and cradled her in his loving arms.
She traced delicate fingertips across his tattoos, nuzzling the dark blond hair across his chest. Reaching across their pile of furs, she grasped the trollkors talisman he had removed before making love.
“You must wear this,” she said, rising onto her knees and leaning over him, motioning for him to lift his head so she could tie it behind his neck.
“úlvhild saw a troll in her vision of the battle…” Skadi’s voice quavered, her lip trembling as she fastened the black leather cord.
“But Elfi said this would burn hot in its presence, so at least you’ll know when it is near.
” She buried her face on his chest, muffling a soft sob.
When she lifted her head, tears streaked her luminous cheeks.
“I fear the dawn. I cannot bear the thought of you falling in battle…”
“I will not fall,” he promised, pulling her close and lifting her left hand.
Inside her palm, the fjorún which bound them together—the droplet of frostfire flame—glowed with blue and violet fire.
Skjold held up his own left palm, where his identical mark burned as brightly as hers.
“We shall prevail together, with this magic we share through our souls.” He gestured to the Dwarven shield laying at his side, its runes and Hrímsúl gem glimmering in the firelight.
“I am the prophesied Son of the Dragon, destined to shield the future king. I cannot fail.” He held her, softly stroking her silvery blond hair.
He kissed the top of her beloved head. “And with you at my side, I will not fail. We shall triumph together.”
They nestled into the furs, and Skjold’s limbs twitched as he started to drift off to sleep.
But the trollkors felt suddenly warm against his skin, yanking him awake.
He leapt out of the bedroll, quickly donned his breeches and boots, pulling his padded gambeson and brynja over his head.
As he fastened his bearskin cloak at his neck, Skadi sat up, eyes wide with fright.
“What is wrong? Where are you going?” Her voice was a frantic whisper.
“To wake Njáll, Bodo, and Floki,” he said, strapping his sword at his waist and grabbing his ísfir shield.
“The trollkors is warm. Dokkálfar spies are in the camp.” He handed her his dagger—the one Haldor had given him in the Dragon’s Leap cave.
“Use this to defend yourself. If they come into the tent, burn them with frostfire.”
Skjold lifted their canvas flap and slipped out into the soft rain and silver moonlight. The camp lay quiet, armed guards stationed near Jarl Rikard’s and Capet’s pavilions, others posted near the bishops’ and counts’ tents. All appeared normal, but the trollkors burned warm against his chest.
He crouched by Njáll and Luna’s tent, whispering through the canvas. “Njáll—Dokkálfar in the camp. Come quickly!”
The flap rustled, and Njáll emerged, turning to Luna. “Stay inside. Guard yourself with this. It’s a Ljjósálfar dagger.”
With a flash of light, fur, and fangs, an enormous black wolf with golden eyes stood where Njáll had been moments before. Hackles raised, muscles coiled, feral eyes gleaming, his nostrils flared as he raised his long snout and sniffed the pine scented, damp air.
Njáll is their tracker. He’s catching their scent.
Skjold dashed to Bodo and Flóki’s tent, rustling the flap and slipping inside. “Dokkálfar in the camp!” he hissed as the two úlfhéenar leapt to their feet, grasped their weapons, instantly alert and ready to fight. “Njáll is picking up their trail. Move!”
Amidst guttural growls and the snap of claws and teeth, two snarling brown wolves appeared—one with a rear limp, the other with flecks of grey and white in his chestnut fur. Without a glance at Skjold, they tore into the night, following Njáll’s lead.
Since Skjold was not one of the úlfhéenar and was therefore unfamiliar with hunting and fighting alongside the pack, he remained outside with the guards, hovering between his tent and Njáll’s, guarding both Skadi and Luna.
Heart pounding, adrenaline surging in his veins, he jumped at the sudden roar of vicious snarls, shrieks, and snapping bones—then eerie silence.
A few moments later, the trio of wolves appeared, with the severed limbs and heads of two Dokkálfar, which they carried in their bloodied maws and flung into the fire.
As the bodies burned, thick, noxious smoke swirled like serpents into the black sky, a fetid stench fouling the night air.
When the three úlfhéenar shifted back into human form, Njáll fetched a waterskin, swished out his mouth, and spat into the fire.
“Dokkálfar taste like death. Enough to make a wolf gag.” He passed the pouch to his lupine brothers, who rinsed their mouths and spat as well.
Njáll glanced at Skjold, his feral eyes gleaming. “Trollkors cold again?”
Skjold nodded. “Glad it woke me up.” He grinned at the trio of wolves. “And glad you three were in the camp.” He turned toward the tent he shared with Skadi. “See you at dawn. May the gods favor us tomorrow.”
Njáll, Bodo, and Flóki ducked their bearded chins and headed off to their respective tents.
Inhaling deeply to calm his jagged nerves. Skjold slipped back into his tent to reassure Skadi.
She threw her arms around his neck, showering his face with frantic kisses. “Thank all the gods you’re safe!”
He held her close, his hands gentle, his voice calm. “The úlfhéenar killed two Dokkálfar spies. The trollkors is cold again, so all is well.” Removing his bearskin cloak, boots, breeches, and brynja, he lead her back to their pile of furs. “Come. Let’s try to sleep. Dawn will be here soon.”
Inside the furs, she curled against him, and soon, sleep found them both.
* * * *
Dawn broke beneath a steely grey sky thick with clouds, but the rain had finally ceased.
After a quick dagmál of barley porridge and salted pork, the men packed up tents, loaded the wagons, doused the fires, and saddled the horses.
Jarl Rikard led the vanguard of armored warriors and Norman knights, while Skjold, Skadi, and Haldor flanked Hugh Capet, the clergy, and the electoral council, as they rode onward to Noyon.
A shrill horn blast split the cold morning air, searing the bleak sky from the heights of la Montagne Couronnée.
Atop the forested ridge where the imposing fortress loomed, King Lothaire and his son Louis the Fifth reined their warhorses before the armored Frankish army, the royal blue banner emblazoned with three golden fleur-de-lys snapping in the biting wind.
Spurring his majestic warhorse—its engraved steel chamfron and blue caparison glinting in the grey morning gloom—King Lothaire raised his blade high, the dim light shining along its sharpened edge as he bellowed the command to charge. “The crown is mine! Cut down the traitor and his Viking dogs!”
Swords drawn, lances leveled, two hundred armored warriors thundered down the grassy slope with a deafening roar, war cries echoing across the valley below.
Chaos and carnage erupted as arrows rained from the skies.
“Anjou—to the west!” Rikard bellowed, as Audric of Amiens’ Frankish army burst from the tree line in a torrent of steel.
Sinister blades and golden serpentine eyes flashing with fire, dozens of Dokkálfar descended upon the Count of Anjou’s frantic knights, their hissing snarls blending with the shrieks of fallen men.
The dense cloud cover blocked the sun, rendering the gildir gems useless against the Dokkálfar.
Lugh, Ildris, and a dozen Ljósálfar sent by Queen íssla leapt into the fray, dragonscale armor shimmering in the soft light, Light Elven swords glinting slightly in the gloom.
As Ljósálfar steel pierced reptilian flesh, the screeching, snapping beasts turned to stone.
While Jarl Rikard and Thorfinn held Lothaire’s northern assault with the Norman vanguard, swords clashed, axes splintered shields, and lances pierced armor with jolting thuds.
Amidst the roar of combat and the whinny of terrified horses, the duke wheeled his mount and bellowed to Skjold, gesturing fiercely toward the east, where Sk?rde and his Viking army from Chateaufort surged from the dense woods. “Base of the mountain! Shield Capet!”