Chapter 47 #3
Skjold hollered to the terrified clergy and council members at his side.
“Leave the horses here—we go on foot. Follow me!” He dismounted and called to Haldor, Njáll, Bodo, and Flóki.
“Help me get them over there.” He pointed to the sheltered curve at the mountain’s base.
With Capet, the clergy, and council huddled close, Skjold raced across the churned, muddy grass with Skadi, Luna, Haldor, and the three úlfhéenar, He raised his Dwarven shield high, ready to form the protective ring of frostfire.
As the trio of wolf warriors grouped the council in a tight circle, Haldor shouted in Skjold’s ear. “I need to summon the birds. I’ll have a better vantage point up there.” He indicated a rocky ledge above their position. “Shield Capet. And send Skadi into the sky.”
With a swirl of pale blue light and a flash of violet fire, Skadi unfurled her magnificent wings, scales shimmering like frost on an icy fjord. She swept into the dark grey sky, a streak of brilliance against the gloom.
“Stay with Skjold.” Njáll’s deep voice was ragged and raw as he pulled Luna close.
He pressed a fervent kiss to her lips before turning to Skjold.
“Protect her for me.” Desperation blazed in his fierce, feral gaze.
“Bodo, Floki, and I are going for the Dokkálfar. May the gods grant us victory—or Valhalla!” With a nod to his two lupine brothers, Njáll shifted into a massive black wolf.
Close behind, two snarling brown wolves followed him into the chaotic din.
Skjold pressed his thumb against the Eldhrímr rune inside his Dwarven shield, unleashing a plume of frostfire flame and encircling the council, the clergy, Luna, and Capet.
As he completed the shield of fire, the talisman under his armor suddenly burned against his chest.
He remembered Elfi saying that trolls could assume any form, and that the trollkors would burn hot in the presence of one.
Her words of warning floated into his mind.
If the Frankish king sent a troll to ísland, to prevent Njord from fulfilling his prophecy, he might well try to thwart you in Noyon.
As his eyes frantically searched the council members huddled behind him, he realized with horror that he was shielding the wrong Hugh Capet.
For the real Capet—in his distinctive dark green cloak—was stranded near the terrified horses, with an equally terrified bishop.
And Lothaire, with four armored knights, was barreling toward the future king.
Skjold needed to get to the real Capet and bring him and the bishop into the protected circle. But in order to do so, he would have to retract the fire, leaving the council, clergy—and Luna—exposed to the troll and the carnage of battle.
And he needed to immediately halt Lothaire’s advance before it was too late.
Haldor had shifted into a falcon and flown up to the ledge.
Now in human form once again, the Falcon of the Faroe Islands raised his arms to the steely sky and released the piercing Falcon’s Cry.
Within moments, the sky turned black as hundreds of squawking, screeching birds plummeted from the skies like spears, gouging faces, eyes, and ears with curved claws and rapacious beaks.
Skjold hollered to him above the raucous din. “Haldor!” With his free arm, he frantically gestured to the charging king. “Lothaire!”
From his perch above the battlefield, Haldor turned toward the charging king.
With a flick of his hand, he directed a swarm of birds to swoop down onto Lothaire and his armored men.
As the besieged king desperately struggled to maintain control of his rearing warhorse while fighting off the attacking birds, Skjold retracted the shield of fire and raced across the blood-soaked field toward the real Hugh Capet. “Capet! With me!”
Luna’s desperate scream behind him made Skjold’s heart drop. By the gods, he’d left her unprotected. Had the troll killed her?
Darting a frantic glance back to the huddled group, he sagged with relief to see she was unharmed and still standing with the council. But her horrified gaze was locked on the western edge of the forest.
Where Njáll—in wolf form—lay soaked in blood, stricken by a Dokkálfar blade. He must have heard Luna’s cry and been distracted…and now, he’s critically wounded. As Skjold raced toward Hugh Capet and the bishop, he uttered a quick prayer for Njáll. “Allfather Odin, save your black wolf…”
Amidst the clashing of steel, shrieking of men, and screeching of birds, Skjold grasped Capet’s arm, motioning for him and the bishop to follow.
“This way! Quickly!” Leading the future king and the distraught priest across the field to the join the others, Skjold rushed them into the protective circle, quickly scanning the group and noting that the imposter had vanished.
From the Hrímsúl gem of his ísfir shield, Skjold projected a plume of frostfire flame around Capet, the council, and Luna, whose limbs shook as her anguished emerald eyes remained locked on her beloved, bloodied wolf.
As the crackling flames which encircled them licked the desolate sky, she grasped Skjold’s shoulder and screamed into his ear.
“Njáll has fallen— struck by a Dokkálfar blade! Skjold, let me through your shield. I must heal him. Skjold, please!”
Beyond the raging battle, at the edge of the forest, Njáll—in his black wolf form—dragged his blood-soaked body into the dense woods.
Skjold snapped his head to Luna. “Look—he’s crawling into the forest. Luna, your Ljósálfar gift will heal him!”
“Skógahjarta,” she whispered, clasping her hands together as if in prayer. “The heart of the Moonlit Forest in álfheim will cleanse him of Dokkálfar darkness… O Freyja, may the Ljósálfar magic heal him…”
As if to answer her plea, a snarling black wolf burst from the forest, fangs bared and claws curled.
He slammed into Dokkálfar, severing limbs with savage jaws.
Black gore dripping from his bloodied maw, he joined his wolf brothers and the Ljósálfar, in driving the Dark Elves into Skadi’s fiery path.
A bone-piercing screech tore through the sky as Skadi—wings unfurled like a Valkyrie—swooped over Lothaire’s royal army and the Dokkálfar, unleashing a deluge of ice blue flame.
Men and beasts screamed as they succumbed to frostfire, the ground scorched in a swathe of black as all were reduced to smoldering ash.
As she swirled in the air and swooped down for another run, a sudden fireball exploded against her massive hind leg, spraying sparks and a cascade of orange flame tumbling from the dark sky.
Bellowing in pain, Skadi circled back, wings whipping, and blasted another rank of Frankish troops with a wave of ice blue flame.
Dokkálfar snapped at the edges of Skjold’s shield of fire, desperate to break through and seize Capet. Keeping steady pressure on the Eldhrímr rune, Skjold struggled to maintain the intense stream of frostfire when he spotted a slithering shape emerge from the enemy ranks.
The troll.
An enormous beast—taller than warriors and warhorses alike—loomed at the base of the mountain, just beyond Skjold’s protective shield of fire.
Shadows slithered from the ridged scales and sinewy hide of its black reptilian body.
Long fangs curled from its jagged snout, and twisting horns rose from a misshapen skull.
Beneath a heavy brow, the golden eyes of a venomous viper glowed with predatory malice.
A massive tail trailed its thick hind legs, and veins of liquid fire pulsed beneath the blackened iron surface of his clawed, curved right arm.
Drawing molten embers from its fiery limb, the troll formed another fireball, just as Skadi circled for another sweeping pass.
Skjold’s gaze snapped to Haldor, but a volley of arrows forced him to shift into a falcon and take to the skies. Panic surged through Skj?ld as thoughts clashed like swords.
If he retracted the shield of flame to strike at the troll, the Dokkálfar would break through and slaughter Capet and the council. The entire battle would be lost, their lives all forfeit, sacrificed in vain.
But if he did not act now to stop the troll… it would fire a direct hit at Skadi.
And she would topple from the skies.
With a blur of brown fur and a bellowing roar, Yrjar—the Blóesmier who had hammered Skjold into a brutal warrior through eight relentless winters—tore a path through the chaos in full berserker rage.
As the troll hurled its fireball toward the descending frostdragon, Yrjar threw himself into its fiery, fatal path.
To save Skadi for Skjold.
Flames engulfed him.
Yrjar’s thick fur ignited like a funeral pyre as he bellowed in agony, collapsing in a blazing inferno that seared the blood-soaked ground.
Grief crushed Skjold, nearly driving him to his knees. His bearskin cloak—the link between him and Yrjar—flared with searing heat, then went suddenly cold. In that instant, the bond was severed, Yrjar’s fierce spirit torn from Midgard and taken to Valhalla’s flame-lit halls.
With dawning horror, Skjold saw the troll amass another fireball as Skadi seared the western flank of Amiens’ Frankish troops and arced around to make another swoop.
Spotting Haldor perched on a thick limb of a nearby tree, Skjold hollered from the depths of his rune-bound soul. “Haldor—the troll!”
Haldor shifted back into human form, the fiercely painted feathers and runes across his face glowing as if alive.
Falcon armor gleaming in the blaze, he wrenched ísfálkr from the harness across his back, the blue veins in its frosted wood pulsing like living waves.
In one swift, fluid motion, Haldor hurled his unerring Dwarven spear straight into the heart of the malevolent troll.