The Mermaid of the Waterfall Cave.
Chapter 10
Trollkors Talisman
Njörd was glad thatSkårde the Scourge—the towering blond Viking brute who was the bastard son of King Harald Bluetooth of Denmark and Norway as well as the reigning Count of thePays de Caux—had come from his clifftop castle ofChâteaufortin nearby Dieppe to aid in fortifying Étretat. He, Jarl Rikard, and Bjarke had helped Njörd organize the men into rotating shifts so that workers rebuilding the castle wall, fortifying the village, and harvesting the multitude of crops still had time each day for vigorous training to keep their battle skills sharply honed. It was essential that the Danes and Normans functioned together as a cohesive whole, a formidable Viking army to defendle Château Blanc, thePays de Caux, and the entire dukedom of Normandy against the pervasive threat of Frankish forces and the relentless Count of Soissons.
Having just come from the bathhouse, where he’d steamed off the sweat, blood, and grime from his sparring session with Áki—one of the few warriors capable of enduring and sustaining his intensive level of combat— Njörd strode past soldiers training with swords and axes, hurling spears, and firing arrows at targets. He was pleased at their prowess and progress, for each group of warriors refined and improved the performance of the other.
As he headed toward his longhouse to fetch the white wolf bones he planned to bring into town, Njörd reflected upon the accomplishments they had made so far, with extensive repairs to the village andfortifications to the castle wall well under way.
The stone masons were implementing his design to addmashrabiyato the top of the battlements. Thesemurder holes,as his men called them, would protect castle archers and allow defenders ofle Château Blancto pour boiling water or burning oil onto incoming attackers through the open holes at their feet.
Sharpened spears now protruded from the moat, stores of quicklime were being produced and stocked, weapons and chain mail were being forged in the castle armory. With Odin’s blessing, work would be completed before Lord Thorfinn’s highly anticipated return and the planned celebration of the autumn festival ofHaustblót.
Njörd entered his longhouse, fetched the wolf bones from his locked chest, and tucked them, securely wrapped, into the leather scabbard which was belted at his waist. He’d decided to visit thevölvaÚlvhild as well as the castle armorer. Perhaps the Viking seeress could offer insight into the white wolf weapons needed to protect Elfi, for the mysterious voice in the forest near his foster father’s cabin had not explained what would be crafted or by whom.
He still had so many unanswered questions. Who had sent the white wolf? Whose voice had spoken to him in the Norwegian woods? Astrid—the Viking völvain Norway— had foreseen that Njörd was destined to wield a Dwarven sword. But for what purpose? And how could he find it with no idea where to search? As he exited the longhouse and headed into town, he fervently hoped that Úlvhild could provide the knowledge he so desperately sought.
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Along each side of the dirt road in the bustling village of Étretat, wooden huts with thatched roofs housed various merchants who resided with their families beside the shops where they conducted business. In the busy streets, gleeful children scampered with barking dogs, chickens clucked and pecked for insects, farmers fed oxen, pigs, and sheep, women sat in open doorways, weaving baskets and spinning wool. Amidst the din of boisterous activity, Njörd spotted the carved wooden sign withcrossed swords that indicated the castle armory. Resting his hand protectively over the wolf bones firmly encased within his scabbard, he wove his way through the animated throng.
A woodcutter with a wagon full of heavy lumber was unloading his cargo in front of a carpentry shop. Although his team of two horses was hitched to a post, a large dog in pursuit of a terrified cat darted in front of the grazing animals, causing the pair to rear up in fright. As the horses’ forelegs flailed, the neatly stacked wagon shifted precariously, and an enormous log rolled off the top of the pile.
Before the dislodged timber could fall upon the stooped merchant, Njörd sped forward, stopping the descent of the log and preventing the entire load from emptying onto the poor man’s bent back.
When the woodsman realized what had happened, he thanked Njörd profusely, calmed his startled horses, and—with Njörd’s help—finished unloading his wagon. “You spared me from serious injury, mayhap even saved my life. How can I ever repay you?” Recognition dawned in his grateful eyes. “You’re the new jarl from Denmark. The Wolf of the Nordic Seas.” The heavily bearded woodcutter grinned from ear to ear. “I’ll make you a fine new wooden shield. Painted with the savage face of a white wolf, just like the fur cloak you wear. I’ll have it ready next week. And deliver it to your longhouse myself.Farðu vel,Jarl Njörd.”
As Njörd shook the man’s hand and continued on his way. he spotted the blue painted face and wiry black hair of thevölvaÚlvhild, watching him from the partially opened doorway of her thatched-roof hut at the edge of the woods. In one of her gloved hands, she gripped an intricately carved wooden wand, decorated with runes, charms, symbols, and jewels. At the tip of the twisted shaft, a luminous moonstone gem—encased in intricately woven bronze filigree inlaid with silver—glowed with preternatural power. With a gesture of long, skeletal fingers, the Vikingvölvabeckoned him to enter her otherworldly abode.
Inside the enchanted hut, embroidered tapestries with shimmering silken threads adorned the elaborately carved wooden walls. Strands of beaded glass, exotic feathers, and oddly shaped trinkets dangled from timbers in the high, peaked ceiling. Along one wall, lidded jars, animal bones, and brightly colored stones lined the shelves beneath batches of fragrant, drying herbs suspended by metal hooks. The dim interior was illuminated by two flickering candles and shards of sunlight streaming through an open window near a stone enclosed hearth. An iron cauldron simmered over the flames, and the sweet, exotic smell of burning herbs and incense filled the bewitching air. From the midst of a luxurious pile of furs on a bed in the back corner of the large room, a black cat with golden eyes peered up at him through the thick, smoky haze.
Úlvhild led Njörd toward a wooden table, retrieving a pinch of herbs from the leather pouch at her waist, which she tossed into the fire. The snap and crackle of the popping seeds released a pungent aroma which she deeply inhaled as she hummed a melodic incantation.
Njörd settled down on the proffered seat to observe thevölvawith an unnerving, exhilarating blend of apprehension and awe.
A black lambskin cloak lined with white ermine fur draped her slender shoulders. Gold embroidery edged the long, flowing sleeves of her blood red dress. Strands of leather and silver chains embellished with glittering gems, engraved charms, and carved pieces of smooth bone tumbled from her neck down to her narrow waist. Whiskers— like those of a cat—stretched across the blue woad paint on her oval face, and black streaks marked her chin, extending down her long throat to the soft swell of her small breasts.
Úlvhild crept away from the fire and perched on the seat across from him, assessing Njörd with perceptive, piercing feline eyes. “Your speed and strength are extraordinary. Odin has blessed you with exceptional gifts. That is why I summoned you. Myseiðrmagic will permit me to foresee your future. Or revisit your past.”
Njörd shifted tensely on the bench, his senses stirred by the scintillating aura of magic which sizzled his skin and raised the hairs on his forearms and under the thick braid along the back of his neck.Perhaps her visions can explain the appearance of the white wolf…. the otherworldly voice in the forest…the weapons needed to protect Elfi.I’ll ask her to start with the past. Then proceed to the prophecy of the Dwarven sword.
Swallowing a lump of anxiety, he wiped damp palms along the sides of his breeches and exhaled to calm his racing heart.“When I was a boy in Norway,” he began, clearing his throat to summon his quavering voice, “a white wolf appeared in the forest near the cabin where I lived. From the moment I first saw him, I sensed an immediate, innate bond—as if he had been sent to protect me. Throughout my childhood, he was always there, watching me. When he died, a deep voice—which I heard inside my mind, not with my ears—told me to save these two bones. He said that I would need them one day to craft weapons which would protect my future mate.” Adrenaline surging in his veins, Njörd fetched the firmly wrapped parcel from the sheath at his waist and carefully unfurled the bones of the sacred white wolf on the table before Úlvhild.
Her amber eyes glowed like embers in the fire.
She deftly rose to her feet, crossed the room, and meticulously selected a jar from one of the wooden shelves. Thevölvaopened the lid, spooned some of the dried powder into a cup, and returned the vial to its proper place. With a large ladle, she scooped liquid from the cauldron and poured it into the mug. She stirred the mixture, sniffed the contents, and drank the mysterious brew.
Thumping her wooden staff rhythmically on the earthen floor, the Viking seeressswayed with the steady beat as she warbled a melodicvardlokkurchant of divination. Golden eyes glassy and glazed, she settled onto a high backed oaken chair in the corner of her room, glimpsing visions from another realm. Haunted and hollow, Úlvhild’svoice was an empty echo from the otherworld.
“Shadows shroud your mate… the man who hunts her has allied with the Dark Elves of theDökkálfar.And a malevolent, shapeshifting troll…”
Úlvhild slipped down from her perch, gripping the wooden chair for support. She resumed her melodic chant, thumping her staff on the floor as she ambled across the room and threw another pinch of herbs into the fire. The sweet, cloying scent of myrrh wafted into the smoke-filled air.
Returning to Njörd’s side, thevölvaceased her invocative chant and leaned her staff against the back of her chair. She removed her white catskin gloves, which she folded and lovingly laid upon the table. With nimble fingers, Úlvhildpicked up the wolf bones, analyzing their smooth texture in her thin, skeletal hands. She sniffed and licked them, staring into the fire with sightless, all-seeing eyes. “ALjósálfarLight Elf will craft the Elven weapons to protect your fated mate. He will come to you in the sacred grove where you practice the dance with swords.” Úlvhild swooned, swept up inseiðrmagic, as if transported on wings or wind. “The stonecutter with the maimed footwill teach you the ways of the white wolf. Find him, forBodo le Boîteuxhas the knowledge which you seek.”
The black cat—perhaps sensing that Úlvhild needed his comforting presence—jumped down from the bed, scampered across the floor, and rubbed his sleek body against thevölva’sunsteady legs. His loud purr was like a sonorous beacon, calling his mistress home.
