Alberic settled into the carved wooden chair and accepted the goblet of ale from the diligent apprentice who had returned. He ordered Gozo and Engilram to wait outside the curtained door while Gúldur dismissed his own assistant. Now that the two of them were alone and could speak privately, Alberic explained the purpose of his visit. “My king is most grateful to you for crafting theDökkálfarspearwith which I slew Dag Thorfinsson. He also wishes to express his appreciation for sending the troll Narglok as a Frankish spy. The disguise as a Varangian warrior is perfect.” Alberic sipped his ale and eyed the ominousDökkálfarover the rim of his goblet, a shudder of revulsion slithering down his spine as he withdrew the strange silver coin from the pouch at his waist and placed it on the table before Gúldur. “King Lothaire of West Francia has sent me to claim the debt owed to him by the bearer of this coin.”
Gúldur picked up the silver piece and examined it before placing it inside the leather pouch belted at his own hip. He nodded once, his penetrating stare piercing Alberic with sinister reptilian eyes.
“I must seize the castle ofChâteau Blancand establish a Frankish colony in thePays de Caux—the Viking heart of Normandy. Twice before, I attacked Étretat and failed to capture the fortress. I am here today to request your otherworldly aid in finding a subtle, infallible way to infiltrate and conquer the castle. I cannot fail again.”
Gúldur rose from the table, strode to the curtained door, and spoke to the apprentice before returning to Alberic’s side. Donning a dark cloak which hung from a hook on the wall, he said to Alberic, “Follow me. There is someone you must meet.”
The apprentice parted the heavy black drapes to allow Gúldur and the Count of Soissons to exit the workshop. His two Frankish guards close behind, Alberic followed the Dark Elven blacksmith—meticulously shaded from the sun by his hooded cloak—out of the smithy and into a separate wooden building with thatched roof behind the blacksmith shop.
“Have your men wait outside.” Gúldur’s commanding tone brooked no argument.
Alberic nodded to his two guards, who positioned themselves on either side of the oaken entrance door as their lord followed theDökkálfarblacksmith into the darkened abode.
The ordinary exterior of the simple hut belied the lavish, sumptuously decorated interior where silken tapestries—embellished with glittering gems and glistening silver threads—adorned the elaborately decorated wooden walls. In a corner of the expansive room, beside an impressive display of handcrafted jewelry and ornate trinkets for sale, a large ebony sculpture of the Nordic Goddess Hel stood in magnificent wooden splendor.
Atop her head, a spiked crown of interwoven thorny vines and sacrificial animal bones was embellished with glistening onyx jewels and inscribed with glowing, pulsating runes. At the crest of the crown, an enormous faceted black obsidian gemstone emitted eerie shadows and reflected incandescent light. Like the goddess herself, half of the statue’s face and body were exquisitely beautiful and lovingly carved with delicate features, long cascading tresses, and elegant, flowing gown. One slender hand was bejeweled with silver filigree rings, glittering bracelets, and gleaming gems. The other half of the sculpture depicted decay and death with skeletal fingers, sunken cheekbone, and hideously exposed skull. At the base of the statue, a dazzling collection of vividly colored jewels sparkled amidst fragments of bone stained with blood, the gruesome remains of sacrifices made to the deity of darkness whom theDökkálfarserved. Exotic incense burned, emitting the sweet, cloying aroma of myrrh.
From behind a wall of black fabric embroidered in silver, a short, dark-haired male with wiry black hair, wrinkled skin, and alarmingly reptilian yellow eyes approached the red silk display where Alberic waited with Guldur.
“Allow me to present Zhúlgorr, the highly skilledDökkálfarcraftsman who now runsSapphire Sands Silver,the jewelry shop which formerly belonged to my late brother Nithrak.” Gúldur introduced the golden eyed, serpentine silversmith to Alberic. “And this is the Count of Soissons, sworn vassal of the Frankish king.”
As Alberic shook the icy, proffered hand, an ominous chill shivered up his shaking limb.
Zhúlgorr eyed the silver coin engraved with shadowy scrolls and arcane runes which Gúldur had retrieved from his pouch and now held in hisleathery palm. “It appears King Lothaire of West Francia wishes to redeem the royal debt.” TheDökkálfar’sraspy voice and unearthly grin were repulsive and unnerving. “Svá skal vera.So be it.” Golden eyes with the vertical slits of a viper assessed Alberic with an unsettling, hypnotic stare. “How may I be of service to the Frankish Count of Soissons?”
Alberic swallowed the bitter bile rising in his gorge. “I have been ordered to establish a Frankish colony in the Viking heart of Normandy. I am here to request the aid of theDökkálfarin infiltrating and capturingle Château Blancfor my generous but impatient king.”
Zhúlgorr’s serpentine stare transfixed Alberic as he digested this information like a python swallowing its prey. He strode across the shop, retrieved a wooden sign with the wordSlettenpainted in dark blue, and hung it on the exterior of the entrance door, indicating that the shop was closed. “To ensure that we are not disturbed,” he hissed as he bolted the heavy door from the inside with a snide grin.. Returning to the display counter, he led Alberic and Gúldur behind the black velvet curtain, past his silversmith workshop strewn with benches, tools, gemstones, and shelves loaded with jewelry, and up a hidden wooden stairwell whose metal handrails were carved with sinister scrolls and ominous runes.
At the top of the stairs, a foyer opened onto an obscure living area devoid of light, with a dim hallway leading to two bedrooms on the left and an apparent workshop or studio to the right.
“Come, I’ll introduce you to Myrkkha. She is amalva—a Vikingvölvawho delves into the dark side ofseiðrmagic.” Zhúlgorr knocked on the black wooden door elaborately carved with swirling thorny vines and Nordic runes.
A strikingly beautiful woman with long red hair, pale ashen skin, and startling crimson eyes opened the door and smiled cryptically at Zhúlgorr. Beneath the high cheekbones of her polished angular face, black tattoos with intricate knotwork graced her slender neck and draped her shoulders, shimmering like shadows in the dim light. A black obsidian amulet—with the image of the Goddess Hel carved into the glimmering stone—hung between her voluptuous breasts, temptingly displayed by the deep, alluring cut of her amethyst colored gown. Long, graceful sleeves, like the wings of a swan, fluttered to the floor as she swept her arm to invite Zhúlgorr, Alberic, and Gúldur into her enchanted abode.
Inside the macabre domain, flickering candles in metal sconces on the walls and tables cast eerie shadows on the wooden shelves cluttered with glittering crystals, glowing stones, malevolent charms, glass elixirs, animal skulls, and fragments of bones. A black iron cauldron simmered over a crackling fire in a stone hearth along the right wall. Embroidered tapestries in shades of deep purple and black, interwoven with shimmery threads of silver and sparkling gems, depicted ancient deities and mythical creatures from Hel’s underground realm. In a back corner, a tall wooden chair with intricate carvings of Nordic runes stood near a stone table covered with vials of strange liquids, metal tools, talismans, and scrolls. The heady aroma of drying herbs, suspended from metal hooks in the wooden ceiling, mingled with the sweet smoke of frankincense and the exotic scent of myrrh.
“Myrkkha, I’d like you to meet the Frankish Count of Soissons.” Zhúlgorr closed and bolted the heavy door behind him. “He presented Gúldur’s silver coin in the Sapphire Chalice Tavern.”
Alberic had the unnerving sensation of being lured into a lair, like an insect impossibly ensnared in a spider web. He repressed the fleeting, impulsive urge to flee and instead kissed themalva’stattooed, bejeweled hand. On her long finger, a bloodstone ring etched with blackened runes pulsed with preternatural power. “I am honored to meet you, Lady Myrkkha.”
“How may I serve you, Zhúlgorr?” Myrkkha’s crimson eyes glowed as she scrutinized Alberic like a black widow poised to strike.
“The Count needs our assistance to seize theChâteau Blancin the White Chalk Cliffs of Normandy. Perhaps throughseiðrmagic, you canforesee how to infiltrate the castle.” Zhúlgorr flashed a garish grin at Alberic, his repulsive teeth as yellow as his reptilian eyes.
“Of course. It will be my pleasure.” Myrkkha took a handful of seeds from a pouch belted at her waist and tossed them into the fire. As they snapped and popped in the flickering flames, a thick, woodsy smoke wafted into the gloom.
Themalvaretrieved an ornate silver chalice embellished with glistening gems and shadowy swirls from the wooden shelf and ladled some liquid from her cauldron into the goblet. She added three spoonfuls of herbs and a trio of droplets from an opaque vial into the chalice, stirred it, and drank the contents in one long gulp.
A tall wooden staff leaned against a wall near the hearth. Gnarled, twisted, and blackened, it was carved with glowing, pulsating runes and topped with the sharp-beaked skull of a raven, whose beady eyes of glittering black crystals glowed with otherworldly light.
Thumping her ebony staff rhythmically on the elk skin covered floor, Myrkkha chanted an eerie invocation, her grating voice like the guttural caw of a carrion crow. When she settled into the tall wooden chair, her head lolled to the side and her crimson eyes rolled back as she emitted a series of sharp, shrill shrieks, like the piercing cry of a keening hawk.
After a stilled silence, her raspy whisper floated from far away. “The great white wolf was aVölsungdescendant of Odin. Killed by theDökkálfarVarok in the Battle of the Faroe Islands.” Myrkkha swooned in her carved wooden chair, her throaty voice raw, hoarse, and haunting. “The brown wolf with the maimed foot knows the location of the Dwarven sword.And the hidden stairwell which leads into the castle. From a secret cave near the sacred grove.”Themalvaslumped forward in her chair, as if asleep, then bolted upright, instantly awake. A malevolent grin spread across her exquisitely disturbing face. “The troll Narglok is the key.”
She slid off her chair and slithered up to Zhúlgorr. “I’ll need a man’s ring. And an amulet pendant. Each set with a dark gem.”
Zhúlgorr’s golden eyes glowed like otherworldly orbs in the firelight. “I have several already crafted. In bloodstone or black onyx. Which do you prefer?”
