Njörd Ívarrsson had grown up in the fishing village of Bjørgvin on the western shore of Norway, the bastard son of an unknown father whose mother Hlíf had died when he was just a babe. His maternal grandfather Ívarr had taken care of him for six years, but just before the old man’s death, he’d sent his grandson to be fostered with the fisherman Kálf, who had taught Njörd not only his highly skilled trade, but also how to swim and sail the fjords, lakes, and rivers of Norway. And the frigid depths of the Nordic Seas.
As a young boy, Njörd had discovered that he possessed extraordinary, preternatural senses of sight, smell, and sound. He could hear fish swimming under the surface of the sea, glimpse a distant shore that others could not discern, or catch the elusive scent of hunted prey in a dense forest. Taller, stronger, and swifter than all the lads his age, Njörd had realized, once he’d begun training with weapons, that his strength and speed were unsurpassed, even by warriors considerably older than he.
The white wolf had first appeared when he was six winters old.
Njörd had been cleaning and gutting fish from the day’s catch in front of the hut where he lived with Kálf. He’d spotted the wolf at the edge of the forest and had assumed that the animal had been attracted by the scent of the salmon. When Njörd had looked up from his work and beheld the magnificent beast, he’d not experienced the slightest trace of fear, despite the massive size and menacingstance of the enormous carnivore. Instead, Njörd had sensed an immediate, innate bond. As if the wolf were part of him.
Or an otherworldly guardian, sent by the Norse gods to protect him.
Kálf, who had seen the white wolf as well, remarked that mayhap the god Odin had assumed lupine form to walk among mortals in Midgard. Or perhaps the white wolf was one of the legendaryVölsung—the demi-god descendants of the Allfather who could assume the shape of a wolf.
From that day on, the white wolf had always lived in the thick forest near Njörd.
When he was fourteen winters old, Njörd won the intense competition among the Viking warriors of Bjørgvin. Easily defeating all of his opponents with sword, axe, and spear, he’d astounded the jarl, who had been so impressed by the stellar performance of the young champion that he’d awarded Njörd a silver armband inscribed with Nordic runes. And had granted him the incredible opportunity to go raiding, trading, and exploring with the experienced Viking warriors of their local clan.
With Njörd’s superior size, strength, and speed, he’d become a truly exceptional swordsman and fearsome Viking raider, enriching his grateful jarl and generous king with silver, spices, silks, and swords. To reward Njörd’s astounding prowess and promising potential, King Harald Bluetooth had summoned him from Norway to Denmark.
To become the Jarl of the thriving Viking trade center in the Danish seaport of Ribe.
Throughout the years, as he’d approached manhood—even while aboard longships, sailing the Nordic seas—Njörd had always been intrinsically connected to the white wolf, who had remained in the forest near the cabin, awaiting his return.
He’d known immediately when the white wolf died.
The connection between them had been suddenly severed, like a cord cut with a knife.
Njörd had found the massive, furry white body in the dense forest where the wolf had always lived, stretched out upon a soft,earthy bed of leaves, grass, and moss. When he’d dug the grave to bury the beast, a deep, otherworldly voice had resonated in his mind.
Wear the skin of the sacred white wolf in battle, that he may protect you, even from the afterlife. Keep the two solid bones from his lower jaw, for they are the strongest, most powerful in his rugged lupine body. You will need them one day. For white wolf weapons to protect your future mate.
Njörd had carefully cleaned and cured the wolfskin, retaining the two large bones from the animal’s lower jaw. After burying the body—with a sacrificial offering of his own blood from a knife sliced across his palm—he had marked the grave with a large stone inscribed with the Nordic rune ofAnsuz, to symbolize the divine wisdom and communication of Odin. Njörd had subsequently sought the advice of Astrid, a Vikingvölvawhose practice ofseiðrmagic enabled her to foresee the future or perceive the past.
“Your fate… and your mate… the siren with sea goddess eyes…lie on distant shores, across the Nordic Seas.” Her ethereal voice had been haunting, her white face painted with black Nordic runes, her kohl-smeared eyes glassy and glazed, as she’d glimpsed visions from beyond the mortal realm. “You will discover the truth. And fulfill the prophecy. For you are destined to wield the Dwarven sword.”
Stunned by the startling revelation, the otherworldly order to wear the white wolfskin cloak, and the command to keep the lupine bones to protect his future mate, Njörd had obeyed the mystical voice and his majestic king, sailing from Norway to Denmark with a fleet of Viking warriors towards his foreseen future and fabled fate.
As the Danish jarl of Ribe, he’d led numerous raiding and trading expeditions, always clad in white wolfskin over his gleaming chain mail armor. Brandishing both Viking sword and bearded axe, he’d soon earned the fearsome nameWolf of the Nordic Seas,certain that he would meet his fated mate in the vibrant tradecenter of Ribe, or in one of theexotic seaports during his many voyages to the distant Baltic, Caspian, and Black Seas.
But when King Harald Bluetooth summoned him to fortify the Viking alliance between Norway, Denmark, and Normandy through an arranged marriage to Lady Elfi Thorfinnsdóttir, the Heiress of Étretat, Njörd knew that his fate—and his fated mate—awaited on the distant shores of Normandy.
On the alabaster coast of thePays de Caux.
The Land of the White Chalk Cliffs.
****
Njörd now sat at the large table in the Viking longhouse that Jarl Rikard had converted into a royal hall for his Danish chieftains and him, finishing thedagmálmorning meal of fish, barley bread, porridge, and fruit. He glanced around at the elaborately decorated wooden walls, where images from Norse legends and Nordic runes had been carved into the richly polished oak. Woven tapestries embroidered with rich colors and silken silver threads depicted epic tales and heroic deeds of the various Viking gods. Through the open door, the salty brine of the Narrow Sea wafted in on a soft summer wind.
He washed down a mouthful of lingonberries and oats with a hearty gulp of ale, reminiscing about last night’s welcoming feast. He smiled, remembering the epic battle of skaldic poets and the inimitableDrápa of Dag.Dancing deliciously around the bonfire with Elfi in his grateful, possessive arms.
His fated mate. His bewitching betrothed.Hissiren with the sea goddess eyes.
He’d known at once that she was the one. He’d sensed the irresistible lure of the sea in the depths of her blue green gaze. And the same instant, innate, immutable bond that had linked him to the sacred white wolf.
She wants me to train her. Teach her weaponry. Like her brother Dag always did before his death. So she can become a skilled shieldmaiden warrior. Like the legendary Lagertha of Nordic lore.
Njörd reached his arms overhead to stretch his back, shifting his focus from his fetching future bride to the daunting task of restoringle Château Blancand the Viking fortress of Étretat.
He, Jarl Rikard, Count Skårde, and Bjarke had divided the men yesterday as his Danish army had unloaded ships in the harbor and stored supplies in the castle. The four of them had distributed the workload which would begin in earnest today, assigning teams to harvest the autumn crops, rebuild homes in the village, construct new longhouses and huts near the castle, and repair the damaged defensive wall around the city of Étretat.
