For they would attack again at first light.
With another merciless storm.
* * * *
Elfi moaned as endless waves of pain gripped her belly like iron bands twisted around her womb. She lay amidst the pile of furs on her bed, no longer able to stand or walk, her limbs shaking violently with the intensity of pain. For two interminable days, she had drifted in and out of darkness, growing steadily weaker, now convinced that she was destined to die in childbirth like hermoðirDúva.
In the throes of agony, a trio of female voices floated to her from far away.
“Freyja, grant your courage tola Louve Blanche, the Shieldmaiden ofChâteau Blanc.” The rhythmic thump of Úlvhild’s moonstone staff accompanied her melodic chant.
“Frigg, guide her child safely into this world.” Vivi’s sweet, young voice was a gentle whisper in Elfi’s ears.
Liquid cooled Elfi’s burning skin as Ylva wiped her brow and bathed her trembling limbs. “Rán, may this water from the Narrow Sea infuse hersjóvættirspirit with your divine strength.”
Through the narrow slits of her weary eyes, Elfi glimpsed the last golden rays of the setting sun stream into the vast chamber. She deeply inhaled the salty wind which carried the tang of the sea through the open windows. The sweet scent of beeswax from shimmering candles mingled with the pungent aroma of herbs.
Úlvhild pressed a steaming mug to Elfi’s lips. “Drink,” she urged, her voice calm but insistent. “Valerian root, to help you sleep,” she whispered, mopping Elfi’s hot brow. “And blue cohosh, to open your womb.”
The bitter brew slid down Elfi’s throat, warm and heavy. Her eyelids drooped as the ragged edge of awareness dimmed.
“Sleep now,She-Wolf of the Sea,” Ylva whispered, her priestess hands caressing Elfi’s skin in soothing circles. “Let the herbs open the way, and the tide carry forth your child.”
Elfi’s head swam, the world narrowing to the soft thrum of the moonstone staff against the pinewood floor, the distant, melodic chant invoking protective goddesses, and the steady lull of the pounding surf against the chalky cliffs. Through the herb-induced haze, the radiant light of three ethereal goddesses brushed her blurred vision, lifting her beyond the brutal edge of anguish. Though the clamping clawed at her, a calm seeped through her limbs, and the tide of exhaustion pulled her under the relentless sea of pain.
* * * *
Dawn broke over the Seine like a bruised sky, the pale light glinting off blood-slicked planks and the jagged remnants of shattered shields. The brackish breeze carried the acrid scent of smoke, salt, and iron, curling around the chained line of nine Viking longships as they strained against the tide. Every deck was a battlefield of splintered wood, overturned barrels, and the groaning of the wounded mingled withthe rasping cough of smoke from smoldering pitch.
Njörd stood on the deck ofDrakkúlfr,white wolfskin cloak soaked with seawater and splattered with blood, lupine eyes narrowing against the glare of the rising sun. Across the narrow channel, thesnekkjaand Frankish warships bobbed in the current, unable to strike all at once—a tactical advantage which had allowed Njörd’s fleet to hold the enemy at bay. But if a singlesnekkjapierced their line and sank one of their ships, the chain would snap, and the enemy would surge through like a flooding river overflowing its banks.
The first wave slammed into them.
A sleeksnekkjarammedDrakkúlfr’s side, jolting the ship with a shriek of twisted iron. Njörd lurched but kept his grip onÚlfsongr. Sparks flew as his Dwarven blade sang itsWolfsong, meeting the honed, bloodied edge of a bearded Rus axe. The thunderous clash of steel rang out across the Narrow Sea, reverberating in shocks up his sword arm.
Danish warriors grappled the narrow walkways between the chained ships. Njörd pivoted, sweeping the blade in a low arc, knocking two Rus attackers off the deck and into the Seine, their cries of agony swallowed by the churning, bloodied river. A hiss of arrows sang and thwacked as the missiles struck shields and pierced armor, tearing through the shrieks of wounded men and the cracking of wood as crossbow bolts found their marks.
On the deck ofSköllrökr,chained to Njötd’s ship, Hrólf Redbeard battled twoDökkálfar, an axe in his right hand and theLjósálfardagger—gifted by Áryndor—in his left. He impaled one with the enchanted knife, turning the Dark Elf to stone, but the second attacker sliced Hrólf’s cheek from eye to chin with a sinister blade etched with serpentine scrolls.
Dragonscalearmor gleaming in the sun, Áryndor petrified the secondDókkálfarwith thegildirstarstone in his silverbrooch, hurled the hideous statue into the sea, and bathed Hrólf in radiantLjósálfarlight. As Úlf’s wound had healed aboardHrafnvarg, the gruesome slash across Hrólf’s bearded face sealed without a trace.
Each of the nine ships had one Light Elf to cleanse deadlyDökkálfarwounds. But Njörd watched with horror as Thalen fell fromFreyja’s Falconand Lóvarr was slain on the deck ofHrímdreki.With each fallen ally, theDokkálfar’sadvantage grew, a grim reminder that withoutLjósálfarhealing magic, every untreated wound promised death.
A shout rose in warning, followed by a scream of terror on one of Tryggvi’s ships. A Rus raider had toppled a barrel of burning pitch, and flames spread like wildfire across the deck ofBjárnatönn. As flames licked at the splintered planks, a sailor hurled a bucket of water—but it hissed in a plume of scalding steam, splattering droplets of molten pitch high into the air. Men leapt back, howls of pain cutting through the roar of battle, until thick blankets smothered the flames in a cloud of choking smoke.
As darkness finally fell, and the second grueling day of battle came to a brutal close, the eightsnekkjaretreated back into formation with the four Frankish ships.
The roar of combat faded to a tense hush.
Huddled warriors gnawed on salted meat, flatbread, and dried fish, their hands quaking from exhaustion and adrenaline. Between bites,Ljósálfarhealers moved from deck to deck, cleansing cursedDökkálfarwounds with radiant light, while injuries inflicted by mortal men were treated with honey and yarrow to staunch bleeding. They bound splintered flesh in linen bandages and blessed the dead, whose bodies would be buried at sea, if the fighting continued, or ashore, should elusive victory become theirs.
The iron chains linking the ships rattled in the rocking waves, each ominous creak a reminder that the enemy would return with the dawn. Though fatigue weighed on his aching shoulders and shaking limbs, Njörd ate quickly and slept fitfully, for the next day would bring another merciless steel tide.
* * * *
Elfi heard the distant roar of a river, the clashing of swords and the shrieking of wounded men. Ships collided, warriors falling into thesea, asDökkálfarswarmed over the rail of Njörd’s ship. His white wolfskin cloak was drenched with blood as he parried blow after blow, lunging and striking withÚlfsongr, while Rus raiders and Dark Elves stormed the splintered deck.
She awoke with a start, heart pounding, distraught from the horrifying dream, the echo of battle fading into a terrible pressure between her legs. Swept away in an irresistible, uncontrollable wave of pushing, she released a long, guttural grunt.
