Elfi had summoned theMélusines.
Powerful spiked tails slammed into enemy hulls, hurling shrieking warriors into the raging surf. Monstrous reptilian heads with pointed horns and sharp fangs ripped apart the drowning men. Mammoth scaled bodies with mace-like barbs splintered thesnekkjaand Frankish cogs, swirling in spirals, dragging the dozen enemy ships down into the maelstrom of treacherous depths.
Njörd’s chest heaved, his lupine senses still thrumming with the lingering pulse of Elfi’smir glir. Waves sloshed against the hulls of the nine chaineddrakkar, salty spray stinging his face. Though the enemy ships had been sunk by theMélusines, the decks were far from secure. Desperate, deadly, and dangerous, armedDökkálfar, Frankish warriors, and Rus raiders still fought atop thedrakkar.
Njörd bellowed like a bear. “Clear the decks!”
Úlf and Hrolf Redbeard shifted into wolves, a frenzied fury of fur, fangs, and claws, tearing the last of theDokkálfarapart.
Stunned by sea dragons, sunken ships, and snarling wolves, the remaining Rus and Frankish warriors were struck down with brutal axes and bloodied swords. When the last enemy fell,Ljósálfarhealers cleansedDökkálfarwounds with radiant light, tending injuries and broken bones with bandages and herbs.
From the depths of the Seine, the brackish waters swirled, and Njörd glimpsed the midnight blue locks and shimmering scales of the sea goddess Rán. A radiant blue shimmer traced the river’s curves, stretching like living light across the estuary before Njörd’s nine chained ships.
Elfi’sWolfsonglingered in the deep, weaving a magical barrier to guard their fleet and the entrance to Paris until Jarl Rikard and Hugh Capet returned tol’ Île de la Cité.
Small skiffs transported the wounded to shore, where priests, monks, and nuns could treat them alongsideLjósálfarhealers in the hospital near the church. Other small ships carried the bodies of the dead for honorable burial and memorial tribute.
Tryggvi strode across the wooden planks adjoining their chaineddrakkar. He clapped a heavy hand on Njörd’s shoulder, the sodden white wolfskin cloak dripping onto the splintered deck. “The Seine is ours.”
Njörd nodded, gazing toward the blue glow curling amidst the waves. “Já,” he said quietly. “We’ll hold it. Mend our ships, tend our wounded, and keep watch over Paris—until Jarl Rikard returns... with our newly crowned king.”
Chapter 47
Fire and Ice
Haldor rode with Skadi and Skjöld in the center of Jarl Rikard’s column, flanking Hugh Capet and the council of clergy and nobles, as the army of five hundred followed the old Roman road from Paris to Noyon.
For six interminable days, they rode through intermittent squalls and biting wind, the winding road slick with melted snow and incessant rain. Each evening, they raised tents and spread bedrolls, the army encircling Hugh Capet, the three archbishops, eight bishops, and twenty Frankish and Norman nobles who would soon elect the new king.
As twilight fell, the army slowed and drew together, forming a protective ring of warriors, tents, and wagons around Capet and the electoral council.
Wind hissed through the trees, snapping banners and scattering the sizzling smoke of a hundred low fires. Warriors had stacked weapons and shields, tethering and tending the horses. With the slow drizzle and thick mist hanging heavy in the forest, the scents of wet leather, horse dung, roasting meat, and pine smoke clung to every breath.
As battle commander and leader of their army, Jarl Rikard’s tent was much larger than the others. Its dark green canvas was tautly stretched over stout wooden poles, his ducal crimson banner with its duo of golden lions rampant flapping from the high central peak. A small stone brazier burned in the center, acrid smoke curling in gray wisps through an opening at the apex, casting flickering shadows across maps and parchments sprawled on the rough-hewn table. Weapons and shields leaned against the canvas walls, gleaming in the incandescent glow of oil lamps and firelight.
At the duke’s war council table, Haldor sat alongside Jarl Rikard, Hugh Capet, Skjöld, Skadi, Luna and Njáll, forming the inner circle of command. Across from them, grouped together at the opposite side of the table were Geoffroy, the Count of Anjou, Guillaume, the Duke of Aquitaine, and Adalbero, the Archbishop of Reims who would crown the new king.
The rhythmic thump of horses’ hooves, the splash of puddles, and muffled shouts announced the arrival of Thorfinn’s scouts. The canvas flap of Jarl Rikard’s command tent snapped open, and a pair of mud-slicked riders tumbled inside, rainwater dripping from their cloaks and boots as they bowed before the duke.
“Three banners, my lord,” Eydric panted, bracing himself against the wet canvas. “Audric of Amiens holds the western ridge with two hundred men. Vermandois— the Count who replaced Alberic of Soissons—waits south of the castle with two hundred more. And Gauzlin, Count of Reims, commands another two hundred in the eastern woods.”
The second scout, Runar, tugged back his dripping hood, holding it in one gloved hand, as he shook the rain from his cloak before kneeling. “Dökkálfarswarm the forest, Jarl Rikard,” he gasped, struggling to catch his breath. “I counted at least fifty, with most lurking in the dense forest to the west. But their beady golden eyes glowed like serpents in the eastern woods as well.”
Murmurs of discontent and unease passed among the nobles. Archbishop Adalbero traced the sign of the cross, and the Duke of Aquitaine hissed into his mug of mead.
Jarl Rikard turned to Geoffroy of Anjou. “Lothaire will strike from the north. He’ll lead his royal army down the hill fromla Montagne Couronnée. I shall meet him head on with the vanguard. You and your men—engage Amiens to the west. Prevent him from flanking our column.” He tugged on his blond braided beard, his shrewd gaze darting between Njáll and Lugh. “FiftyDökkálfarhidden in the woods. Anjouwill needÚlfhéðnarandLjösálfarto fight them.”
Dread deepened Lugh’s low voice. “Ourgildirstarstones cannot reflect sunlight in the shadowed woods. We would rely on weapons only, and the odds weigh heavily against us. Better to draw them out, where we can turn them to stone.” His verdant eyes gleamed at Skadi. “And ourfrostdragoncan petrify them with flames of ice.”
Rikard took a long pull of mead and swiped his bristled lips with the back of his hand before speaking to Njáll. “You, Bodo, and Flóki—go west with Anjou. Shift into wolves and drive theDökkálfarfrom the woods.”
The duke’s commanding gaze fixed on Lugh. “Take two dozenLjósálfarand wait at the western edge of the forest. Turn them to stone as they emerge.” He grinned at Skadi. “And you, dear Skadi—take to the skies and reduce the rest to ash.”
Rikard turned to the towering blond Duke of Aquitaine. “Guillaume, you and the rear guard will strike Vermandois from the south—ensure he cannot rise from behind to seize Capet, the clergy, or the council. Defend our rear flank at all costs.”
Haldor studied the map spread across the table and pointed to the dense woods east of Lothaire’s castle. “Skårde lies hidden in the forest here. He has two dozenLjósálfar,but as Lugh said, theirgildirstarstones cannot reflect sunlight in the dark woods. When Gauzlin moves, Skårde will strike—but he’ll need the wolves and Skadi, just like Anjou.”
The amber eyes of the fierce black wolf over Njáll’s furrowed brow glowed with an eerie golden light. “Once we drive them from the western woods, Bodo, Flóki and I—in wolf form—will herd theDökkálfarright into Skadi’s path.”
