Skjöld’s bearskin cloak glistened in the firelight, the blue dragon coiled around his neck seething as if alive. “Lord Capet, when the conflict begins, I will defend you, the bishops, and the council members inside a wall of flame with my Dwarven shield.” He gestured to the glowing weapon strapped across his back. The etched runes along the rim shimmered with silver ice, theHrímsúlgem at its heart pulsing with pale blue frost and deep violet flame.
As Capet and the Archbishop Adalbero nodded in agreement, Úlvhild’s voice floated to Haldor through theseiðrfjáðrmark which bound their souls. “Elfi’s babe has been born. Mother and child are both well. Njörd and Tryggvi triumphed in Paris against four Frankish ships and eightsnekkjabearing Rus raiders andDökkálfar.They will defendl’ Íle de la Citéuntil you and Jarl Rikard return with the newly crowned king. I love you, my Falcon. May Freyja lead you to victory in Noyon.”
Haldor gazed across the table at Hugh Capet, remembering how the Count of Paris had once helped him and Skårde free young Sweyn, imprisoned by Lothaire in the north tower ofle Palais Royaltwenty winters past. Now, Haldor would help Capet dethrone Lothaire and be crowned the new king who would reside in that very same Royal Palace of Paris. He grinned at the irony and shared Úlvhild’s triumphant tidings with Capet. “Njörd and Tryggvi defended Paris against Frankish ships andsnekkjacommanded by Rus raiders andDökkálfar.They will holdl’ Íle de la Citéuntil you return as king.”
Capet’s exuberant grin matched Haldor’s. “Then Paris still stands—and so do we. My thanks, old friend. When the crown is mine, you shall drink first from the king’s chalice.” He inclined his head to the men and two women gathered around Jarl Rikard’s war council table. “I shall retire now, and dine in my own tent. We ride at first light. May God grant us victory on the morrow. Good night, and God bless.”
The future king and the archbishop who would soon crown him—should they prevail in the imminent battle—arose from the table, as did the Count of Anjou and the Duke of Aquitaine.
Guillaume of Aquitaine clasped Jarl Rikard’s forearms. “Good night, Duke Richard. May victory be ours come dawn.” He nodded to the others and departed with his guards. Geoffroy of Anjou and Archbishop Adalbero followed in his wake, leaving the great tent quiet, save for the crackle of flames in thebrazier and the soft murmur of rain on the canvas.
“We’ll retire as well, Jarl Rikard.” Skjöld rose, helping Skadi to her feet. Their tent stood between Jarl Rikard’s and Hugh Capet’s, so that Skjöld, the prophesiedSon of the Dragon,could defend the future crown. The couple inclined their heads in quiet acknowledgement and slipped away.
Njáll and Luna rose next, bidding Rikard and Haldor goodnight before retiring to their small tent nearby.
When everyone had left, Rikard’s attendants set shallow wooden bowls of oat porridge and plates of cold salted boar on the table before him and Haldor, alongside a dense loaf of barley bread and a small wheel of cheese. They refilled mugs of ale, the dark liquid sloshing in the two cups, setting the pitcher down before exiting the tent.
The dull roar of rain on the canvas dimmed as the salty scent of pork mingled with the tang of goat cheese and the appetizing aroma of barley. Haldor lifted his wooden mug of ale and took a long pull, the welcoming fire warming his belly.
Rikard’s eyes glimmered in the flickering light as he raised his own mug. “To Tyr and Freyja. May they guide our blades and shield the just.”
Haldor clinked his mug lightly against the duke’s. “To victory—and to Hugh Capet, our future king.”
They ate in companionable silence, exhausted from the long day in the saddle and the strain of the upcoming battle. After draining his mug, Rikard stretched his shoulders, while a squire entered the tent and helped him out of his armor. The duke reclined on his bearskin with a groan of contentment. “Odin’s eye, it feels good to be rid of that heavy armor after all day on horseback.” He pulled the fur over his shoulder and settled down to rest. “Sleep well, old friend. May Odin grant us victory tomorrow.”
Haldor removed the leather cuirass of his falcon armor, recalling Úlvhild’s loving hands helping him into it the day he had ridden to Rouen to meet Rikard. His heart clenched at the thought of her—carrying his child—so far away in Étretat. As he arranged his bedroll on the floor of the tent and laid downamongst the furs, tantalizing images of her beautiful face and luscious body floated before him. “I love you, Úlvhild,” he told her through thesoulboundrune. “Now and forevermore. In this life and the next.” He nestled into the furs, the warmth of the meal and ale easing his aching limbs, and drifted off to sleep, Úlvhild’s face lingering in his mind like a soft, comforting flame.
* * * *
The brazier flickered inside their tent, the warm light making Skadi’s skin shimmer like starlight on snow as Skjöld sank deep inside her. She wrapped long arms around his back, strong legs around his waist, pulling him into her delicious depths. He pounded her soft flesh, the tension mounting, until he plunged in and gave her his seed, waves of pleasure crashing over them both, carrying them away in the tide.
After a few moments, he lay beside her and cradled her in his loving arms.
She traced delicate fingertips across his tattoos, nuzzling the dark blond hair across his chest. Reaching across their pile of furs, she grasped thetrollkorstalisman he had removed before making love. “You must wear this,” she said, rising onto her knees and leaning over him, motioning for him to lift his head so she could tie it behind his neck. “Úlvhild saw a troll in her vision of the battle…” Skadi’s voice quavered, her lip trembling as she fastened the black leather cord. “But Elfi said this would burn hot in its presence, so at least you’ll know when it is near.” She buried her face on his chest, muffling a soft sob. When she lifted her head, tears streaked her luminous cheeks. “I fear the dawn. I cannot bear the thought of you falling in battle…”
“I will not fall,” he promised, pulling her close and lifting her left hand. Inside her palm, thefjörúnwhich bound them together—the droplet offrostfireflame—glowed with blue and violet fire. Skjöld held up his own left palm, where his identical mark burned as brightly as hers. “We shall prevail together, with this magic we share through our souls.” He gestured to the Dwarven shield laying at his side, its runes andHrímsúlgem glimmeringin the firelight. “I am the prophesiedSon of the Dragon, destined to shield the future king. I cannot fail.” He held her, softly stroking her silvery blond hair. He kissed the top of her beloved head. “And with you at my side, I will not fail. We shall triumph together.”
They nestled into the furs, and Skjöld’s limbs twitched as he started to drift off to sleep. But thetrollkorsfelt suddenly warm against his skin, yanking him awake. He leapt out of the bedroll, quickly donned his breeches and boots, pulling his padded gambeson andbrynjaover his head. As he fastened his bearskin cloak at his neck, Skadi sat up, eyes wide with fright.
“What is wrong? Where are you going?” Her voice was a frantic whisper.
“To wake Njáll, Bodo, and Flöki,” he said, strapping his sword at his waist and grabbing hisÍsfirshield. “Thetrollkorsis warm.Dökkálfarspies are in the camp.” He handed her his dagger—the one Haldor had given him in theDragon’s Leapcave. “Use this to defend yourself. If they come into the tent, burn them withfrostfire.”
Skjöld lifted their canvas flap and slipped out into the soft rain and silver moonlight. The camp lay quiet, armed guards stationed near Jarl Rikard’s and Capet’s pavilions, others posted near the bishops’ and counts’ tents. All appeared normal, but thetrollkorsburned warm against his chest.
He crouched by Njáll and Luna’s tent, whispering through the canvas. “Njáll—Dökkálfarin the camp. Come quickly!”
The flap rustled, and Njáll emerged, turning to Luna. “Stay inside. Guard yourself with this. It’s aLjjósálfardagger.”
With a flash of light, fur, and fangs, an enormous black wolf with golden eyes stood where Njáll had been moments before. Hackles raised, muscles coiled, feral eyes gleaming, his nostrils flared as he raised his long snout and sniffed the pine scented, damp air.
Njáll is their tracker. He’s catching their scent.
Skjöld dashed to Bodo and Flóki’s tent, rustling the flap and slipping inside. “Dökkálfarin the camp!” he hissed as the twoÚlfhéðnarleapt to their feet, grasped their weapons, instantly alert and readyto fight. “Njáll is picking up their trail. Move!”
Amidst guttural growls and the snap of claws and teeth, two snarling brown wolves appeared—one with a rear limp, the other with flecks of grey and white in his chestnut fur. Without a glance at Skjöld, they tore into the night, following Njáll’s lead.
Since Skjöld was not one of theÚlfhéðnarand was therefore unfamiliar with hunting and fighting alongside the pack, he remained outside with the guards, hovering between his tent and Njáll’s, guarding both Skadi and Luna.
