Spotting Haldor perched on a thick limb of a nearby tree, Skjöld hollered from the depths of his rune-bound soul. “Haldor—the troll!”
Haldor shifted back into human form, the fiercely painted feathers and runes across his face glowing as if alive. Falcon armor gleaming in the blaze, he wrenchedÍsfálkrfrom the harness across his back, the blue veins in its frosted wood pulsing like living waves. In one swift, fluid motion, Haldor hurled his unerring Dwarven spear straight into the heart of the malevolent troll.
An unearthly howl tore from the beast’s throat as its massive tail thrashed and thumped against the ground, the impact reverberating into Skjöld’s very bones. A sizzling hiss like searing metal rent the smoke-laden air, amid the creak and crackle of reptilian skin as the hideous creature hardened into frosted stone.
Ahead of him, on the eastern flank of the forest, Skårde—the formerDragon of Denmark—severed the vile heads of severalDökkálfarwith his legendaryLjósálfarsword.
As Lothaire’s son barreled toward the injured Count of Anjou, Haldor summoned a flock of ravens to dive like spears from the skies. When the terrified horse reared, flailing hooves to fend off the attacking birds. Louis the Fifth was thrown from the saddle, landing headfirst on the bloody ground, his neck obviously broken in the fatal fall.
Lothaire roared at the sight of his fallen son. Blood poured from a garish gash across his injured thigh, his golden crown long lost in the mire and mud. His once-glorious royal blue cape now hung in tattered shreds, and his sword arm shook as he rallied his remaining Frankish knights for one last, frenzied charge against Jarl Rikard’s vanguard.
A wicked gleam in his desperate eye, the reckless king surged forward, his loyal knights close behind, in a manictempest of wrath, despair, and fear. But Lothaire’s badly wounded leg betrayed him, and he toppled from his majestic warhorse, helplessly trampled beneath its thundering hooves.
As if theAllfatherOdin now blessed the valiant Vikings with victory, brilliant rays of golden sunshine broke through the dismal clouds. With blinding flashes of solar radiance, theLjósálfarturned the remainingDökkálfarto stone, the crackle and hiss of petrification echoing across the stunned, charred field.
To the south, the Count of Vermandois lay slain amidst dozens of fallen enemy knights.
Audric of Amiens had fallen to Geoffroy of Anjou, Jarl Rikard’s steadfast ally and staunch supporter of Hugh Capet.
Skårde had not only eliminated Lothaire’s Count Gauzlin in the east, but had also slainDökkálfar,struck down with his swordDuradrakk, gifted to him by Lugh.
The clash of steel and the screams of dying men faded as the smoke offrostfiredissipatedand blood thickened over the field. The fallen bodies of Lothaire, Louis the Fifth, and the three Frankish counts lay strewn across the churned mud, their banners trampled, their command broken. The surviving Frankish soldiers, scattered and shaken, stared at one another in disbelief, leaderless and uncertain.
Skjöld retracted his shield of fire as Skadi swooped to the ground, shifted back to female form, and sprinted to his side. He wrapped her in a relieved embrace, kissed her sweet lips, thanking all the gods that she was still alive.
“Thank you for shielding us. We would not have survived without you.” Hugh Capet grasped Skjöld’s forearms, profound gratitude shining in his triumphant gaze. Around him, members of the council nodded in fervent agreement, the Archbishop and clergymen inclining their cowled heads.
Haldor flew down from the branch overhead and reclaimed his human shape as a warrior in falcon leather armor. He walked slowly to the ashen remains which had once been Yrjar, removing his plumed helmet and bowinghis head in homage to his fallen lifelong friend.
Njáll dashed across the field to Luna, pulling her into his arms, resting his wolfskin-clad head over hers as he wrapped her in a fierce embrace. “Thank the gods, you’re safe.” He kissed the top of pale blonde head, cradling her against his chest.
Skårde rode across the battlefield to meet Jarl Rikard and Thorfinn. Together, they joined Guillaume, the Duke of Aquitaine, and Geoffroy, the Count of Anjou, at the edge of the scorched, shattered field. With a shared glance, they swung gracefully to the ground, boots sinking into the churned mud, shields and swords clattering softly as they landed. Walking with solemn purpose through the remnants of smoke andfrostfire,they approached the electoral council, proud eyes fixed on Hugh Capet as the future king, protected as prophesied by Skjöld’s Dwarven shield of flame.
The nobles and clergy of the electoral council huddled around Capet, their elegant robes smeared with blood and grime, harried faces grim but resolute. The eldest among them, the Archbishop of Reims, raised a blood-streaked, wrinkled hand above the commotion.
“Warriors of West Francia,” he proclaimed, his seasoned voice carrying across the war-torn plain. “The crown of our realm lies unclaimed, and the blood of your fallen cries out for justice. The council has chosen. Hugh Capet shall be king!”
Murmurs rippled through the ranks of Frankish knights. Some hesitated, clutching their swords and dented shields. Others—tired, wounded, and leaderless—lifted their lost eyes to Capet, who stood calm and steady in the center, surrounded by Skjöld, theÚlfhéðnar, the Duke of Normandy, and the coalition of nobles, bishops, and priests. In the midst of ruin, his regal presence burned like a beacon through the carnage.
A hush fell across the field as the surviving warriors lowered their weapons. From the trampled mud, a young Frankish knight lifted a battered circlet with a trio of goldenfleur-de-lysemblems, glinting in the late afternoon sun.
Lothaire’s fallen crown.
Using his tunic to wipe it clean, the warrior ran across the muddy field and knelt before Adalbero, humbly offering the coronet with both outstretched hands.
The Archbishop of Reims solemnly placed the golden crown upon Capet’s bowed head. Around them, the weary soldiers sank to one knee. A few voices called out first—then many more joined in—until the rallying cry thundered through the mist, blood, and smoke.
“Vive le roi! Long live the king!”
Chapter 48
From Ashes to Anointing
The final jubilant cries of “Vive le roi!”faded into the surrounding forest.
Smoke rose from the singed battleground. Pitiful groans wafted on the acrid wind asLjósálfarhealers wove among the wounded, tending injuries on the trampled field strewn with fallen warriors and stone statues of theDökkálfar,frozen in the blood-soaked earth.
Mud still clung to the golden crown resting atop Hugh Capet’s regal brow as the Archbishop of Reims lifted his gaze toward the forested ridge where Lothaire’s fortress ofla Montagne Couronnéeloomed dark against the reddening sky. “Let this battlefield bear witness,” he proclaimed, his voice hoarse with reverent awe. “Here, amidst fire and frost, Hugh Capet was crowned king.”
