“He’ll be honored, as will Jarl Sigurd. Tryggvi’s royal wedding will be part of the summer solstice coronation of the glorious new king who has united warring Frankish territories and Viking lands in Normandy under a unified crown.” Haldor drained his mug of mead. “By attending the wedding and coronation in Paris, Sweyn and Sigurd form a powerful alliance with the new Frankish king. And Capet obtains Norse rulers as allies, rather than enemies, like Lothaire and the Carolingian kings who relentlessly tried to drive the Vikings from Normandy.” He wiped his bearded mouth and grinned. “Rikard was once married to Capet’s sister Emma. And Capet’s wife, Adelaideof Aquitaine, is Rikard’s cousin. Now, rather than an enemy in the Frankish king, Rikard has kin. And Capet has the fearless Duke of Normandy as his staunchest ally—andbroðir.”
Haldor rose from the table and carried their two bowls to the kitchen, rinsing them in a bucket of water and drying them with a clean cloth. As he placed them back upon the shelf, he chuckled and turned to Úlvhild. “With Tryggvi and Svanhild ruling the Isles of Sheppey and Skye, and the new Frankish king as a powerful ally, Sweyn might very well reclaim the lost Viking territories inAengaland—perhaps even replace Æthelred the Unready as king.”
Úlvhild cast him a frantic glance. “I shall be very heavy with child on the summer solstice. I’ll not be able to ride to Paris…”
Haldor strode across the floor and took hold of her hand, cradling it within his own. He brought it to his lips and pressed a reassuring kiss. “We’ll sail with Elfi and Njörd. With theWolf of the Nordic Seasat the helm and asjóvættirmermaid aboard ship, the voyage will be quicker, smoother, and far less jarring. For their new babe, as well as for you.”
As he beheld his beguilingvölvawife, a surge of desire rippled up his spine and burned the seiðrfjáðrmark on his chest. He helped Úlvhild to her feet, smiling wolfishly as he led her to the inviting pile of soft furs. “Come, wife. Let me show you how much I have missed you. I want to spend the rest of this glorious day in bed.”
That evening, as the bonfire roared at Thorfinn’s feast, and warriors shared meat, merriment, and mead, they drank in tribute to the hard-won victories in the bloody battles of Noyon and Paris. As melodies of lyres and flutes filled the festive air, amid the thunderous roar of waves crashing against the cliff, Gráskegg approached the table where Haldor sat with Úlvhild, across from Skadi and Skjöld.
In his scarred, weathered hands, the seasoned captain ofFreyja’s Falconheld a gleaming sword, the etched runes and deep blue gem in the elaborate hilt glittering in the golden light of the bonfire. “This was Bjarni’s blade,” he said to Skjöld, his hoarse whisper thick with emotion. “Gifted to him by youráfi,King Harald, thirty winters ago in Norway.” He struggled to speak, grief stealing his voice. “Drekafangr—Dragonfang—fierce and sharp as King Harald’s blue tooth.” Head reverently bowed, arms outstretched with the blade flat across his palms, Gråskegg gallantly offered the sword to Skjöld. “He’d want you to have it. An heirloom blade to keep for your firstborn son.”
Visibly moved, Skjöld rose on unsteady feet and humbly accepted the sheathed blade. He bowed his head in tribute to the old swordmaster Bjarni who had wieldedDrekafangrin countless battles for King Harald in Norway and Haldor in the Faroe Islands. The swordsman who had trained Skjöld with the very blade he now held in his calloused hands.
Skjöld ran his reverent fingers over the sparkling stone in the ornate hilt. “Lapis lazuli…” he choked, forcing a swallow down his tight throat. “My spirit stone as anoaidi.” He slowly unsheathed the sword, hefting its weight. The deep blue gleam of the lapis gem pulsed with memories of battles long past, binding him to theBlóðsmiðrwho had trained him—and to his grandfather Harald, the king who had gifted the blade to Bjarni. “Thank you, Gråskegg. I am honored beyond words.”
Fetching his horn of mead from the table where Skadi sat, Skjöld strode across the meadow to the bonfire, where he stood next to the roaring flames. As all eyes fixed upon him, an expectant hush swept over the enthralled crowd.
Moonlight glistened on Skjöld’s white bearskin cloak. The blue dragon coiling around his corded neck gleamed in the incandescent light.
Pride surged through Haldor as he beheld the acolyte whom he had trained for eight winters, standing now before the gathered crowd, as fierce a warrior as his father, Skårde the Scourge, the formerDragon of Denmark, and both of his illustrious grandfathers—Jarl Rikard, the Viking Duke of Normandy, and Harald Bluetooth, the late King of Denmark and Norway.
Skjöld’s hallowed voice resonated across the grassy glen. “Tonight, I wish to honor my mentor, Haldor Falk, the shapeshiftingfalcon who taught me the runes of thevitkiand the spiritual path of thenoaidi.”Gratitude, respect, and fierce love blazed in Skjöld’s intense gaze as he faced Haldor and raised his horn in tribute. “You taught me to see beyond the veil — to walk the spiritual path between worlds and seek the wisdom of theÁhkkáin the realm of water. Because of you, I foresaw the coming of theDokkálfarand the Rus raiders who sought Dvalinn’s hidden hoard. With his gift of Dwarven steel—and your inimitable prowess and courage—you saved mysoulboundmate Skadi. Because of you, theSon of the Dragonshielded the Cape and defended the Crown. And now, a new dynasty of Frankish kings has risen— and this victory belongs to you as much as to me or to him.” He raised his horn high, voice thundering through the starry night. “To Haldor Falk,Falcon of the Faroe Islands.Skál!”
When the roaring cheers subsided, Skjöld laid his horn against one of the stones encircling the bonfire and removed a leather pouch strapped to his belt. The crowd quieted, and a stillness set over the glen gathered under the canopy of trees beneath the starlit sky.
“Yrjar the berserker was one of the threeBlóðsmiðr—the Bloodsmiths—who forged me into the warrior I am today.” Skjöld lowered his head in homage as he spoke of his fallen bear brother. “Yrjar gave his life so that my wife Skadi might live. Tonight, I honor his memory by pouring his ashes that I carried home from the battlefield into our flame—that Yrjar’shugrmay join us as we celebrate the victory in Noyon and the crowning of our king in Notre-Dame.”
Skjöld opened the black leather pouch and solemnly poured the contents into the flames. The bonfire roared to life, sparks swirling into salty night sky. He raised his horn once again. “To Yrjar. May he feast with Odin and theeinherjarin Valhalla!Skál!”
While shouts carried across the Narrow Sea and echoed off the white chalk cliffs, Skjöld gazed across the meadow to the table where Gråskegg still stood near Haldor and Skadi. He inclined his bearskin-clad head to the seasoned commander ofHaldor’s ship as he unsheathed theDrekafangrsword. Skjöld turned the blade so it gleamed in the firelight and moonglow, the lapis gem in the hilt sparkling like the deep blue fjords of Norway. When the throng stilled, he spoke once again.
“Bjarni was the swordmaster who taught me the blade,” he said, his voice ragged and raw. “Myáfi, King Harald Bluetooth, gifted Bjarni this magnificent sword thirty winters ago inBlåtonshöll.And tonight, I honor Bjarni’s memory with my blood.” Skjöld sliced his palm with the blade, dripping the ruby liquid into the flames. He reverently poured mead from his horn over the wound, letting the amber liquid mingle with fire, honor, and blood. Sheathing the sword at his hip, he lifted his horn one last time. “To Bjarni, who died defending his ship and crew in the sea battle at the mouth of the Seine. May he feast with theAllfatherin Valhalla!”
As cries of “Valhalla!” carried across the glen, Skjöld returned to Gråskegg and clasped his forearms in firm affection and gratitude. When the ship commander returned to his seat, Skjöld sat down at Skadi’s side.
Haldor gripped Skjöld’s shoulder and raised his horn. “To Yrjar and Bjarni. And to you, Skjöld.Vitki,noadi, and valiant Viking warrior. TheSon of the Dragonwho fulfilled the prophecy by shielding the king and seeing him crowned.Skál!”
Throughout the night, they feasted on roast boar and imbibed on golden mead. Thorfinn’s skald Egil sang the songDragon’s Shield and Dwarven Spear, recounting how theSon of the Dragonhad shielded the king as hisfrostdragonmate Skadi burned theDökkálfar, and Haldor Falk hurledÍsfálkrto slay the fire giant troll. Njörd’s skald Stig regaled the rapt crowd withThe Nine Ships of Njörd,in a saga of the sea battle at the mouth of the Seine.
When the festivities ended, Haldor and Úlvhild returned home to their secluded hut in the woods.
Fed Kól fresh haddock scraps from the feast.
Andmade love in the moonlight and the scent of the sea.
* * * *
Spring passed quickly.
Since their tower inVeules-les-Roseswould not be completed until the following summer, Úlvhild and Haldor lived in her thatched roof hut in the forest, where she would give birth to their babe Freyja in late July, with Ylva and Luna as midwives. They visited Elfi and Njörd regularly inla Tour d’ Écume, delighted to see the babe Nyssara thriving and Elfi regaining her strength.
Skadi and Skjöld sailed east to their clifftop castle,le Château d’ Argent, in the nearby village ofSaint-Valéry-en-Caux.
Njáll and Luna returned to their moonstone cottage in the forest ofÁlfheim. near Lyrian Lake and the Ísilwen Spring.
Bodo and Sif resided in his stonecutter’s hut in the village of Étretat.
