Haldor nodded in contemplation. “I already have a ship—Freyja’s Falcon.”He eyed Skjöld pensively over the rim of his pewter goblet as he took a long pull of mead. The bearskin clad, bearded blond brute was a fine sailor. Gråskegg and theBlóðsmiðrcrew had trained him well. And it was Skjöld’s otherworldly vision that had brought them here to Dvalinn’s cave. It was therefore fitting that the ship should become his. “But Skjöld does not,” he said, lowering his goblet to the thick oak table. “He is highly capable of commanding a vessel, fit to take the helm. Thesnekkjashould go to him.”
Dvalinn bellowed in agreement, raising his mug of mead to propose a toast. “To Skjöld, the new commander of thesnekkja.Skál!”
Amidst hearty cheers and gulps of mead, Skadi’s clear voice rose above the jubilant din. “I can purge thesnekkjaofDökkálfardarkness,” she announced cautiously, her ice blue gaze darting around the table before fixing on Skjöld. “But the raven prow andblack sail—even if repaired—would be immediately recognized as one of Skugga’s ships.” She spoke across the table to Dvalinn and Dáinn. “Could the two of you craft a new figurehead?”
A gruff gust of laughter burst from Dvalinn’s stout belly. “Gunnar has one already finished. A fearsome dragon, like the one coiled around Skjöld’s thick neck.” A wily grin spread across the dwarf’s bristled face, as if an idea had suddenly dawned. “I propose we name the shipDragonfire. For theSon of the Dragonwho wields thefrostfireflames ofÍsfir.”He glanced around the table, seeking approval, immensely gratified by the enthusiastic nods.
Skjöld positively beamed, nearly bursting with pride.
“I’ll fetch it right now. My workshop is next to the armory, where you saw the weapons this morning.” Gunnar rose from the table, smoothing his grey woolen tunic/ “Dáinn, give me hand?”
The Dwarven apprentice nodded, wiped his mouth, and followed Gunnar down the hall.
“Gunnar is a woodcutter and skilled craftsman,” Dvalinn informed Skadi, Haldor, and Skjöld. “He carves prows for Viking longships, which he trades for supplies in the Norse village of Vågan.”
Haldor downed a gulp of mead and wiped his bearded lips. “Skjöld and I are headed to Vågan—to meet the crew of my ship. We plan to voyage south, to the Viking lands in Normandy. Now, we’ll have two vessels sailing to thePays de Caux.”
Inga smiled, circulating around the table and refilling the mugs of mead. She returned to the hearth and stirred the pot of simmering stew, releasing the appetizing aroma of fresh fish, garlic, and herbs. When Gunnar and Dáinn entered the room with the magnificent wooden sculpture of a dragon balanced between them, she sat back down on the bench beside Skadi as her husband proudly placed the figurehead on the table before Skjöld.
Carved from dark, salt-hardened oak, the beast’s head rose in a sinuous arc, a curved crest of ridges and knotwork scales lining theback of its serpentine neck. Its mammoth jaws were bared in a fearsome snarl, pointed fangs carved with runes and inlaid with bronze, which glimmered like copper fire. The elongated snout, intricately detailed with shimmering scales traced with silver, tapered to flared nostrils, as if scenting the salty air or searching for the stench of foes. Its reptilian eyes were deep blue gems, the glittering threads of lapis lazuli gilded by the golden sunlight streaming through the western windows, like flecks offrostfiretrapped beneath the icy fjord.
Skjöld ran appreciative fingers over the intricately carved wood. “The craftsmanship is superb.” At the sight of the dragon’s gemstone eyes, he stared up at Gunnar in stunned disbelief. “Lapis lazuli is my spirit stone.” His hushed voice laced with awe, Skjöld displayed thenoaidiring on his finger.
“The dragon is yours. Please accept it as my thanks for warning us of today’s attack.” Brushing a strand of silver-streaked brown hair from his proud, weathered face, Gunnar bowed his head in gratitude to Skjöld.
“We even have a sail—given as payment by the Sámi people.” Dvalinn’s bearded lips curled into a sooty smile. “With a dragon, blue like the sea. Woven by the women of the Láhpi tribe.”
Skjöld snapped his head in astonishment and shot Haldor an incredulous look.
“We lived among theLáhpitribe,” Haldor explained, “where Skjöld and I each became anoaidi. In truth, Skjöld earned the title mere days ago. When his water spirit sought wisdom from theÁhkká.” Haldor inclined his head in homage to his blond, bearded acolyte whose many tattoos symbolized the arduous aquatic journey.
“That is how I foresaw the attack of the Rus raiders,” Skjöld told Skadi. “My female ancestors—the Sámi people call their spirits theÁhkká— had the gift of sight through water, which they passed on to me. During mynoaidispirit journey, theÁhkkárevealed the vision of theDökkálfarship.”
“All the more reason for you to have the dragon sail.” Dvalinn grunted, wisdom wrinkling his leathery skin, blackenedby years over his flaming forge. “The Sámi women— whose skilled hands wove the threads of that sail— imbued their blessing into its fibers. Their watchful spirits will protect thenoaidiwho lived among them, guiding you over wind and wave.”
The burly dwarf rose from the table and motioned to Skadi, Haldor, and Skjöld to follow. “Come, I’ll show you. It’s furled, wrapped in oiled leather, and stored in a crevice of the cave.”
Dvalinn led them from the hearth room, down the narrow stone hall, past a small chamber where the open door revealed a wounded Durinn, his bandaged leg slightly raised atop a pile of furs as he slept in a wooden bed shaped like a sleigh. They continued quietly down the dark corridor, dimly lit by whale oil lamps burning in rune-engraved metal sconces along the rough stone walls.
At the back of the cave, the forge glowed bright, afternoon sunlight streaming through the lookout windows to the south and the west. “This leads to my private chambers.” Dvalinn indicated the thick door on the left at the end of the hall. “And this is where I have stored the sail.”
A narrow cleft—formed by a fissure within the solid rock of the mountain itself— was hewn into the wall between the forge and Dvalinn’s heavy door. With calloused hands, he reached into the crevice and hauled out the bundled sail of thick ivory wool, tightly wrapped in oiled sealskin.
“Here it is,”he muttered, his breath raspy and rough.“Dragonfire’sbreath. To carry you over wind and wave.”
The dwarf heaved the bundled sail from the cleft, the oiled leather creaking softly as it slipped free. When he lowered the heavy package to the floor, Haldor, Skadi, and Skjöld exchanged awed glances. As they ran reverent eyes over the runes inscribed in the sealskin, Dvalinn grumbled, “Not enough room to unfurl it here. But when the ship is ready, we’ll carry it down to the shore and unroll it over the rocks. And I’ll tell you the tale of how I came by it. From anoaidiwho foresaw flame sail the seas in the form of a dragon.”
Chapter 7
Dragonfire
While Gunnar headed off to catch more fish for the celebratory feast Dvalinn announced—rowing the small boat he kept concealed in a stone alcove at the base of the stairs— and Inga baked oatcakes in the kitchen area near the hearth, Dvalinn and Dáinn led Haldor, Skadi, and Skjöld from the clifftop cave down to the rocky shore.
The men and dwarves quickly removed the tattered black sail and raven prow from Skugga’ssnekkjaship, tossing them into a heap on the muddy, bloody bank of the fjord.
“Burn that withÍsfir,”Dvalinn snarled at Skjöld, spitting at the loathsome pile. “And all these vile enemy bodies.” He gestured to the gruesome corpses scattered across the base of the cliff. “I won’t have their rot seeping into my stone.” He turned and barked at Dáinn. “We’ll line theDökkálfarstatues on the ledge with the other. A grim warning of what theFjallvörðrdoes to those who attack his mountain.”
Dáinn clambered aboard thesnekkja, hauled the petrifiedDökkálfarguard from the deck of the ship, and joined Dvalinn in the lugging the heavy statue up the stone stairs.
