While the Dwarven redbeards removed the grotesque effigies from the rocky beach and heaved them onto the ledge above the cave, Skjöld unleashedfrostfirefrom hisÍsfirshield.
He burned the raven prow and lacerated black sail of the enemy ship, sweeping the ice blue flame tinged with violet frost over the gruesome corpses whose gouged eyes, shredded faces, and slashed throats had been ravaged by the birds Haldor had summoned from the skies.
When the last of the mutilated remains of the Rus raiders was reduced to frozen ash, and gusts of salty wind scattered thecinders out to sea, Skjöld joined Haldor and Skadi near the effervescent pool at the base of the waterfall. Its misty roar splattered into the freshwater spring, spraying the mossy stones, mingling with the briny breeze.
Skadi washed three silver bowls in the clear, sparkling water—her own, theLaguzrunes etched along the rim glistening in the pale sun—and two others she had requested from Inga before exiting the cave. “May I please borrow your dagger again, Lord Falk?” she asked, filling the silver vessels with fresh water and placing them upon a smooth rock near the underground spring.
“Of course.” Haldor unsheathed his dagger, handed it to her, and watched alongside Skjöld as she pricked her finger and meticulously placed three droplets ofLjósálfarblood into each bowl. She began to sing, her ethereal melody floating over the fjord, the water inside the bowls glowing with ice blue light. While she continued her Light Elven song, Skadi wiped the tip of the dagger with the folds of her deep blue cloak and returned the blade to Haldor, who sheathed it at his hip. Ephemeral and evanescent, her crystalline voice wafted on the wind as she carried, one by one, the trinity of silver bowls onto the pinewood deck of the ship, placing a glowing vessel at the prow, the stern, and the mast where she had been tied. Wielding her Light Elven magic ofnen glir,she sprinkled droplets of purifying water laced withLjósálfarlight over the entire ship from prow to stern.
While Skadi sang, purging theDökkálfardarkness and Skugga’s shadows from thesnekkjaship, Haldor etched a trio of Nordic runes along the shore with the sharp blade of hisÍsfálkrspear.
Dagaz, the dawn. The end of darkness and the return to light.
Berkana, the birch. For renewal and the rebirth of spring.
Tiwaz, Tyr’s rune. For victory and triumph over evil.
As the Vikingvitkichanted avardlokkur,summoning benevolent spiritsto bless the desecrated shore, Skjöld softly hummed ajoikto invoke theÁkkhá, drawing a trio of Sámi symbols to sanctify the sacred fjord.
Beaivi,the sun. Source of light and life.
Boazu, the sacred reindeer, For protection and strength.
Násti,the star. For divine guidance and safe passage from darkness into light.
Three transcendent songs, in a trinity of purifying rituals, by a triad of spiritual healers.
The sacred number nine.
Skjöld glanced up at the rocky ledge above the entrance to the cave, where Dvalinn and Dáinn had arranged theDökkálfarstatues, with three facing west to the sea, and a trio overlooking the fjord. Copper hair aflame in the golden sun,Steinvegrhoisted high above his fiery head, Dvalinn bellowed like a livid beast. “Behold the wrath ofFjallvördr! My hammerspeaks, and death obeys!”
A shiver rippled down Skjöld’s spine as he beheld the sinister sentinels.
Looming like undeaddraugar,theDökkálfarwere locked in grotesque poses, with limbs twisted in agony, grimaces of terror frozen in eyes now dulled to lifeless hollows, mouths agape in silenced screams.
A grim, gruesome warning set in solid stone.
“Your hammer speaks, and so does my net—I’ve caught plenty of fish for the fire!” Gunnar roared with laughter as he rowed the ship toward into the inlet of the fjord, jumping from the boat into knee-deep water.
While Dvalinn and Dáinn descended the stone stairs from the ledge, Haldor and Skjöld helped Gunnar haul the pale birch skiff ashore.
“Four large cod and six haddock,” he boasted with a bearded grin, hoisting a dripping wicker basket from the skiff and setting it atop a large rock at the edge of the fjord. He lifted the cover to display the pale, gleaming flesh, wrapped in fresh seaweed. “And mussels for Inga to add to the stew.” He nodded at a second basket in the boat, which Skjöld retrieved, while Gunnar poureda bucket of fresh water from the pool to wash the fish blood from the deck.
Haldor helped him store the skiff in the carved stone enclosure beneath the cave.
“Bring the fish inside,” Dvalinn hollered to Gunnar. “While we lug the sail down to the shore, you and Dáinn can fetch the dragon prow.” He turned toward Skadi, Haldor, and Skjöld. “Now that the ship and shore have been cleansed of enemy filth, we can unfurl it on these rocks. Come, let’s fetch the sail, and I’ll tell you the tale as promised.”
The Dwarven blacksmith led them back into the cave, where Skjöld, Haldor and Dvalinn hefted the wrapped sail, lugging it carefully down the slick stairs and unfurling it across the rocks at the base of the cliff.
As Dvalinn and Haldor unrolled the sail over the rocks, Skjöldstoodbeside Skadi, watching with bated breath as the profile of an enormous dragon emerged on the thick ivory wool.
The blue paint of the fearsome beast was deep and rich, as if the indigo dye had soaked into the very soul of the cloth. One wing curled upward and back, unfurled in flight, the shimmering scales depicting Sámi symbols of wind, sea, and sky. The dragon's eye was a brilliant, faceted gem of golden amber, framed by intricately embroidered stitches of Sámi symbols and Nordic runes in glittering threads of silver that sparkled like a star. Three black talons extended from the hooked claw, and three pointed fangs painted white protruded from the massive jaw. Like a coiled snake, ready to strike, the serpentine tail—etched with spiraling runes— tapered to the pointed tip of a spear.
Skjöld stood in awe of the inimitable skill of the Sámi women who had meticulously woven every woolen fiber with ancestral wisdom, imbuing the sail with the divine protection of the sacredÁhkká.“This is no mere sail,” he whispered, his deep voice quavering. “With this on the mast, thesnekkjawill fly.”
“Now give her a face the wind will fear.” Gunnar grunted, as he and Dáinn lugged the dragon prow, the fierce figurehead carefullybalanced between burly woodcutter and brawny dwarf. “Wings are fine, but a dragon needs its roar. Come on then—four hands will fix her faster than two.”
While Skjöld and Haldor helped Gunnar and Dáinn affix the dragon prow, Skadi and Dvalinn rolled the sail back up, which the men attached to the mast.
