And Haldor’s clifftop fortress ofFálkhöll.
“So, Ironhelm, how did you lose a ship full of silver to Rus dogs andDökkálfar?” Bjarni, always blunt and brutal, washed down a mouthful of dried cod with ale from his sealskin pouch, which he handed to the grizzled captain, who accepted it with a nod and took a long pull.
“We raided a Rus trading post near Novgorod. Took on lots of silver, furs, and amber. We were headed home to Vågan when I spotted asnekkjacoming toward us, closing fast. The sky turned black, and dark shadows swarmed my ship—couldn’t see the sun, the rocks, or the jagged cliffs.Thesnekkjarammed us, grappling hooks clamping onto the gunwales and rigging. In seconds, theDökkálarwere upon us, slaughtering my crew with deadly blades while the Rus stormed the ship and stole the treasure. We slammed into a jagged rock, and the hull cracked, sea water flooding the deck. A huge wave washed me and half the crew into the black, icy sea while thesnekkjadisappeared into the shadows. I grabbed a broken oar, some of my men clung to barrels or planks, and we made it ashore. Crawled out of the sea, half frozen, half dead. No ship, no steel, just salt in our wounds. We followed the coast north, scrounging food, sleeping in driftwood shelters. A fishing crew took pity on us, gave us passage back to Vågan,” Hjálmarr took another pull of ale and passed the sealskin to Skjöld, a shrewd glint in his hard gaze. "We drifted, we begged, we bled, and still the Norns kept spinning. Reached Vågan with nothing but scars. And there you two were, looking for a captain and a crew. Seems the gods aren’t done with me yet." Hjálmarr rose to his feet, brushing crumbs off his woolenbreeches and leg wraps, which were whitened and stiff with sea salt. "Back to the helm for me. You two get some sleep before the wind turns foul." With a nod to Skjöld and Bjarni, he stepped across the pinewood deck toward the stern, where the slate sea stretched in cold silence behind them.
Skjöld finished his dried cod and flatbread, guzzled the remaining ale in his own sealskin pouch, and said to Bjarni as he settled down to sleep on his pile of blankets and furs, “Sound advice. We’ll need every bit of strength when the wind shifts. Our turn at the oars will come soon enough.”
Three days later, asDragonfirefollowedFreyja’s Falconalong the sinuous, rocky coastline of Streymoy—the largest of the Faroe Islands—rounding the craggy headland and navigating the narrow, treacherous waters of the icy silver fjord, they arrived at the Norse settlement of Tórshavn. Situated atop a towering black ridge overlooking a sheltered harbor, Haldor’s imposing fortress ofFálkhöllperched like a predatory falcon atop the craggy cliff.
LikeSigurðshöllinOrkneyjar,Haldor’s stronghold was an enormous timbered longhouse as tall as six men, built of sturdy oak, weathered by wind, salt, and age. At the top of a stalwart mast anchored firmly in the rocky soil, Haldor’s crimson banner with a falcon in flight flapped above the high peaked roof. The supporting beams of the massive hall were carved with falcons, wolves, dragons, and runes. And atop each of the towering pillars that flanked the hall’s elaborately carved double entrance doors, a massive wooden sculpture of a peregrine falcon served as a sentinel, its mammoth wings unfurled as if shielding the fortress below.
Threedrakkarlongships were beached on the black stony shore, their sails furled, but banners flying high, as if to signal they had come in peace, not war. Skjöld did not recognize the deep green painted dragon prows with silver scales which shimmered in the shifting light, or the dark green banners with the striking image of a fierce white wolf.
From the western watchtower overlooking the fjord, the sentry’s clear shout carried across the cliff. “The Falcon returns!”
After two grueling winters in the wild north of Norway among the Sámi tribe, Skjöld was relieved to return toFálkhöll.The home where he’d lived with Haldor and theBlóðsmiðrsince he’d been ten winters old.
* * * *
Haldor stood proudly at the prow ofFreyja’s Falcon,watching a crowd gather at the top of the cliff to welcome him home. He recognized Njáll, the tallest man he’d ever met, unmistakable in his black wolfskin cloak. And Úlf, the great grey wolf, with Bodo, Flóki, and Hrólf Redbeard, theÚlfhéðnarwho had fought at his side to defend Tórshavn against Rus raiders andDökkáfarin the battle that took Brökk Sigurdsson’s life. When Haldor spotted an enormous warrior clad in a white wolfskin cloak, for a moment he thought it was Brökk himself, then realized it could only be his son.
The white wolf destined to retrieveÚlfsongr,Brökk’s legendary Dwarven sword.
Therein lies the reason for Úlvhild’s summons. To accompany Brökk’s son on his prophetic quest.
AsFreyja’s Falconmaneuvered the winding fjord, headed toward the rocky shore of the sheltered cove, Haldor spotted the towering blondLjósálfarLugh, with his lovely sister Luna at his side among the group. There were several other Light Elven warriors, their luminous presence easily discernable in the pale afternoon sunlight. And there—on the edge of the cliff, wild black hair whipping in the wind, glowing moonstone staff tightly gripped in her slender hand—stood Úlvhild.
The woman he loved more than life.
At the sight of her, a surge of desire flooded his shaking body, theseiðrfjaðrmark on his chest aflame, as if her magic poured into him, setting his soul on fire.
Gråskegg beachedFreyja’s Falconbeside the three unfamiliardrakkarships who flew a dark green banner with the head of a fiercewhite wolf.
These vessels must belong to Brökk’s son.
Haldor remembered hearing tales of an exceptional warrior known as theWolf of the Nordic Seas, whom King Harald had sent from Norway to Denmark as his appointed Jarl of Ribe. Haldor grinned at the thought of meeting the illustrious son of his close friend who had died defendingFálkhöll.
And how proud Brökk would be of his son, the White Wolf warrior so very much like hisÚlfhéðnarfather.
Viggo’s charcoal grey cloak flapped in the wind as thebrytiofFálkhöllled Haldor’s elite band of ninehuskarlarwarriors down the stone steps from the Great Hall to the rocky shore whereFreyja’s FalconandDragonfirehad just beached beside the threedrakkar.Dark hair streaked with grey, his bearded, weathered face breaking into a joyful grin, Viggo grasped Haldor’s forearms in a firm welcome as theFalcon of the Faroe Islandsreturned to his clifftop nest after two long winters in Norway. “The Falcon returns to his roost. All is as you left it, my lord. Your men and I stand ready to serve.”
Haldor, who had leapt from his ship onto the slick black rocks of the seaweed-strewn shore, returned thebryti’saffectionate grasp. “You have guarded more than stone and timber. You have guarded my honor. And my home. Well done, my friend.”
Pride illuminated Viggo’s wrinkled face. The highly competent and fiercely loyalbrytistepped aside so that thehersirThorbjörn—leader of Haldor’shuskarlar—could welcome their jarl home.
Clad in a distinctive cloak bearing the deep red color of Haldor’s heraldic banner, Thorbjörn bore weapons carved with the head of a falcon and carried a painted red shield with a falcon in flight, like all nine of the warriors who valiantly defended their jarl’s fortress. Yet, unlike the silver falcon clasps which fastened the red cloaks of hishuskarlar,Thorbjörn’s ornate brooch, symbolic of his prestigious rank ashersir, displayed the Goddess Freyja in falcon form, evoking the name of Haldor’s renowneddrakkarwarship. Chain mailbrynjaglinting in the pale golden sun, Thorbjörn removed his helmet, bowed his head, and placeda clenched fist over his armored heart as his steadfast gaze proudly held Haldor’s. “My jarl,Fálkhöllwelcomes your return.”
Haldor grasped Thorbjörn’s forearms, grateful for his unwavering loyalty as ahersirand unsurpassed skill as a swordsman. “You’ve keptFálkhöllstrong in my absence. You have my thanks, my respect, and my trust.”
Honor blazed across Throrbjörn’s noble face as he donned his helmet and ducked his bearded chin.
Haldor gestured for Skjöld to join him, his acolyte having disembarked along with Hjálmarr and the crew ofDragonfire.At the sight of the beardless boy who was now a beast of a man clad in bearskin and covered with tattoos, thehuskarlarwhooped with joy.
“He left a whelp and came back a wolf!” Leif hollered, thumping Skjöld on the shoulder.
Shouts rippled through the salty wind, the laughter and jeers like waves crashing against the cliff.
. “Gods help us, he’s taller than Haldor!”
