She kissed theseiðrfjáðrmark above his heart. Thefjórúnwhich bound them as one. “After the battle in Ísland, I shall return to Normandy with Elfi and Njörd. We’ll bring Skjöld home to thePays de Caux.”Her wide amber eyes implored him. “You and theBlóðsmiðrmust return toFálkhöll.Where you can send a message to Sigurd on the winter solstice. And accept Svanhild as your betrothed.”
He desperately wanted to show her the Dwarven wedding rings—Freyja’s Eyes—that Dvalinn had crafted and ask for her hand once again.
But she would refuse.
He would wait until the winter solstice, when they were back in Normandy, and he had the chance to speak with Jarl Rikard, Skårde, and Sweyn. Haldor had no intention of marrying Sigurd’s daughter—or any woman other than Úlvhild. For now, he would hold his tongue.
And wait for his plan to unfold.
He placed a curved finger under her stubborn chin and raised it so that her sorrowful but resolute eyes met his. “We have been apart for eight long winters. Let’s not waste a moment more.” He lowered his lips to hers, drawing them into his own, forcing them apart with a penetrating tongue.
She moaned when he probed and explored the depths of her luscious mouth, his eager hands kneading her firm bottom as he pressed his hardened length against her flat belly. He laid her atop the pile of soft furs and hovered over her, suckling her neck, her pink nipples, and the irresistible flesh between her taut thighs.
He lapped and sucked the tender folds and sensitive bud, her writhing and moaning driving him wild with need and desire. He rose onto his knees, flipped her onto her stomach, and—tilting her hips up with both hands—impaled her from behind.
She slipped a finger between her legs to rub the little bud in rhythm with his pounding thrusts. And when she clenched him, squeezing in spasms of release, she extracted every drop of the seed which burst from him like a fountain.
He held her tight, pinned beneath him, as their shudders slowly subsided. Sweeping her long locks away, he lowered his lips and kissed her slender back. “You are mine. And I am yours. Forevermore.”
Haldor lay down at her side, cradled her on his chest, and kissed the top of her beloved head. “I love you, Úlvhild. And I always will. You are my heart,hjarta mitt.” He pulled a soft reindeer hide over them both, the pine scent of the wild forest still clinging to the soft, thick fur. Like her black cat Kól, she purred in contentment,snuggled against him, and slowly succumbed to sleep.
In the morning, as the first rays of the sun sliced through the narrow east facing window, and the tumultuous sea crashed against the black cliff far below, Haldor made love to Úlvhild one last time before they set sail for Ísland.
She straddled him, riding him like a stallion, and collapsed upon his chest as waves of pleasure overtook her. He gripped her hips, pulled her down hard, and thrust deep inside, filling her womb with his seed.
She kissed him softly, tears filling her golden eyes and spilling down her smiling cheeks. “I love you, Haldor. In this life and the next.” With the tip of her tongue, she traced the feather shapedseiðrfjáðr,sending a sizzle of magic up his spine. “There is no one for me but you. Forevermore.”
Withdrawing a leg from him, she stepped from the bed onto the floor. With a sorrowful smile that pierced his soul, she left his side to wash, dress quickly, and quietly braid her long black hair.
He rose from the bed, donned a plain woolen tunic and breeches, leaving his elegant attire for Viggo to pack in his bags. He would need them for Elfi and Njörd’s wedding in Ísland. And for his own wedding to Úlvhild on the winter solstice, if all went according to plan.
“Ready?” he asked her, taking her hand when she nodded. With one last kiss, he led her from his private chambers, out into the Great Hall to join the others fordagmál.
And the seven day voyage to Ísland.
Chapter 16
Íssla
Gråskegg maneuveredFreyja’s Falconinto the bustling harbor of Ólafsvik, the Norse trade center on the Snæfellsnes peninsula in western Ísland. As Haldor gently helped her to an unsteady stand, Úlvhild gripped the gunwale to ease her seasick belly as she gazed at the crescent shaped shore where dozens ofdrakkarwarships lay beached on the black sand like sleeping sea dragons, their carved prows snarling into the snapping wind.
Rough-hewn timber piers extended far from the coast out into the icy water, creaking under heavy boots and guttural groans as worker hauled nets filled with silvery fish, rolled barrels of mead, wine, and ale, and carried pelts of furs, bales of hay, and wooden chests filled with amber, silver, and glass.
Along the teeming shoreline, the tantalizing aroma of roasted meats and freshly baked bread filled the salty air as shouting merchants offered stuffed barley cakes, steaming fish stew, and sizzling skewers of grilled lamb, goat, or seal. In nearby huts and leather tents, blacksmiths hammered weapons over an open forge, while shipwrights repaired sails and planks, and applied pitch or tar to seal gaps and caulk seams in the clinker hulls of damaged vessels.
Amidst the hub of activity, set back from the beach but facing the vibrant port, stood a large timbered hall with a turf roof and carved wolf heads along the posts which framed the sheltered entrance. Above the enormous oak door, a deep blue banner with the image of howling silver wolf displayed the nameÚlfskál—Wolf Toast—evoking both the savagery of a wolf and the fierce brotherhood of warriors. As if to illustrate the tavern’s name, a pack of grim lupine men huddled around the flaming stonefirepit, drinking mead from heavy wooden mugs.
The crews of their newly arrived ships hoisted wooden planks from the decksof the fourdrakkarand singlesnekkjavesselsonto the shore for passengers to disembark. As Haldor led Úlvhild from the deck ofFreyja’s Falcon,Skjöld’s recently formedDragonfirecrew joined theBlóðsmiðrand Njörd’s Danish warriors in mingling with the villagers and merchants who flocked to greet them. TheÚlfhéðnarandLjósálfaraboard Njörd’s three ships—Drakkúlfr,Hrafnvarg,andSköllrökr,each bearing fierce lupine names and heraldic banners of theWolf of the Nordic Seas—all came ashore and waited while Njörd escorted Elfi, Njáll helped Luna, and Bodo aided Sif onto the black sandy beach.
Amidst the hollering, hammering, and heaving of crates, a tall, agingÚlfhedinnwarrior clad in a silver wolfskin cloak and chain mailbrynjaemerged from Úlfskál. Like the Allfather Odin, he was missing a right eye, the shadowed hollow covered by a black leather patch with the runeAnsuzetched in silver. A savage scar ran the length of his ravaged face from brow to chin, a gruesome reminder of his brutal, violent past. Long grey hair and beard were both streaked with silver, braided with carved bones and glinting beads. A fine sword was strapped at his waist, its grip wrapped in worn elk leather, the pommel etched with the god runeAnsuz, like his eyepatch. Upon his right hip, a bearded axe hung heavy from a leather loop of his belt beside a sheathed dagger with a polished bone handle. As the wolf warrior scanned the newcomers, noting the luminousLjósálfarand battle-hardenedÚlfhéðnar, Úlvhild remarked that the silver wolf of the fur cloak was missing its right eye, just like the man himself.
He approached Njörd, the pale morning light reflecting off an enormous silver wolf head brooch which fastened his ash fur cloak. “Welcome to Ólafsvík, warriors and kin of the wolf.” He grasped Njörd’s forearms first, then Úlf’s and Hrólf Redbeard’s, commanders of the threedrakkarshipswhose wolf banners flapped in the frosty wind. “I am Ólaf One-Eye, formerÚlfheðinnand chieftain of this hall.” He greeted Bodo, Flóki, and Njáll with the same wolf warrior’s grip of welcome.
Ólaf One-Eye turned toward the sixLjósálfarwarriors whose scales offrostdragonarmor shimmered with violet ice. “Guardians of frost and light,” he murmured, his deep voice layered with humble homage, “your radiant presence honors this land.” He bowed his wolfskin clad head. “And skalds sing of your Light Elven blades here in the halls ofÍslyra.”The silver wolf gestured to an ice fortress carved into the cliffside of the craggy mountain which loomed ahead. He returned his singular gaze and addressed Úlvhild, Haldor, and Skjöld with reverence and respect. “Seeress, spell weaver, and spirit walker, you are welcome beneath my sky.”
Two warriors wearing wolfskin pelts over leather armor, formidable weapons strapped at their sinewy hips, stood behind their chieftain, awaiting his orders. “Take the crews to the bathhouses and lodging,” Ólaf told them. He glanced at the ships, where the villagers were mingling with the men. “Let them eat, wash, and warm their bones.” As the two guards strode off to obey, the silver wolf spoke to the ship commanders and elite guests who remained.“Queen Íssla awaits above the waterfall in her hall of frost and light. Long has she expected your arrival. Come this way. Follow me.”
Ólaf One-Eye led them away from the black sandy beach of Ólafsvik, where smoke curled from the Úlfskál longhouse, its thatched roof crowded with cawing gulls and guillemots. The enticing aroma of roasting fish and the scent of pine fire clung in the briny breeze as they marched toward the immense cliffside which rose before them like an impenetrable wall of black obsidian and glacial ice. Carved into the face of the frozen mountain, a narrow and winding stone stairway curled up into the pale, frosted mist.
