They’d shared spells, spirits, and souls, learning that she could summon him withseidrmagic, through an otherworldly connection which joined them in the realm between worlds. As autumn evolved into winter, he knew he’d never love another.
During the Yuletide festival, he’d asked her to wed him.
And she’d adamantly refused.
It was then that Haldor learned about her painful past. The three babes she had lost, born too small and too soon. How her husband had divorced her as barren, marrying the concubine who carried his child, whose comfort he had sought when a shattered Ulvhild had withdrawn into herself. Humiliated, rejected, and broken, Ulvhild had left the village and had immersed herself in the study ofseidrmagic, becoming King Harald’svölvain the royal hall of Norway.
Ulvhild had explained to Haldor that she would never marry, for she could never bear a living child. She’d refused his offer of marriage. But not his body, his soul, or his love.
So Haldor had loved hisvölvaon her terms—with wild abandon and transcendent passion that filled him in every conceivable way. Despite her rejection, he still harbored the fragile hope that one day, she might change her mind.
He’d returned to the Faroe Islands the following spring, and learned that King Harald had sent Ulvhild to thePays de Caux—the white chalk cliffs of northwestern Francia—for her to serve asvölvato Harald’s political ally, Richard the Fearless, the Viking Duke of Normandy.
There, Úlvhild had summoned Haldor to aid Jarl Rikard and Skjöld’s father, Skårde the Scourge, theDragon of Denmark, in the bloody Battle of Fécamp. When Haldor had been critically injured in falcon form—an arrow having pierced his wing— Úlvhild had invoked Freyja, her beloved goddess ofseiðrmagic, to heal Haldor withFreyja’s Kiss.
Haldor and Úlvhild had spent another winter together, living in her hut in the village, reviving the intense passion and pleasure as they shared bodies, spirits, and spells. Once again, during the Nordic Yule, he’d asked her to wed him. And once again, she’d refused.
Her rejection had wounded him more than the arrow through the wing, but he understood the cause of her pain and her reason for refusal. He’d remained with her throughout the winter, and in the spring— when Skårde’s wife Ylva gave birth to theirprophesied son Skjöld— Ulvhild had been the midwife to welcome the foretold babe. She’d also delivered the healthy son of her Irish friend and acolyte, Maeve, who had married one of Skårde’s warriors, a Viking redbeard named Gunni.
Haldor had glimpsed the grief in Úlvhild’s golden eyes and felt the emptiness in her wounded soul through the endless bond which entwined their spirits together. He sensed her despair at being unable to bear the child she so desperately wanted to give him. And he grieved for her unrelenting, unbearable pain.
She’d insisted that he should marry to produce an heir. That he had no choice but to accept King Harald’s offer to wed him with Svanhild, daughter of the Jarl ofOrkneyjar—the chain of islands between Haldor’s stronghold in Tórshavn and Bluetooth’s kingdoms of Denmark and Norway.
Haldor had been able to successfully evade King Harald’s discussions of marriage, claiming that Bluetooth’s grandson Skjöld had not yet completed the training to become a Viking warrior and Sámi spirit walker. But now that Skjöld’s eight winters of apprenticeship had come to an end, and Sweyn Forkbeard was the new king of Denmark and Norway, it would be impossible for Haldor to delay any longer. Sweyn was intent on consolidating power and acquiring kingdoms through political alliances and arranged marriages.
Like the proposed wedding between Haldor and Svanhild.
The crackling fire interrupted his reverie, drawing Haldor’s attention back to the present. It had been eight long winters since he’d had last seen Úlvhild. He and Skjöld would soon meet theBlódsmiðrin the village of Vågan and sail home to Normandy, before the seas became too icy and stormy for the voyage.
On the alabaster coast of thePays de Caux, Skjöld would soon be reunited with his parents and his younger sister Vivi, who would be on the cusp of womanhood now at the age of twelve winters. TheBlódsmidrwould enjoy the comparatively mild Norman winter of the upcoming Yuletide season.
And Haldor would spend six glorious months with Úlvhild.
Odin’s eye, how he’d missed her! His body throbbed at the thought of her long limbs wrapped around him, welcoming himhome as he plunged into her warm, willing depths. He adjusted his breeches and gulped the rest of his bitter brew. Although hisBlóðsmiðrcrew took concubines in every port they visited, Haldor never did. His limitless love for Úlvhild— both physical and spiritual—was as sacred as theseiðrmagic which enlaced their shared souls.
This Yuletide season, Haldor planned to ask Úlvhild to wed him once again. She would refuse, insisting that he needed to marry Svanhild, a young wife who could bear him children and provide his heirs. But this time, Haldor had a plan. An idea which would convince her to say yes. But first, he needed to speak to Jarl Rikard and Count Skarde. With their approval, there’d be no way for Úlvhild to refuse. The thought of making her truly his had Haldor’s heart soaring among thenorðljósnorthern lights in the midnight sky.
Skjöld groaned as he stretched in his bedroll, sat upright, and rubbed the sleep from his swollen eyes. Rising to his feet, he reached his arms overhead and arched his back. As he adjusted his white bearskin cloak, he nodded to Haldor’s cup of yarrow brew. “Is there any left?”
“Nei, but I’ll set more water to boil.” Haldor rose, stretched out his aching limbs, and fetched the waterskin, filling the small iron pot and setting it on the trio of stones in the hearth. He added more driftwood to the fire and stoked the flames.
“I can finish that. You need to sleep.” Skjöld fetched the yarrow leaves and juniper berries from their supply of herbs, settling down against the rock where Haldor had been keeping watch. He glanced up at the starry sky, deeply inhaling the salty, frosty night air. He glanced at Haldor, firelight flickering in his intense gaze. “You think we’ll find the dwarf’s cave tomorrow?” Anticipation and trepidation warred in his deep voice.
Haldor reclined on his bedroll, smoothing his padded gambeson. His leather armor—which he’d oiled with reindeer fat while sipping his herbal brew—lay on the blanket at his side, next to his sword,Seiðrvingr,whose polished steel and etched runes glistened in thefirelight. The golden glow of the silver falcon’s watchful eyes reminded him again of Úlvhild. “I do indeed,” he said, dispelling persistent thoughts of her and answering Skjöld’s question, while the youngnoaidiadded herbs to steep in the iron pot. “The snow-capped mountain is on an island just up ahead. We’ll reach it by midmorning.”
Skjöld carefully strained the herbs and berries, tossing them into the fire, as Haldor had done. The sizzle and snap released another burst of woodsy, piney scent into the brackish night air. He sipped the herbal elixir, eyeing Haldor over the steaming wooden cup. “I hope we arrive in time to warn the dwarf.”
Haldor pulled the blankets up over his shoulder as an icy chill shivered down his spine. He nestled into the warm reindeer fur of his bedroll, dispelling doubts with a forceful sigh. “So do I.”
Chapter 3
Dvalinn’s Cave
Haldor awoke to the appetizing aroma of grilled fish, the nutty scent of barley porridge, and the tang of wild herbs and lingonberries. Pale pink, violet, and mauve streaked the dawn sky, the first rays of sunlight peering over the cliffs and onto the dark, icy fjord. As he stretched in his bedroll, he glanced over at Skjöld, who was grilling fresh fish over the flames while simmering barley in a soapstone pot. Like the Sámi people of the Láhpi coastal tribe, Haldor’s young acolyte was a capable fisherman.
And an excellent cook.
Skjöld noticed that Haldor was awake. He grinned from ear to ear, the blue beads in his braided beard glinting in the early morning light. “I caught us three cod.” he announced proudly, referring to the skewered white flesh grilling over the flames. “Skinned and gutted them, offering the entrails to theÁhkkáspirits of the fjord. To thank them for their bounty.” He stirred the porridge, removed it from the fire, and placed the pot atop a flat stone, where he added lingonberries and wild thyme before covering it with the lid. “I poured the blood of the fish onto the roots of the tree where we moored the boat. To thank thelandvættirof the forest for protecting it. And us.” Skjöld’s limpid eyes were as blue as the sacred waters of the fjord. And the fierce, tattooed dragon which coiled around his corded neck.
