“Richard the Fearless has otherworldly allies.Úlfhéðnar…Ljósálfar…and, if the tales of our disastrous defeat in Ísland are to be believed…afrostdragonwho hurls frozen flame.”
Silent and deadly like a coiled snake poised to strike, Zhúlgorr simply stared, waiting for Lothaire to explain why he had come all the way to Frisia. And why he had summoned him now.
“YourDökkálfarwill destroy the wolf warriors and Light Elves while I attack Richard the Fearless and Hugh Capet. We strike on the vernal equinox. As the Frankish king who rules Frisia—and therefore, your lucrative establishment here in Dorestad—I expect your unwavering loyalty and immediate obedience.”
Zhúlgorr inhaled deeply and released a slow hiss. “MyDökkálfarblacksmith Gúldur perished in the disastrous battle of Ísland. As did my ally Skugga, and myvölvaMyrkkha. We lost hundreds of men… five ships…I sent dozens ofDökkálfarto their deaths.” Hegrimaced, revealing a revolting array of rotten fangs. “When Alberic of Soissons tried to seizeChâteau Blancby stealth, three dozen of myDökkálfarperished with him. Now you demand five dozen more?”
Lothaire smoothed the white ermine fur of his royal blue velvet cloak. “I do indeed. For you, Lord Zhúlgorr, need this victory as much as I.”
Suppressing a shudder of revulsion, he fixed Zhúlgorr’s serpentine stare. “If the council convenes in Noyon and elects Hugh Capet as the new king, do you truly believe he will permit you to sellDökkálfarwares in Dorestad?” Lothaire pressed both bejeweled hands upon the polished oak table and leaned forward, his steely voice soft as silk. “You and yourDökkálfararmy will aid mine in eliminating this threat to my crown. Now tell me, Lord Zhúlgorr—master of dark arts and dealer in death—how will you slay thefrostdragon?”
Zhúlgorr’s eyes flicked to the window where thick smoke from a forge swirled upward into dark, heavy clouds. “I have the means to sear its wings and topple it from the skies. But first—my price. You will name me Duke of Dorestad — by formal writ and Frankish seal. Let the royal decree plainly state that the title shall not be voided by your death, nor revoked by any future king.”
Lothaire nodded once, firmly. “So be it. But as long as I draw breath and my blood wears the crown—you shall continue to serve me.”
Zhúlgorr rose from the table. He didn’t even glance at the two dozen royal guards tensely awaiting Lothaire’s command. His raspy voice was the hiss of a snake. “Come with me.Alone.”
Lothaire’s legs shook under his blue velvet robe. He would never have named Zhúlgorr as Duke of Dorestad by choice. Yet, if he did not concede to theDökkálfar’s demand, he would never hold his crown. And Zhúlgorr had the means to bring down the dragon.
With a slight nod, Lothaire stood. “Wait here,” he ordered his captain. “If I do not return within the hour, come retrieve me by blade.”
Chain mail clinking as his shoulders squared, gloved hand on his gleaming sword, Baldric’s voice was as sharp as Frankish steel. “As you command, my king.”
Lothaire followed Zhúlgorr out the side door.
They crossed the narrow dirt path from the tavern toward the blacksmith’s forge, where patches of churned mud clung to deep ruts worn by boots, wagons, and hooves. Amid clumps of ash and soot, discarded broken tools, and the endless clang of hammer on anvil, Zhúlgorr’s heavy footsteps kicked up dust as he led Lothaire through choking smoke toward the heavy oak door bound with iron bands.
With a swift shove, he flung it open.
Blistering heat shimmered off scorched stone walls, sparks soaring in swirls of dark smoke. The acrid stench of molten metal and smoldering soot hit Lothaire like a blow to the gut.
Before them lay the blazing core of the forge. Where a hulking beast lurked, shadows slithering like snakes from its jagged maw.
A creature of ridged scales and coiled sinew, it stood taller than any man, with reptilian hide like blackened iron. Twisting horns curled back from its misshapen skull, and beneath its heavy brow, golden eyes burned with malice and menace.
As though flames surged just beneath the blackened skin, the beast’s massive right arm pulsed like glowing coals from curved elbow to clawed fingers. Like the forge itself, swirls of heat shimmered from it, distorting the thick, smoky air.
Lothaire’s breath hitched as his hand instinctively dropped to his sword.
Zhúlgorr stepped past him, his voice rasping with pride. “Meet Zorvik. Born of a mountain troll and a fire giantess. His body was forged in the furnaces ofMuspelheim… and his molten blood sings with flame.”
He stopped beside the smoldering brute.
“Though full-blooded trolls can assume any shape—such as Narglok,the spy who served your slain Count of Soissons—Zorvik is limited to human form.” Zhúlgorr flashed a revolting reptilian smile. “Butanyhuman form he chooses.”
With a nod from Zhúlgorr, Zorvik transformed.
Before Lothaire’s very eyes, the plated scales sloughed off like ash, bones grinding like scraped stone as the curved horns retracted. The molten glow of the beast’s right arm dimmed, the fiery cracks vanishing beneath smooth, pale skin. Within seconds, the creature was gone.
And in its place stood a man.
With the dark wavy hair, handsome features, and regal bearing of Hugh Capet.
Lothaire stared in stunned stupefaction, mouth agape.
TheDökkálfarcackled, harsh and dry. “Myvölvaforesaw the prophecy. ‘The Son of the Dragon will shield the cape and defend the future crown.’” He snickered with snide delight. “When you march on Noyon, he will shield the wrong cape. While you, my king, slay the real Hugh Capet. And eliminate the threat to your West Frankish crown.”
Lothaire walked slowly around the impressive impostor, admiring the incredible likeness. He raised an inquisitive brow. “How will I know which is Zorvik?”
