Haldor sipped from his mug of mead, eyeing the dwarf over the rim. He set the wooden cup down, a curious gleam glinting in his dark eyes. “I did indeed. How did you know that?”
“Because I forged the Dwarven bladeÚlfsongr,at Bluetooth’s behest. For the leader of theÚlfhéðnarwarriors he sent into battle in the Faroe Islands. A Volsung warrior descended from Odin. The legendary White Wolf, Brökk Sigurdsson.”
Chapter 4
Ísfir
At the mention of the Dwarven sword and the legendary White Wolf,memories flooded Haldor.
The bloody battle to defend his newly established stronghold in Tórshavn, which had come under attack by the same Rus raiders andDökkálfardark elves who were now headed toward Dvalinn’s cave.
TheÚlfhéðnarwarriors who had shifted into vicious wolves, tearing the Dark Elves apart with razor sharp claws and bloodied maws.
And theDökkálfarspear which had penetrated Brökk’s chain mail armor under the white wolfskin cloak while he wielded the Dwarven sword,Úlfsongr.
Haldor remembered how Njáll, the tallÚlfhéðinnin the black wolfskin, and Bodo, the brown wolf who was Brökk’s closest friend, had taken their wounded leader west to Ísland, to be cured by a skilledLjósálfarhealer that Brökk knew well. But the White Wolf had died during the voyage, and theÚlfhéðnarpair had returned to the Faroe Islands without him or the Dwarven sword. They had entrusted the legendary blade to theLjósálfarhealer, who was guardingÚlfsongruntil Brökk’s son Njörd came to reclaim it.
Haldor thought again of Úlvhild, the woman he loved.
Thevölvawho had foreseen the interwoven threads of fate.
She’d prophesied that Njörd would reclaim his father’s Dwarven sword. And that Skjöld, theSon of the Dragon,would help theWolf of the Nordic Seasfulfill his fateful quest.
She’d also predicted that Skjöld—the child born to the son of the Danish king and the daughter of the Norman duke— would forge a dynastyto unite the land and rule for a thousand years.
Skjöld’s deep voice interrupted Haldor’s reverie. “In my vision,” he informed Dvalinn, “I saw your hoard of Dwarven weapons.” He gulped from his goblet, hand shaking as he lowered the wooden mug onto the table. “Among them, an icy shield, with waves of glowing runes. And a brilliant gem encased in silver.” Skjöld’s dark blue eyes danced like sunlit waves of the sparkling fjord. “That shield sang to my soul. I am meant to wield it.”
Dvalinn drained his mead and swiped a swarthy hand across his bearded lips. He rose from the table and indicated the stone corridor behind him with a jut of his chin. Illuminated with torches in metal sconces along the stone walls, the narrow hallway led from the open chamber where they now sat, deep into the darkened recesses of the clifftop cave. “Come with me.”
They followed the stocky, rugged dwarf past closed wooden doors on either side of the hallway, which Skjöld suspected sheltered sleeping areas for Dvalinn and his servant. At the end of the corridor, two copper-haired dwarves, both clad in sooty leather aprons, hammered a glowing weapon, fresh from the blazing forge. “My apprentices, Durinn and Dáinn.” At the sound of their mentor’s voice, they looked up, nodded in respect, then diligently returned to their arduous work.
Dvalinn fetched an iron key, shaped like a warhammer’s head, and unlocked a dark, burnished metal door etched with ancient runes beneath a vaulted stone arch. Like flickers of fire curling around craggy rock, the runes glowed as the dwarf fit the key into the blackened lock. With a creak of metal scraping against immutable stone, the heavy door swung open.
And sparks sizzled up Skjöld’s spine.
As if within a cryptic tomb, the dry, metallic air hovered between stone walls etched with sigils of protective spells. Enchanted gems, glowing like embers, pulsed inside repetitive patterns of Nordic runes carved into the rugged walls, their triangular shape evoking the image of the mountain itself. As a trained Vikingvitki,Skjöld recognized the runes at once.
Algiz,the Elk, at the top of each triangle, its defensive antlers outstretched to Ásgard.
Eiwaz, the yew tree, symbol of Yggdrasil, the living link between worlds, connecting the roots of ancestral spirits with the divine protection of the gods.
Othala,symbol of inheritance. For Dvalinn’s bloodline, Dwarven weapons, and heritage asFjallvöðr, the Mountain’s Guardian.
Skjöld scanned the vaulted armory, where axes, hammers, spears, and swords lined the weapon racks carved into the rugged stone. Along the southern wall, mounted hooks displayed full suits of chain mail armor, tooled leather plates, and rune-inscribed helms. Arrow slits—narrow windows carved into the western face of the cliff—peered out over the churning surf far below.
And there—on the northern wall, in a recessed corner covered in frosted stone—stood the shimmering shield that theÁhkkáhad revealed in hisspiritvision.
Shaped like an inverted droplet, it glimmered icy blue, the sapphire colored runes glowing in flowing waves. At its heart, a pale gem pulsed with power, radiating like a captured star.
Skjöld stared, transfixed, as the Celtic spirals and Nordic runes tattooed amongst waves on his forearms flowed in rhythm with the symbols on the shield.
“Ísfirawakens.” Dvalinn’s gruff whisper wafted on the salty wind floating through the narrow windows. “The runes recognize you. And theHrímsúlheart beats with your own.”Golden eyes aglow with otherworldly light, the Dwarven blacksmith gestured to the shimmering shield. “Take it. It is yours.”
Pulse pounding, limbs shaking, Skjöld slowly approached the frigid corner of the vaulted armory where a rear-mounted stand supported the droplet-shaped shield. Its tip pointed downward to a crescent of glowing runes carved into the stone, as if binding a protective spell. In the heart of the ice blue shield, theHrímsúlgem glimmered as wisps of mist curled from theancient stone like frozen smoke or frosted breath.
When Skjöld gripped the leather- bound metal handle and lifted the shield from its stand, power surged up the runes of his forearm like a mammoth wave flooding the fjord. He hefted the weapon—it was much lighter than he expected, as if it were a mere extension of his own arm. He rotated it, testing the arc and the balance, feeling how it would swing, tilt, or deflect a blow. Equally awed by the inimitable Dwarven craftsmanship and the preternatural power imbued into the runes and enchanted gem, he ran reverent fingertips over the dark blue glowing marks which flowed along the length of the silvery shield.
“Ísfir—forged from the crystallized wood of a sacred ash tree.” Dvalinn watched as Haldor joined Skjöld in admiring the gleaming shield. With a calloused, sooty hand, the dwarf gestured to the stormy blue metal of the rim. “Dwarven steel,” he grunted proudly, as the two Vikingvitkarexamined the elaborate patterns of Nordic runes carved into the frame. Deeply etched into the intricate forgework, the grooves inlaid with frosted silver glimmered in the morning light. Though the Dwarven steel was cold to the touch, the runes throbbed like living veins. At the heart of the shield, encased within the metal boss, the pale blue facetedgem sparkled amidst runes that spiraled outward like fractals of frost.
