Luna searched Njáll’s scarred face. “No wounds?”
He flashed a feral grin. “Not a scratch. But I still hunger for your healing touch.” He raised Luna’s luminous hand to his darkly bearded lips. “Come, myLjósálfarlove. Heal the hunger that only you can cure.”
When royal attendants appeared to escort the queen to her private chambers, Njörd kissed his mother’s hand. “Goodnight,Moðir.See you in the morning.”
Elfi bent to kiss the queen’s cheek. “Thank you again for your generous wedding gifts. I cannot wait to see ourMiralircastle. And now, with theLjósálfarmagic ofmir glir,I can live there with Njörd.” She straightened her back, strained with the weight of carrying her babe Nyssara. She smiled at Íssla. “I look forward to our celebration tomorrow inÁlfheim.Good night,Moðir.”
Obviously delighted by the affectionate name, the queen’s beaming face made Elfi’s heart soar.
When Bodo arrived to reclaim his bride, Elfi kissed both his cheek and Sif’s. “I won’t see you tomorrow night,” she said to Sif, “for we’ll be inÁlfheim.But have fun dancing around the bonfire with your handsome wolf.”
“And you must tell me all about your moonstone castle on the Elandrian Sea. A tale worthy of legend!” Hooking her arm through her husband’s, Sif left with Bodo, returning to his cottage in the village.
Guests were dispersing— heading home to huts, longhouses, or private quarters in the castle and its towers. Elfi kissed herammaandfaðirgoodnight, then departed the Great Hall with Njörd.
A delicious thrill shivered up her spine. Tomorrow, she would see her moonstone castle.
And feast on frosted starfruit inÁlfheim.
Chapter 42
Stratagems and Skógahjarta
“Lothaire might very well send a fleet of Frankish ships to sail up the Seine and reclaim Paris once Capet has leftl’ Île de la Cité.”King Sweyn tugged on his forked, braided beard, contemplating strategy. “I’ll send Tryggvi—with a fleet of Danishdrakkar—to reinforce your harbor atLe Havre.If Lothaire wants Paris, he’ll have to sail up the Seine.” He took a long pull of mead and slammed his goblet on the polished oak table. “So we intercept him at the mouth of the river on the Narrow Sea.”
The piney, resinous tang of juniper rose from the fragrant fire which crackled and snapped in the hearth of Lord Thorfinn’s solar. Morning sunlight danced on the white-capped waves which curled and crashed against the craggy shore far below the clifftop castle. Skjöld gazed out the partially open window, breathing in the cleansing scent of the sea which wafted in on the briny breeze. Jarl Rikard’s commanding voice interrupted his reverie and dragged him back to the war council.
“Lothaire is allied with theDökkálfar.We’ll need theÚlfhéðnarto battle them.” Rikard’s resolute gaze fixed on Njörd. “Wolf of the Nordic Seas—you, Úlf, and Hrólf Redbeard commanded the ships which sailed to Ísland. Lead us now…and defend Paris for Hugh Capet.”
Njörd nodded once, firmly. “Agreed.”
“I shall accompany Capet to Noyon. He will be guarded by a retinue of one hundred and fifty armored mounted knights, with fifty scouts riding well ahead. I shall bring one hundred Norman knights to ride beside him. The Count of Anjou and the Duke of Aquitaine areeach sending a contingent of one hundred mounted guards to ride with us from Paris. Together, we shall have five hundred men. A formidable force to face the Frankish king.”
Njörd strode to the window and stared out at the sea. He turned to face the council gathered around Thorfinn’s large table. “Úlvhild foresaw that the battle would take place nearla Montagne Couronnée—Lothaire’s mountaintop castle in Lâon.”
Thorfinn leaned forward, arms crossed, the firelight catching the iron rings of hisbrynja. “Lâon lies to the north,” he stated flatly, stabbing a finger at the roughly sketched map, its corners pinned by daggers to the table. “Capet and Rikard are riding from Paris to Noyon, which lies to the east. The direct road runs throughCompiègne.” He glanced up at Skårde, dark eyes shrewd and steady. “No army marchesnorthto reach the east.” Silence stretched across the sun-filled solar. “So tell me, husband of my beloved daughter…why are you proposing we storm into Lothaire’s shadow?”
Skårde stood and bent over the map, tracing the sinuous line of a river. Pride surged through Skjöld as he watched hisfaðir—the renownedDragon of Denmarkand seasoned commander of Jarl Rikard’s Danish army throughout thePays de Caux—outline his stratagem.
“The most direct route is throughCompiègne,as you say, Thorfinn. But it also follows the river Oise.” Skårde’s resolute gaze was sharp as steel. “The council convenes on the vernal equinox—in the midst of the spring thaw. The banks of the river will be underwater, the dirt roads impassable. If we attempt to march an army of five hundred mounted men through that, we’ll have broken horse legs, clogged supply wagons, and men mired in mud.”
He drew his finger eastward, toward the royal fortress of Lâon. “The only solid route is along this old Roman road, which runs just belowla Montagne Couronnée— Lothaire’s mountaintop castle. He knows we’ll be forced to take it. And that is why he’ll strike us there.”
Sweyn stood beside Skårde, leaning over the map. As he beheld his uncle and hisfaðir— both towering blond brutes, bornto hisáfi, King Harald Bluetooth—Skjöld remarked how alike the twobroðirwere.
And how much he resembled them both.
“Use it to your advantage.” Sweyn cast a cunning grin over the war council. “March right through, as if you are unaware of the ambush.” He spun to Jarl Rikard. “Send your scouts ahead. Fifty men. Thorfinn’s knights and Capet’s. Lothaire will wait for them to pass through. But when he sees Capet’s new banner—blue as the river Seine, the silver ship of Paris gleaming forla Ville Lumièrebeneath a trio of goldenfleurs-de-lys, emblems of the Frankish monarchy itself—then he will strike. In livid fury.”
Sweyn’s deep voice was calm and cold, treacherous as the icy fjords of Norway. “And when the ambush is in full force, the rear guard closes in. Skårde’s men attack from the east. Haldor Falk’s birds, from the skies. TheÚlfhéðnarandLjósálfarturn theDökkálfarto stone.” His scarred, tattooed face broke into a broad grin as he glanced at Skadi, seated beside Skjöld. “And ourfrostdragon,”he whispered, sending shivers up Skjöld’s spine, “will unleash her icy flame… and turn them all to ash.”
“I leave Rouen on the tenth of March and meet Capet in Paris onla Rive Droite—the Right Bank of the Seine, where his army will converge.” Jarl Rikard spoke to Thorfinn, seated across from him at the council table. “Bring the fifty men who will serve as scouts to Rouen. We’ll ride to Paris together and join Capet’s forces, departing on the fourteenth of March. We’ll arrive at the Roman road belowla Montagne Couronnéeon the vernal equinox.”
Rikardturned to Skjöld. “The prophecy proclaims thatthe Son of the Dragon will shield the cape and defend the future crown.You, Haldor, and Skadi will ride to Paris with me, as will Luna and Lugh. Once you return to Normandy from theDragon’s Leapcave, come to my hall in Rouen on the ninth of March. We’ll depart for Paris the following day. You will be Capet’s personal guard, entrustedwith defending him with your Dwarven shield.”
The duke frowned, glancing down at the map, as if a disturbing thought had just occurred to him. “Adalbero, the Archbishop of Reims, and several members of the Christian clergy will be riding with Capet. Shield them as well.” His concerned gaze swept over Lugh and Luna. “And protect theLjósálfarwith theirgildirstarstones. They will be crucial against theDökkálfar.”
“I will ride with you as well, Jarl Rikard.” Njáll’s low growl hung heavy in the silent solar. “I shall defend Luna, along with Skjöld. No one will harm her while I live.”
