“I found theHrímsúljewel entombed in ice on the northeast slope of the mountain,” Dvalinn explained as Skjöld and Haldor examined the glittering gem. “Where the land is frozen solid, as if Ymir himself had exhaled his ancient, glacial breath across the frostbitten stone."
Skjöld ran his thumb across an unfamiliar rune engraved on the inside of the shield, to the left of the grip. It shivered at his touch. And—like violet fire aflame in frozen sapphire— the gem glowed with otherworldly lavender light. “What rune is this? I do not recognize it.” He showed the carving to both Haldor and the dwarf.
“Eldhrímr.Frostfire. From the ice dragon giants ofJötunheim.” Dvalinn’s raspy voice was craggy and rugged as the cave. “Touch the rune to release a plume offrostfire. Point itdownward, as if etching the earth, and extend your arm as you rotate in a crescent or full arc. A shield wall offrostfirewill defend you and your allies. It will block arrows, deaden magic, and melt enemy projectiles before they reach you.” Dvalinn’s fiery gaze blazed like the flames of his Dwarven forge. “Or point the plume upward to destroy enemies with fire-laced frost. Melt them from within as they freeze from without.” The dwarf pointed to a second unfamiliar rune, etched into the right side of the shield’s handle. “Kaldheimr,”he whispered. “To retract the flame back into the gem. And call thefrostfirehome.”
Limbs trembling in awe, a stunned Skjöld glanced at Haldor, whose piercing eyes glinted with predatory intent. “You must practice wielding it. To be ready when the raiders attack.”
“Come outside. There is an area at the base of the stairs.” Dvalinn strode toward the arched doorway, leading them back into the cave.
But as Skjöld followed the dwarf from the vaulted armory, past rows of polished spears, his gaze was inexplicably drawn to one.
The spear he had seen in his vision.
A pointed blade— curved like the razor-sharp beak of a raptor—was etched with runes that glowed in the torchlight. At the base of the steel tip, a droplet shaped moonstone mirrored the tapered form of the lethal blade with an eerie, otherworldly glow. The slender but sturdy shaft was crafted from a silvery wood veined with deep blue markings, as if hewn from a frostbitten forest. Interwoven among engraved sigils and patterned feathers were fierce falcons taking flight.
Skjöld stopped in his tracks, transfixed.
“Ísfálkr,” Dvalinn murmured, reaching for the spear. “Ice Falcon. Crafted from the same frosted ashwood as theÍsfirshield.” The dwarf carefully removed the weapon from the stand and offered it reverently to Skjöld.
As he gripped the shaft of the spear—just as he’d experiencedwhen grasping the handle of the shield— the blue veins in the frosted wood flowed in waves like the tattoos on his forearms, sending a surge of power which rippled up his hand.
“LikeGungnir,Dwarvenspear of the Allfather Odin, Ísfálkrnever misses its mark.”Fierce pride hammeredDvalinn’s gravelly voice.
As Skjöld gripped the Dwarven spear, the image of Haldor hurling it toward thesnekkjaappeared in hisVeil of Vision. “Falcon of the Faroe Islands,” he said, handing thespjótto his mentor. “You must wieldÍsfálkr.To kill theDökkálfarwho commands the ship.”
Falcon eyes agleam with a blend of honor, respect, and wonder, Haldor accepted the Dwarven spear and ducked his bearded chin in hallowed gratitude.
Dvalinn watched with stoic silence as Haldor hefted the weapon in his palm, running his fingers over the runes and murmuring an incantation, as if binding its power to his own. As Haldor intoned hisgaldrchant, the inlaid moonstone glowed bright, the runes of the blade and the falcons in flight glimmering in the incandescent light. When Haldor nodded, his spell complete, Dvalinn led them through the arched vault of the armory, locking the burnished metal door behind him.
Skjöld followed the dwarf and Haldor down the narrow stone hall, through the vast hearth chamber where the servant cooked over an open fire.
Dvalinn led them down the mist-shrouded stone stairs, slick with moss and pale lichens. When they arrived at the grassy bank where the waterfall pooled into a pond and Skjöld’s spirit boat was concealed among the willows, the burly blacksmith indicated the curved end of a rocky outcrop. “Start with a shield wall around the base of the cliff. Include the three of us behind the wall of flame.”
Skjöld placed his right foot back, bracing himself and extending his shield arm as he brushed his thumb over theEldhrímrrune. With a crackling hiss, a fountain of ice blue fire frosted with silver and violet plumes burst forth from theHrímsúlgem. As Dvalinn had instructed, Skjöld pointed the flamedownward, rotating in a crescent and outlining the curved base of the cliff, while keeping the dwarf and Haldor behind him. A wall offrostfire, the height of two men, arose from the charred frozen earth, enclosing the rounded edge of the mountain and the three men in a shield of protective flame.
“You can’t shield and smite with the same flame. Call thefrostfirehome before you unleash it to strike.” He waited while Skjöld pressed theKaldheimrrune and retracted the shield wall of flame. “Now, fire at that target,” Dvalinn bellowed, indicating a dead willow at the edge of the shore.
Skjöld pointed the plume upward and pressed theEldhrímrrune with his thumb.
The gnarled tree erupted in blue flames.
Ice flickered on burning leaves, sparkling like frosted stars, the wreaths of fire scorching and splitting the frozen bark, leaving a pale, petrified husk.
Skjöld grinned from ear to ear, projecting plumes offrostfireat targeted rocks which shattered like shards of ice. He watched as Haldor hurledÍsfálkrat a distant tree on the opposite side of the island. And nearly burst with pride at the sound of a satisfying thwack.
“If you lance the Dwarven spear at aDökkálfar, it will turn him to stone.” Dvalinn snickered, gesturing to a grim statue posted atop the overhang of the cliff above his cave. “Like that one.” The curse-marked relic served as a visible warning to show intruders how fiercely Dvalinn theFjallvörðrguarded his mountain.
While Haldor strode briskly across the rocky terrain to retrieveÍsfálkrfrom the trunk of the tree, the trio of droplet shaped tattoos under Skjöld’s left eye—hisVeil of Vision—drew his attention to the reflective surface of the icy fjord.
There, in the shimmering waters, he glimpsed the crimson eyes of a scarlet-haired witch whose pallid skin was webbed with black tattoos. As her lurid image dissolved in the waves, thesnekkjalongship with the raven prow and blood-streaked black sailappeared amidst a swirl of shadows. And just as Skjöld turned to warn Dvalinn and Haldor of the ship’s imminent approach, the hauntingly beautiful face of a young woman with ice blue eyes aflame with violet fire flashed on the surface of the fjord, jolting him to the very core.
She is on the enemy ship.
And we must save her from the Dökkálfar..
Chapter 5
Skuggaflög
