Skjöld traced the runes etched along the edges, running fingertips over the trio of deep blue gems whose golden threads glittered in the firelight. “Lapis lazuli… my spirit stone as anoaidi,”he murmured in awe, his incredulous gaze fixing on Elfi. “Surely this is a gift from the Norns.” He lifted his long blond hair for Skadi to tie the black leather cord behind his neck. Tucking it beneath his deep blue woolen tunic, he let his braided locks fall over his broad shoulders, gratitude and destiny ablaze in his warrior gaze.
They returned to their plates heaped with fresh fish, while servants refilled goblets and horns with golden mead. The scent of juniper in the flickering hearth reminded Úlvhild of Haldor’s tender nurturing in theDragon’s Leapcave. When nostalgic tears filled her eyes, she quickly hid them by sipping her honeyed brew.
Haldor washed down a mouthful of haddock with a gulp from his horn, wiping his dark moustache with the back of a scarred hand. He asked Njörd, “Did yourmoðirreturn to theÍslyracastle?”
“Já,” Njörd replied with a grin. “I escorted her home to Ólafsvik through the waterfall cave portal. While there, I ordered the crew of my ship—the one I took to Denmark to speak with Sweyn—to return in time to sail to Paris. They arrived this week.” He took a long pull of mead. “I have three longships ready to meet Tryggvi atLe Havre,on the mouth of the Seine. He commands the threedrakkarsent by Sweyn.”
“Freyja’s Falconwill sail with you to Paris. MyBlóðsmiðrcrew are adept at sea warfare.” Haldor lifted his horn and nodded to Njörd.
Skjöld grinned at Haldor. “Hjálmarr thirsts for vengeance against theDökkálfarwho cost him his ship.” His fierce blue eyes fixed on Njörd. “Dragonfirewill sail with your fleet, as will my new vessel,Hrímdreki, which uncle Sweyn bequeathed to Skadi and me as awedding gift.” He raised his wife’s pale hand to his blond bearded lips and bestowed a gallant kiss. “That makes nine ships for you to sail to Paris—the sacred number nine. Surely the Norns will weave the threads of our fates with victory,” Skjöld raised his horn high.
“Or Valhalla.” Haldor’s deep voice sent a ripple of dread down Úlvhild’s spine.
“To victory or Valhalla!Skál!” Njörd raised his horn, and they all drank in tribute.
As servants cleared away the platters, and the music took a lively turn, Haldor rose from the table. “Enough talk of battle,” he grunted, grasping Úlvhild’s hand and helping her to a stand. “Come, wife,” he growled with a feral grin. “I want to hold you in my arms… and dance beneath the stars.”
Chapter 44
Blood and Breath for Battle
In the morning, while Haldor and the men trained in the courtyard, Úlvhild returned to her thatched roof hut in the village. When she entered through the heavy wooden door with its ornate iron latch, Kól jumped from the luxurious pile of furs on the small bed and swirled in circles around her legs. His loud purr sent rumbles up her limbs beneath the grey woolen gown.
She scooped him up and cradled him in her arms like a babe, caressing his silky black fur. “I have a treat for you,” she cooed, setting him down onto the rush-strewn pinewood floor and fetching a small bowl from her wooden shelf. She flaked the fresh fish fromdagmálinto the container and set it down before her beloved cat.
Kól pounced on his delectable feast.
Úlvhild opened the windows on opposite sides of the cottage, to let in the cleansing saline breeze and the crisp scent of the nearby forest. With her firesteel tool, she coaxed sparks into small flames, adding timber until a roaring fire flickered in her stone hearth. From the covered jars and vials on her shelf, she selected juniper, meadowsweet, and sage, tossing the herbs into the flames. As the dark purple berries crackled and snapped, the resinous scent wafted into the warm air.
She carried leather pouches to the polished table, spreading amethysts, emeralds, garnets, and assorted glittering gems for the women to select stones which they would imbue as protective talismans for their men. A larger pouch contained silver bezels which she would heat with tongs, etching runes into the metal with the tip of her dagger,Freyja’s Whisper,before shaping them to fit the stones.
Beside the ornate dagger, which she laid upon the table, she set the gem-encrusted silver chalice reserved for blood rituals, just as the women arrived at her door.
While they hung their cloaks on hooks near the entrance and searched among the gems, Kól dashed to greet Vivi, who had cared for him while Úlvhild recovered in theDragon’s Leapcave. After the girl stroked his sleek black fur, the contented cat jumped through the open window, off to hunt and explore.
Úlvhild approached the young priestess, who had inherited her mother Ylva’s otherworldly gift of sight through water—like her older brother Skjöld—and was now training to become avölva. She gave the girl of twelve winters an affectionate hug. “Thank you for taking such good care of Kól,” she whispered in Vivi’s ear. “Please accept this as a token of my gratitude.” She gave Vivi a silver band set with a glittering dark green gem. “Emerald… like the ring I once gave yourmoðir—to heal her broken heart. The same stone she selected for the emerald talisman she crafted for yourfaðir.”
When Vivi slipped the ring on her delicate finger, Úlvhild added, “Skårde has always worn it into war. It saved his life in the battle against the Raven Warrior, when he helped youráfi, Jarl Rikard, reclaim his fortress in Fécamp.” She tenderly pushed a strand of long blonde hair from Vivi’s glowing face. “May it protect you, and enhance your gift of sight.”
“Thank you, Úlvhild. I shall treasure it always.” Vivi wrapped her arms around Úlvhild’s shoulders and squeezed her tight.
“Come, let’s see which stones they have chosen.” Úlvhild led the girl to the table, where Vivi sat down on the bench beside her mother. Gratitude and love shone in Ylva’s bright blue gaze as she wordlessly thanked Úlvhild.
Úlvhild poured mead into the elaborate silver chalice and set it on the table beside her dagger,Freyja’s Whisper. Though she would consume no herbs to induce a trance—for fear of harming the babe in her womb—she tossed meadowsweet, angelica, andyarrow into the flames of the hearth. As the sweet smoke curled into the air like supplicant fingers reaching to the gods, she thumped her moonstone staff on the wooden floor of the hut like a drum, chanting avardlokkurto summon benevolent spirits and the Norse gods.
Vivi and Ylva joined their voices to hers, the same melodic trio that had blessed the ships sailing to battle in Ísland, and would do so again in two days, when the men went off to war.
Leaning her staff against the wall near the fragrant hearth, Úlvhild returned to the table where the glowing amber stone she had chosen for Haldor’s talisman lay beside the dagger. “Prick the tip of your finger,” she explained, lifting the ritual knife and demonstrating as she spoke, “and let three drops of blood flow into the stone. Whisper an invocation to the god or goddess you have chosen, and seal the sacred blessing with your blood and breath.”
As the trio of scarlet droplets fell onto the amber stone, Úlvhild invoked her blessed goddess.
“Freyja of the amber tears,
Goddess of love, war andseiðr.
Bless this gem with your golden light,
And guide my Falcon’s heart in flight.”
