Elfi sipped the steaming brew, the bitter bite of yarrow and the tang of raspberry leaf sweetened by the floral taste of chamomile. The warmth spread through her belly, easing the edge of the pain… until another wave crashed over her, wrenching her in its unyielding grip.
Vivi returned with the nine stones, which she, Úlvhild, and Ylva arranged in an alternating pattern at the base of the curving wall, forming a sacred circle around the room. “Moonstone… for cycles, tides, and safe childbirth. May the moon and the sea guide your daughter safely into the world.” Úlvhild placed the pearlescent stones along the floor of Elfi’s chamber, their pale glow shimmering softly.
“Lapis lazuli, for the strength of the sea—to nourish yoursjóvættirspirit,” she continued, guiding Vivi’s hand as the young priestess set each deep blue gem, its golden veins glimmering in the morning sun, beside the moonstones.
Ylva followed, completing the triple pattern with crystalline gems. “And clear quartz, for clarity and protection—to amplify the divine light of the goddess Frigg.”
Elfi groaned as another wave of pain smothered her, stealing her breath. She bent over the bed, head hanging down, arching her back against the clamping vice of her belly.
Úlvhild, Vivi, and Ylva began to chant, their melodic voices mellow as mead and light as lyres and flutes. As they sang avardlokkurto call forth the protective spirits, Úlvhild thumped her moonstone staff on the polished oak floor.
When their song faded into the salty wind streaming through the open windows, Úlvhild lifted her staff and whispered an invocation. “Frigg, Goddess of Birth and Motherhood,” she murmured, her voice ethereal and otherworldly, “Guide this childinto the world and guard her mother Elfi. Shield them both from harm.”
“Breathe,” Úlvhild murmured, her faraway voice drifting to Elfi through the endless fog of pain. “Let the sea, the stones, and the sacred smoke bless both you and your babe.”
* * * *
The morning sun glimmered on the waves of Narrow Sea at the mouth of the river which led tol’ Íle de la Cité—the island of Paris in the heart of the Seine. Njörd had arrived with his fleet of nine ships and coordinated with Jarl Rikard and Hugh Capet. After final farewells to theÚlfhéðnar,Ljósálfar,Haldor, Thorfinn, Skadi, and Skjöld—who had marched with the army of mounted men, headed into battle near Noyon—he now stood at the prow ofDrakkúlfr,waiting for theenemy to appear.
The brackish breeze of the estuary ruffled the white wolfskin fur of his cloak, his sensitive ears twitching against the gusting wind. The nine ships of their small fleet now stretched across the narrow channel, anchored and chained together so that no hostile vessel could pass through.
The iron chains creaked under the pull of the tide, groaning like ancient beasts as waves slammed against the weathered oak hulls. Sea foam sprayed his thick beard, harsh wind biting his salty skin, as he scanned the dim horizon. In the distance, from the east, black shapes moved steadily toward them. Four Frankish warships, with their Rus raider allies in eight sleeksnekkja–like Skugga’s fleet which had attacked them in Ísland—swinging oars and raising shields. Crouched along the rails, cloaked in dark hoods against the rising sun, were the sinister, shadowed forms ofDökkálfar, their golden eyes glinting like venomous snakes about to strike.
Twelve enemy ships against their nine.
The grim odds sent a ripple of dread shivering up Njörd’s spine.
The first volley of arrows and javelins flew, hissing through the brackish air. Njörd roared, “Shields up!”, and his crew braced behind adefensive wall of painted blue wooden shields, each bearing the snarling face and fangs of a fierce white wolf, blackened runes etched into the polished metal rim. The projectiles thwacked and clanged as they embedded in hulls, splintering timber as chains rattled and ships shuddered under the relentless barrage.
“Hold the line!” Njörd bellowed, his booming voice carrying across the narrow channel as enemy vessels slammed against the chained longships, clinker planks groaning and cracking under the explosive impact. Screeching oars and the hiss of ropes filled the air as grappling hooks caught rails, pullingsnekkjaalongsideDrakkúlfr, Hrafnvarg, and Sköllrökr. Armored Rus raiders and deadlyDökkálfarleapt onto the decks, shields clanging, axes biting wood and bone, while the scent of salt, blood, and the acrid smoke of flaming arrows and burning pitch choked the salty air.
As Njörd sliced through the chargingDökkáfarwith his Dwarven sword, Úlfsongrsang—a low, resonant rumble like the growl of a wolf. When the gleaming blade bit into their dark reptilian skin, a crackling hiss arose, sharp as ice splintering on a frozen lake. The eerie creak became a brittle snap as black scales turned to grey stone, light searing through the sealing fissures like molten silver and white-hot flame.
AboardDragonfire,Hjálmarr buried his bearded axe in the skull of a Rus raider, then impaled aDökkálfarwith theLjósálfardagger gifted him by Áryndor.
Úlf wielded sword and axe to repel Rus raiders swarmingHrafnvarg’srails.Njörd saw him take a garish slice across the face by aDökkálfarblade. His grey wolfskin cloak splattered with blood, the enormousÚlfhéðinnroared with rage, impaling his attacker with the same deadlydagger that had once belonged to Áki. TheDökkálfarblade that had nearly claimed the great grey wolf’s life, which Lugh had cleansed inÁlfheimand infused withLjósálfarlight. Creaking and hissing as skin turned to stone, theDökkálfarpetrified into a statue, which Úlf kicked off his ship into the swirling storm of the Seine.
Long, luminous fingers glowing with brilliant ethereal light, Olvir quickly healed Úlf’s wound, the hideous gash andDökkálfardarkness disappearing under hisLjósálfartouch.
Chain mailbrynjaglinting in the morning sun, Tryggvi fended off Frankish soldiers and Rus raiders clawing to boardVindbjörn.When dozens ofDökkálfarswarmed the deck of the Danishdrakkar,Áryndor raised hisgildirstarstone, petrifying them with the blinding brilliance of the midday sun. Swirls of smoke coiled from their writhing bodies, slithering like snakes as obsidian scales hardened, hideous faces contorting into eternal grimaces of pain.
Tryggvi and his Danish warriors heaved the lifeless statues overboard, the heavy thuds splashing as they vanished beneath the waves, swallowed by the blood-streaked sea.
Chaos and carnage engulfed the line of nine chained ships.
Shields splintered, oars snapped, and the air rang with the clash of iron and the roar of men locked in deadly, desperate combat. Njörd saw warriors he’d fought beside for ten winters cut down around him—valiant men who had sailed with him from the rugged Nordic coasts down the Volga River to the Caspian Sea. Fearsome Danes who had followed him from Ribe to Étretat, bound by brotherhood and battle-song— now lost before his grieving eyes.
On Haldor’s ship, the old sword master Bjarni defendedFreyja’s Falconagainst a rush of Rus raiders, buying hisBlóðsmiðrcrew precious time before he fell beneath their ruthless blades. Aboard Skjöld’s new shipHrímdreki,the helmsman was struck down as he angled the hull to absorb the impact of a rammingsnekkjaprow. The chained ships groaned under the strain, the force splintering planks and hurling men to the damaged deck. Even critically wounded, Durk fought on, his right arm slick with blood, his axe rising and falling in the hailstorm of arrows, spears, and swords.
Throughout the endless day of clanging steel, shrieks of agony, and the relentless deluge of arrows and crossbow bolts, Njörd andhis Viking crews valiantly held the line. Muscles screaming, bodies bruised and bleeding, every wave slammed their chained ships like a blacksmith’s hammer on glowing iron.
Finally, night fell.
The brackish wind carried the stench of blood, entrails, and burning pitch across the darkened sea. The wooden decks were slick with seawater, vomit, and gore, the wounded groaning softly where they lay against splintered planks and hulls. Men moved like wraiths—bleeding, bone-weary, their arms shaking from the incessant swing of sword or axe. Shields were shattered. Quivers were nearly empty. Every shift of the tide strained the chains which joined Njörd’s nine ships.
Yet still they held, vessels and men alike groaning under the unyielding pressure, Viking valor the final barrier between river and ruin.
In the gloom of the rising moon, the enemy ships drew back, torches bobbing like hungry, predatory eyes as they pulled away to regroup and rally. The reprieve was brief and brittle, the calm only sharpening the dread.
