Page 25 of Dragon of Denmark
Nen Glir
Ylva gazed down at her naked, wounded husband. His glorious skin—normally golden, glistening, and glowing with health and youthful vigor—was now ashen, shrunken, shriveled, and grey. The hideous wound on his stricken leg not only emitted a foul, fetid odor and revolting secretions. It pulsed with a malevolent power that progressively increased as it sapped Sk?rde’s strength.
A parasitic, malignant evil.
I will use my trinity of healing magic. The sacred number three.
Ylva began with her Druid powers.
She had learned healing herbs from her mother Lova near the sacred spring of Mont Garrot, in the Breton village of Saint-Suliac. To invoke and honor the Celtic Goddess Divona, whose divine power she would now wield to heal Sk?rde, Ylva selected three sacred herbs. Fragrant wildflowers she had picked in the grassy meadow near Chateaufort .
Vervain, for purification and protection. Meadowsweet, to fight his fever and the fire in his wound. And lavender, to cleanse the air and create a sacred atmosphere for healing.
From the shelf in her antechamber where she kept her herbs and salves, Ylva retrieved three silver bowls—a sacred metal associated with the moon and the color of Sk?rde’s heraldry. On the bedside table where she had recreated the shrine, she laid the three vessels, each engraved with sacred Celtic triskele symbols, at the base of the sculpted statue’s feet. Whispering incantations in the ancient Breton dialect of the Celtic Druids, Ylva placed the crushed wildflowers into each silver bowl and lit the sacred herbs, one by one. Amidst the sweet citrus of vervain, the honey almond of meadowsweet, and the delicate floral fragrance of lavender, Ylva invoked the healing essence of the herbs as she summoned the Celtic goddess of Sacred Springs.
Next, she would use her Nordic galdr magic.
The three gems she had enchanted last night—before her prayerful vigil in the moonlight—now sat near the incense burner on a side table. Chanting a vardlokkur incantation in the Norse dialect that úlvhild had taught her, Ylva placed the imbued stones on the floor around Sk?rde’s bed in a protective triangle of sacred healing.
The crystal quartz she laid at his head, to channel the divine energy of the goddess through his weakened body. The turquoise, symbol of the curative waters of the sacred springs and Ylva’s rune of Laguz , she placed at his right foot, to wash the wickedness from his wounded leg. And the emerald, symbol of the healing herbs of the sacred forest and the invincible strength of the dragon—the Dragon of Denmark, Normandy, and Chateaufort —she placed at Sk?rde’s left foot. Singing her invocation, she summoned the galdr magic within the trinity of sacred stones to cleanse the sickness from his stricken body.
And finally, for the very first time, she would now wield her third form of magic.
The gift that Luna had bestowed at Ylva’s wedding.
The Light Elven song of water.
The Ljósálfar magic of nen glir.
On the small table in the corner of the room stood the three silver flasks she had filled last night with the healing waters of Divona’s sacred spring from the waterfall pool. As sweet smoke purified the scented air, and galdr magic from the trinity of stones pulsed with protective power, Ylva stared at the Nordic runes engraved in the trio of silver flasks.
Algiz , rune of protection. Thurisaz , rune of Thor, whose thunder blazed across Sk?rde’s naked chest. Laguz , Ylva’s rune of water. Whose song she would now sing to wield the magic of nen glir .
And heal Sk?rde with the divine waters of Divona’s sacred spring.
I must offer a worthy sacrifice. As I did with Freyja’s Whisper when I crafted the emerald talisman, I’ll etch these runes with my blood.
Replicating the pure, crystalline notes of Luna’s Ljósálfar voice, Ylva sang from the depths of her soul. She withdrew the sharp knife from the belt at her waist and pricked the tip of the finger which bore her wedding ring. As she had done in úlvhild’s hut, Ylva placed three droplets of her blood into each of the three runes in the trinity of silver vials, melodiously vocalizing the Light Elven song of water.
When she’d finished etching the runes with her blood, she opened the first vial and anointed Sk?rde’s body with the healing water of the sacred spring. As fluid notes flowed from her like the waterfall cascading into the pool, she poured the pure water from the flask into Sk?rde’s putrid flesh. Her voice ethereal, ephemeral, and evanescent, Ylva invoked the magic of nen glir and summoned the healing essence of Divona’s sacred spring.
Sk?rde mumbled, tossing his head back and forth. Ylva grasped and opened the second silver vial from the table. Lifting his head from the pillow, she placed the rim to his lips and helped him drink from the flask. When she lowered him back down onto the bed, a sublime, serene expression illuminated his radiant face.
She continued singing, the limpid, liquid music bathing Sk?rde in the pristine magic of nen glir as she purged the poison from his wound. When the third flask was empty, he opened his eyes.
And seared her with the blue brilliance of a sunlit sea.
“Ylva.” His hoarse voice was raw and rough. He glanced around, recognizing his surroundings, and returned his attention to her. “How did I get here? The last thing I remember is battling Anvarr.” He raised his head to inspect his injured leg. “And the bite of his wicked blade.”
To Ylva’s utter astonishment, there was no trace of the atrocious wound. No black streaks. No scar. No sign that he had ever been injured. The flesh was completely healed. She leaned forward and brushed his lips with her own. “I healed you with nen glir .”
“The wedding gift from Luna.” He grinned, the golden glow of health restored to his bronzed, brawny skin. He reached up and tenderly stroked the side of her cheek. “I used the emerald talisman to summon Thor. That’s how I defeated Anvarr.” His hand searched for the missing pendant around his bare neck.
“It’s right here.” Ylva retrieved the amulet that she’d placed on the table when the men stripped off Sk?rde’s armor. “Raise your head so I can tie it.” When he complied, she fastened the emerald talisman around his neck. The blond tuft of hair at the base of his throat was irresistible. She nuzzled it, deeply inhaling his healthy male scent. “Thank you, Divona,” she whispered with reverence, relief, and gratitude.
Ylva rose from the bed and walked over to the table where she had placed the trio of herbal tinctures last night. From a ceramic pitcher, she poured water from the sacred spring into a goblet, mixing in one droplet each of sage, yarrow, and thyme. When she handed him the herbal brew, he sat up to drink it and noticed the shrine on the table beside the bed. “You brought her here.” He grinned at the silver coronet on the statue’s head. “The crown suits her. It’s simple, yet divine.” He drained the goblet and returned it to Ylva. “You even brought all the offerings from her altar.” Sk?rde smiled at the gems, coins, shells, and flowers. He frowned when he spotted her emerald ring.
“I offered it to Divona so she would grant my prayer to heal you.” Ylva wrapped her arms around Sk?rde, cradling his golden head over her grateful heart. “I am so thankful that she did.”
He pulled her down to sit beside him on the bed and engulfed her in a sinewy embrace. Warm, insistent lips sought hers, sending a searing current straight to her loins.
Despite her compelling desire, she disentangled herself from his strong arms and stood on unsteady legs. “You need to rest. And I must tell everyone that you’ve healed.” She fetched linens from the wooden armoire standing against the wall and spread a soft sheet over him. Since the salty spray coming through the open window was a bit cool despite the heat of late summer, she also draped a light blanket on top. Tucking the covers around him, she bent down to kiss his bearded cheek and whispered, “Sleep, my love. I’ll be back to check on you soon.”
Ylva extinguished the candle and banked the fire in the hearth. The herbs had burned out, but the sweet scent of floral smoke lingered in the purified air. When she looked at Sk?rde, she was delighted to see that he was already asleep. Kneeling before the shrine, she whispered her gratitude. “Thank you, dear goddess, for answering my prayers.” Rising to her feet, she bowed her head before the statue, gazed lovingly one last time at her sleeping husband, and quietly slipped from the room.
In the hallway, two armored knights stood guard. They spun toward her, instantly ready to obey.
“Odin be praised, Sk?rde has recovered. He is sleeping now. I’m going down to the Great Hall, but I’ll return soon. Allow no one to enter these rooms.”
“As you command, my lady.” The knight named Yvrou humbly bowed his coiffed head as Ylva strode down the hall toward the stone stairwell, her heart soaring like a northern gannet over the Narrow Sea.
****
The coppery stench of blood and the pungent aroma of herbs assailed Ylva’s nostrils as she entered the crowded, cramped Great Hall. Weaving among the wounded soldiers who lay on straw pallets along the walls, Ylva spotted úlvhild, Maeve, and Gyda. When Sk?rde’s grandmother saw her, she raced over, a curious blend of anxiety and relief etched into her crinkled brow.
“How is he?” Hands quavering as much as her tremulous voice, Gyda tightly clenched Ylva’s forearms.
“His wound has completely disappeared. There’s no trace of it at all. The nen glir magic cured him.” Ylva cradled a trembling Gyda, who sobbed for just a moment on her shoulder before composing herself, dashing away her tears, and inhaling deeply to summon her strength.
“Odin be praised.” She kissed Ylva’s cheek, bright eyes glimmering with gratitude. “Your father is here. He arrived about an hour ago. He’s in the solar with Bj?rn, Gunni, and Viggo. They’re planning to attack Fécamp, Before King Lothaire sends reinforcements. Lugh is there, too. With two other Ljósálfar warriors.” Gyda gestured across the hall. “Luna is here, helping us heal the wounded. She’s over there, near the hearth.”
Ylva saw the silvery blonde hair and luminous glow of the Ljósálfar who had gifted her the magic of nen glir . Making her way carefully across the chaotic Great Hall, she approached the Light Elven lady who had enabled her to save Sk?rde.
Luna’s radiant smile was as brilliant as the moonstone pendant at the base of her slender throat. “Greetings, Ylva. I am pleased to see you again, despite these desperate circumstances.” She gestured to the injured men whose pitiful moans rent the herb infused air.
“I wanted to thank you for the priceless gift of nen glir. I used it this very day to save my husband’s life.” Ylva lowered her head in gratitude.
“It is fortunate that you did, for Sk?rde was injured by a D?kkálfar blade. An enchanted sword imbued with Dark Elven magic. He would have died within three days if you had not healed him. Only Ljósálfar magic can cure such a fatal wound.” Luna pointed to a sheathed sword standing against the wall in a corner of the Great Hall. Ylva recognized the sapphires in the scabbard from her vision in the waterfall pool. She had seen them strapped to the Raven Warriors’ hip when he unsheathed the sword and struck Sk?rde in her sighting. “Lugh nullified the Dókkálfar magic. Sk?rde can hang it as a trophy here in the Great Hall. A symbol of his victory over the Raven Warrior.”
Ylva smiled at the thought. “I must find my father in the solar. Will you join us tonight for the evening meal?” She hoped Luna would remain at the castle.
“Lugh and I will be delighted. I’m sure Ildris and Olvir—two of our friends who have come to aid the Pays de Caux —will want to as well. Thank you for the invitation. Go to your father now, I’ll see you soon.” Luna flashed another dazzling smile and returned to the injured warriors.
Ylva saw úlvhild and Maeve across the hall applying salve and bandages to the bloody, broken leg of a wounded knight. She motioned that she was going upstairs. Both priestesses nodded in comprehension, Maeve with a reassuring smile.
On the upper level of the castle, at the end of the hall, Ylva entered the sunny solar. She immediately recognized the silvery blond hair of Lugh. He was flanked by two males who were obviously Ljósálfar Light Elves . When they rose to greet her, Ylva noted that both were enormously tall like Lugh. One had hair the color of spun copper with eyes of gold. The other had locks of opalescent blond that gleamed almost white. His eyes, like Lugh’s, glowed with green starlight.
Richard’s booming voice bellowed through the bright, airy room. “Greetings, dóttir! Please, join us.” He motioned to the empty seat beside him. Ylva’s mouth dropped open at the sight of Sk?rde, seated on Richard’s other side. He was grinning from ear to ear.
He must have read her mind, for he leapt from his chair, as if to prove he was healthy and hale. Sk?rde came toward her, placed his hand on the small of her back as he bent down to kiss her cheek, and escorted her to sit beside him.
“I’d like you to meet Ildris,” Richard continued, introducing the copper-haired Light Elf as a stunned Ylva took her seat. “And Olvir. Ljósálfar friends of Lugh who have come to help us defend the Pays de Caux .”
Ildris extended a long, elegant hand across the table. When Ylva accepted it, he lowered his lips and gallantly kissed her fingers. “ Enchanté, Madame la Comtesse .”
Not to be outdone, Olvir executed an impressive obeisance to her as chatelaine of Chateaufort. His deep voice was mellow and rich like the low notes of a vielle. “A pleasure to meet you, my lady.”
As the charming Ljósálfar duo retook their seats, Richard brought Ylva into the ongoing conversation. “We have been discussing whether to attack Fécamp at once, before King Lothaire of West Francia reinforces the fortress with his Frankish army. Or wait until we’ve gathered sufficient reinforcements to ensure a swift victory.”
“I must sail immediately for Heieabyr as originally planned. I need to inform my father of Anvarr’s betrayal and the loss of Fécamp. I’ll tell him of our plan to save Sweyn and warn him of the betrayal by the Frankish king.” Sk?rde motioned for a servant to refill his mug of mead and promptly drained his goblet.
His voice is fierce. He radiates strength. And he exudes the fire of a dragon.
“King Lothaire attacked Heieabyr and captured your brother . I suspect he is the one who gave Anvarr the Dark Elven sword. If you sail to Denmark—even disguised as a Frisian shipping merchant—you might be recognized. And fall prey to the Dókkálfar who forged the Raven Warrior’s blade.” Lugh eyed his two otherworldly companions. “One of us should go with you.”
“I will.” Ildris’ golden eyes glowed in the afternoon sun.
“We just lost three hundred valiant Vikings on the bloody beach of Fécamp. And your knights—who surely feast with our slain warriors in Odin’s glory of Valhalla—died defending the ducal palace. We don’t have the manpower to launch a counterattack against the Franks.” Viggo voiced the ugly truth.
“Then I’ll ask my father to join us.” Sk?rde glanced around the table, eyeing Gunni, Bj?rn, Viggo, and Richard. “When I tell him of the Raven Warrior’s betrayal and announce our plan to save Sweyn, I’ll ask him to recruit warriors from Norway and the Danish island of Sj?lland.”
“ Even if he agrees, it will take several weeks to amass an army . Which gives Lothaire enough time to do the same. We need to attack now.” Gunni slammed his fists on the table.
The thud made Ylva jump in her chair.
“Not yet.” Richard countered Gunni’s frustration and fury with the resolute calm of a seasoned commander. He leaned back in his chair and eyed the war council gathered around the polished oak table. “Lothaire knew of my Viking alliance with Harald through the marriage of Ylva and Sk?rde. He also knew that Harald had given a sizeable army and fleet of warships as a bride price for my daughter. He attacked a weakened Heieabyr and abducted Harald’s heir. And now, by imprisoning the boy, he controls the king of Denmark and Norway.” Richard took a long pull of mead and set his elaborate goblet down on the table. “Lothaire will force Harald to attack the Pays de Caux. Which is why you must sail immediately for Denmark and turn a potentially disastrous invasion to our advantage.” He fixed Sk?rde with a penetrating gaze. “Tell your father to go along with Lothaire. To amass the army and the ships, as if he plans to comply with Lothaire’s demands and attack us. But have him send his warships to Fécamp. To join us in taking it back.”
Brows furrowed in intense contemplation, Sk?rde nodded in firm agreement. “In the meantime, we’ll fortify our defenses along the coast. If Lothaire sends ships from Paris to reinforce Fécamp from the west, he’ll have to sail up the Seine River to the Narrow Sea. We can intercept him at Le Havre or étretat. And if he sends a fleet from the Frankish port of Dorestad in Frisia, we’ll seize his ships in the east at Le Tréport.”
Bj?rn, the First Knight of Chateaufort, embellished the defensive strategy. “We can position scouts in the dense woods to the south of the fortress. If Lothaire sends reinforcements by land, we’ll prevent them from reaching the castle.”
Lugh’s deep, melodious voice floated on the saline breeze from the open window. “The Ljósálfar will help you defend the Pays de Caux. Although we do not engage in outright battle—our Light Elven magic is intended only to heal and protect—we will cast powerful wards of enchantment to defend against attack and thwart any evil.”
Olvir’s white hair and wise eyes conveyed the acuity of age. “However, if we should encounter any D?kkálfar , we will take up arms immediately to defend you. Only a Ljósálfar or Dwarven weapon can kill a Dark Elf.”
Ylva remembered that Luna had used the term D?kkálfar to describe the Raven Warrior’s sword. A shiver of dread crept up her spine at the thought of Sk?rde’s hideous wound. “What are D?kkálfar?” she asked Olvir. “ Luna told me that the Raven Warrior’s sword had been crafted by one. And that Lugh had nullified its dark enchantment. She said that only Ljósálfar magic can heal a wound inflicted by a D?kkálfar sword.” Ylva flashed Sk?rde a desperate glance. “And that Sk?rde would have died within three days if I had not healed him with the magic of nen glir .”
“That is true. D?kkálfar magic is the opposite of ours. It’s designed to inflict death, disease, and destruction. Dark Elves—also known as Myrkkálfar— are otherworldly creatures who live in the fiery underground realm of Svartálheim . Their weapons are extremely dangerous, for they always inflict death. If not immediately fatal, any wound will cause death within three days. Unless healed by Ljósálfar magic.” Olvir smoothed the light green silk of his robe. A dazzling stone—clear and pure, like the one in Lugh’s brooch—sparkled like a brilliant star. Ylva, distracted by the radiant gem, noted that Ildris’ golden cloak also had a similar stone in its clasp. What otherworldly gem is that? Perhaps úlvhild knows.
Ildris’ resonant voice interrupted Ylva’s reverie. “ D?kkálfar can only be killed by a Dwarven or Ljósálfar crafted weapon . Or sunlight.” He gestured to the radiant stone in his brooch. “I noticed you were intrigued by these gems,” he said, motioning to the glittering stones in the three Ljósálfar brooches. “They’re gildir starstones. Imbued with powerful Ljósálfar magic.” His intriguing smile was a dazzling as the gildir in his intricate brooch. “And they can reflect sunlight to kill a Dark Elf.”
While Ylva mused over the idea of wielding imbued gemstones as weapons in addition to the galdr magic of healing, Sk?rde redirected the conversation back to the topic of battle. “Gunni, Viggo, and I will sail to Denmark aboard the Sea Siren —one of the two Frisian ships we have here in port.” He shot the two men a quick glance. “We’ll load supplies this afternoon and depart tomorrow.”
Gunni and Viggo nodded their consent.
Richard addressed Sk?rde. “It will take you three weeks to reach Heieabyr. During your absence, I’ll reinforce the Pays de Caux . Establish scouts in the woods near Fécamp.” He took a big gulp of mead and wiped his blond moustache with the back of his hand. “The Falcon—the shapeshifting sorcerer that úlvhild summoned from the Faroe Islands—should be arriving next week. Once he does, I’ll bring him with me to Paris and pay a visit to my former brother-in-law, Hugh Capet, on l’ ?le de la Cité . From there, the falcon can fly into the royal palace, discover where Lothaire is keeping the boy, and report back to us.” Richard rose from his chair and walked to the window overlooking the inlet. Arms clasped behind his back, he stared pensively at the Narrow Sea. When he turned abruptly, bearded face stretching into a broad grin, the light of a brilliant idea shone in his astute gaze. “The Foire de Saint-Denis takes place in Paris every autumn on l’?le de la Cité. With your Frisian ship, you can sail up the Seine, disguised as a wool merchant. You and the Falcon can slip into the royal palace and—aided by Hugh Capet—free Sweyn and bring him back here. Odin willing, if Harald’s army arrives and we retake Fécamp, you can reunite father and son. As the Dragon of Denmark, you will have saved your father, your brother, and your kingdom. And, as the Dragon of Normandy… the entire Pays de Caux .”
The fierce pride on Sk?rde’s beaming, bearded face made Ylva’s heart soar.