Page 10 of Wolf of the Nordic Seas (Valiant Vikings #2)
Trollkors Talisman
Njord was glad that Sk?rde the Scourge —the towering blond Viking brute who was the bastard son of King Harald Bluetooth of Denmark and Norway as well as the reigning Count of the Pays de Caux —had come from his clifftop castle of Chateaufort in nearby Dieppe to aid in fortifying étretat. He, Jarl Rikard, and Bjarke had helped Njord organize the men into rotating shifts so that workers rebuilding the castle wall, fortifying the village, and harvesting the multitude of crops still had time each day for vigorous training to keep their battle skills sharply honed. It was essential that the Danes and Normans functioned together as a cohesive whole, a formidable Viking army to defend le Chateau Blanc , the Pays de Caux , and the entire dukedom of Normandy against the pervasive threat of Frankish forces and the relentless Count of Soissons.
Having just come from the bathhouse, where he’d steamed off the sweat, blood, and grime from his sparring session with áki—one of the few warriors capable of enduring and sustaining his intensive level of combat— Njord strode past soldiers training with swords and axes, hurling spears, and firing arrows at targets. He was pleased at their prowess and progress, for each group of warriors refined and improved the performance of the other.
As he headed toward his longhouse to fetch the white wolf bones he planned to bring into town, Njord reflected upon the accomplishments they had made so far, with extensive repairs to the village and fortifications to the castle wall well under way.
The stone masons were implementing his design to add mashrabiya to the top of the battlements. These murder holes, as his men called them, would protect castle archers and allow defenders of le Chateau Blanc to pour boiling water or burning oil onto incoming attackers through the open holes at their feet.
Sharpened spears now protruded from the moat, stores of quicklime were being produced and stocked, weapons and chain mail were being forged in the castle armory. With Odin’s blessing, work would be completed before Lord Thorfinn’s highly anticipated return and the planned celebration of the autumn festival of Haustblót.
Njord entered his longhouse, fetched the wolf bones from his locked chest, and tucked them, securely wrapped, into the leather scabbard which was belted at his waist. He’d decided to visit the volva úlvhild as well as the castle armorer. Perhaps the Viking seeress could offer insight into the white wolf weapons needed to protect Elfi, for the mysterious voice in the forest near his foster father’s cabin had not explained what would be crafted or by whom.
He still had so many unanswered questions. Who had sent the white wolf? Whose voice had spoken to him in the Norwegian woods? Astrid—the Viking v olva in Norway— had foreseen that Njord was destined to wield a Dwarven sword. But for what purpose? And how could he find it with no idea where to search? As he exited the longhouse and headed into town, he fervently hoped that úlvhild could provide the knowledge he so desperately sought.
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Along each side of the dirt road in the bustling village of étretat, wooden huts with thatched roofs housed various merchants who resided with their families beside the shops where they conducted business. In the busy streets, gleeful children scampered with barking dogs, chickens clucked and pecked for insects, farmers fed oxen, pigs, and sheep, women sat in open doorways, weaving baskets and spinning wool. Amidst the din of boisterous activity, Njord spotted the carved wooden sign with crossed swords that indicated the castle armory. Resting his hand protectively over the wolf bones firmly encased within his scabbard, he wove his way through the animated throng.
A woodcutter with a wagon full of heavy lumber was unloading his cargo in front of a carpentry shop. Although his team of two horses was hitched to a post, a large dog in pursuit of a terrified cat darted in front of the grazing animals, causing the pair to rear up in fright. As the horses’ forelegs flailed, the neatly stacked wagon shifted precariously, and an enormous log rolled off the top of the pile.
Before the dislodged timber could fall upon the stooped merchant, Njord sped forward, stopping the descent of the log and preventing the entire load from emptying onto the poor man’s bent back.
When the woodsman realized what had happened, he thanked Njord profusely, calmed his startled horses, and—with Njord’s help—finished unloading his wagon. “You spared me from serious injury, mayhap even saved my life. How can I ever repay you?” Recognition dawned in his grateful eyes. “You’re the new jarl from Denmark. The Wolf of the Nordic Seas.” The heavily bearded woodcutter grinned from ear to ear. “I’ll make you a fine new wooden shield. Painted with the savage face of a white wolf, just like the fur cloak you wear. I’ll have it ready next week. And deliver it to your longhouse myself. Fareu vel, Jarl Njord .”
As Njord shook the man’s hand and continued on his way. he spotted the blue painted face and wiry black hair of the volva úlvhild, watching him from the partially opened doorway of her thatched-roof hut at the edge of the woods. In one of her gloved hands, she gripped an intricately carved wooden wand, decorated with runes, charms, symbols, and jewels. At the tip of the twisted shaft, a luminous moonstone gem—encased in intricately woven bronze filigree inlaid with silver—glowed with preternatural power. With a gesture of long, skeletal fingers, the Viking volva beckoned him to enter her otherworldly abode.
Inside the enchanted hut, embroidered tapestries with shimmering silken threads adorned the elaborately carved wooden walls. Strands of beaded glass, exotic feathers, and oddly shaped trinkets dangled from timbers in the high, peaked ceiling. Along one wall, lidded jars, animal bones, and brightly colored stones lined the shelves beneath batches of fragrant, drying herbs suspended by metal hooks. The dim interior was illuminated by two flickering candles and shards of sunlight streaming through an open window near a stone enclosed hearth. An iron cauldron simmered over the flames, and the sweet, exotic smell of burning herbs and incense filled the bewitching air. From the midst of a luxurious pile of furs on a bed in the back corner of the large room, a black cat with golden eyes peered up at him through the thick, smoky haze.
úlvhild led Njord toward a wooden table, retrieving a pinch of herbs from the leather pouch at her waist, which she tossed into the fire. The snap and crackle of the popping seeds released a pungent aroma which she deeply inhaled as she hummed a melodic incantation.
Njord settled down on the proffered seat to observe the volva with an unnerving, exhilarating blend of apprehension and awe.
A black lambskin cloak lined with white ermine fur draped her slender shoulders. Gold embroidery edged the long, flowing sleeves of her blood red dress. Strands of leather and silver chains embellished with glittering gems, engraved charms, and carved pieces of smooth bone tumbled from her neck down to her narrow waist. Whiskers— like those of a cat—stretched across the blue woad paint on her oval face, and black streaks marked her chin, extending down her long throat to the soft swell of her small breasts.
úlvhild crept away from the fire and perched on the seat across from him, assessing Njord with perceptive, piercing feline eyes. “Your speed and strength are extraordinary. Odin has blessed you with exceptional gifts. That is why I summoned you. My seier magic will permit me to foresee your future. Or revisit your past. ”
Njord shifted tensely on the bench, his senses stirred by the scintillating aura of magic which sizzled his skin and raised the hairs on his forearms and under the thick braid along the back of his neck. Perhaps her visions can explain the appearance of the white wolf…. the otherworldly voice in the forest…the weapons needed to protect Elfi. I’ll ask her to start with the past. Then proceed to the prophecy of the Dwarven sword.
Swallowing a lump of anxiety, he wiped damp palms along the sides of his breeches and exhaled to calm his racing heart. “When I was a boy in Norway,” he began, clearing his throat to summon his quavering voice, “a white wolf appeared in the forest near the cabin where I lived. From the moment I first saw him, I sensed an immediate, innate bond—as if he had been sent to protect me. Throughout my childhood, he was always there, watching me. When he died, a deep voice—which I heard inside my mind, not with my ears—told me to save these two bones. He said that I would need them one day to craft weapons which would protect my future mate.” Adrenaline surging in his veins, Njord fetched the firmly wrapped parcel from the sheath at his waist and carefully unfurled the bones of the sacred white wolf on the table before úlvhild.
Her amber eyes glowed like embers in the fire.
She deftly rose to her feet, crossed the room, and meticulously selected a jar from one of the wooden shelves. The volva opened the lid, spooned some of the dried powder into a cup, and returned the vial to its proper place. With a large ladle, she scooped liquid from the cauldron and poured it into the mug. She stirred the mixture, sniffed the contents, and drank the mysterious brew.
Thumping her wooden staff rhythmically on the earthen floor, the Viking seeress swayed with the steady beat as she warbled a melodic vardlokkur chant of divination. Golden eyes glassy and glazed, she settled onto a high backed oaken chair in the corner of her room, glimpsing visions from another realm. Haunted and hollow, úlvhild’s voice was an empty echo from the otherworld.
“Shadows shroud your mate… the man who hunts her has allied with the Dark Elves of the Dokkálfar. And a malevolent, shapeshifting troll …”
úlvhild slipped down from her perch, gripping the wooden chair for support. She resumed her melodic chant, thumping her staff on the floor as she ambled across the room and threw another pinch of herbs into the fire. The sweet, cloying scent of myrrh wafted into the smoke-filled air.
Returning to Njord’s side, the volva ceased her invocative chant and leaned her staff against the back of her chair. She removed her white catskin gloves, which she folded and lovingly laid upon the table. With nimble fingers, úlvhild picked up the wolf bones, analyzing their smooth texture in her thin, skeletal hands. She sniffed and licked them, staring into the fire with sightless, all-seeing eyes. “A Ljósálfar Light Elf will craft the Elven weapons to protect your fated mate. He will come to you in the sacred grove where you practice the dance with swords.” úlvhild swooned, swept up in seier magic, as if transported on wings or wind. “The stonecutter with the maimed foot will teach you the ways of the white wolf. Find him, for Bodo le Bo?teux has the knowledge which you seek.”
The black cat—perhaps sensing that úlvhild needed his comforting presence—jumped down from the bed, scampered across the floor, and rubbed his sleek body against the volva’s unsteady legs. His loud purr was like a sonorous beacon, calling his mistress home.
úlvhild slowly returned to her human senses and smiled at the cat curling around her booted feet. “Kól, I can always count on your deafening roar to reach me when I float between the nine realms. Takk, elska . Thank you, love.” Adoration laced her velvety voice as she swooped the cat into her arms, cradling the purring creature like a beloved babe.
After depositing Kól back onto the sumptuous pile of furs on the bed, úlvhild searched among the countless charms which cluttered her wooden shelves. When she found what she was looking for, the volva returned to her seat across from Njord and placed an iron amulet on the table in front of him.
Suspended from a black leather cord, the slender piece of hammered metal had been shaped into a curved loop, with each of the two overlapping ends curling upward and inward to form a protective spiral swirl. Nestled among an alternating pattern of three Nordic runes, a trio of droplet shaped lapis lazuli stones with interwoven threads of shimmering gold adorned the iron amulet. When Njord picked it up, the necklace thrummed in the palm of his sweaty, calloused hand.
“This is a trollkors ,” úlvhild explained, as Njord examined the unique artistry and superb craftsmanship of the enchanted talisman. “It is made of iron—to defend against malevolent forces. Since three is a sacred number to the Norse gods, this trio of Nordic runes will shield against the dark magic of the Dokkálfar and the nefarious troll that I have foreseen with my seier vision.” She traced the etched runes with a long, bony finger. “ Sowilo, rune of the sun, to protect against darkness. Algiz, the defensive strength of the elk. And Isa , rune of ice, to form a frozen barrier against the infernal forces of Svartálfheim .” The volva indicated the three deep blue stones embedded amongst the pattern of runes. “Lapis lazuli will shield your mate against negative energy and strengthen her spiritual connection to the realm of the gods. If a Dark Elf or troll tries to touch her, they will be burned by the defensive wards I have imbued into this amulet.” She grasped Njord’s forearm, compelling him to look at her.
Intelligence and wisdom shone in úlvhild’s intense, otherworldly gaze. “Odin has blessed you with preternatural powers. I shall therefore infuse three drops of your blood into this trollkors talisman. That your gifts may enhance my galdr magic…to defend and protect your mate.”
úlvhild removed a small, sharp knife from a jeweled scabbard belted at her waist. Taking hold of Njord’s hand, she pricked his fingertip and guided three droplets of blood into each of the Isa, Algiz, and Sowilo runes etched into the surface of the amulet. Chanting an incantation in rhythmic, musical cadence, the volva waved the moonstone embellished tip of her wand over the t rollkors talisman, imbuing it with galdr protective magic and Njord’s hallowed blood.
When the enchantment was complete, she pressed the amulet into Njord’s palm and closed his fingers around it. “Give this to your betrothed. It will protect her from the wicked man who hunts her, his diabolical Dark Elves, and the treacherous troll.”
Njord carefully rewrapped the white wolf bones in soft deerskin leather, tucking the amulet safely inside. “I’m grateful you have foreseen the dangerous alliance between the Count of Soissons, the Dokkálfar , and the troll. This trollkors will defend Elfi against their dark magic.” He secured the parcel containing the wolf bones and protective necklace in the scabbard at his waist. “I am also grateful your vision revealed that a Ljósálfar will craft Elven weapons with the bones of the sacred white wolf.”
He searched the woad-painted blue face of the Viking seeress. I must ask her about the prophecy. “In Norway,” he began cautiously, “a volva revealed that my fate-—and my mate—would lead me to distant shores across the Nordic Seas.” He stared into úlvhild’s shrewd feline eyes. “Those predictions have come true, for I have indeed found my mate here in the Land of the White Chalk Cliffs. And I am destined to defend Normandy as the future Count of étretat. But the volva also foretold that I am prophesied to wield a Dwarven sword. Yet how can I find the blade when I don’t even know where to search?”
Kól jumped up onto úlvhild’s lap, loudly purring and kneading her red dress with sharpened claws before settling into a contented curl on the sorceress’ bent knees.
As she stroked the cat’s silky black fur, úlvhild eyed Njord with a penetrating gaze. “Find the stonecutter with the maimed foot, for he holds the knowledge you seek.”
Njord thanked the volva and paid her with coin. He exited her enchanted, eerie realm and emerged into the blinding midday sun. Clutching the precious cargo at his hip, he continued weaving through the crowded path of the busy village, headed toward the castle armory.
In search of the elusive stonecutter with the maimed foot.
Bodo le Bo?teux