Page 16 of Wolf of the Nordic Seas (Valiant Vikings #2)

The Dokkálfar Blacksmith of Dorestad

The Count of Soissons and two dozen of his Frankish knights rode northeast from Alberic’s fortress in West Francia to the vibrant Frisian trade center of Dorestad. Uniquely situated in the delta of several rivers at the mouth of the Rhine, the lucrative emporium controlled by the Franks offered hundreds of jetties for merchant vessels to dock, granting access to both the North and Baltic Seas. Yet, with its sheltered location far enough inland to avoid flooding and coastal destruction from raging tides, Dorestad also offered profitable trade via land as well as by sea.

As he and his men arrived at the port, the sights, sounds, and smells of success overwhelmed Alberic’s heightened senses.

Along wharves which jutted far from the sandy shore well out into the waters of the Rhine, merchants unloaded barrels and bales of bulk products such as wool and wine from ships docked at the port. In front of countless longhouses which lined the beach for miles, a variety of shops and thatched-roof huts displayed ornamental objects, such as glass beads, amber, silver, and gold. Traders from Scandinavia sold combs made from reindeer antlers, pelts of fur from the rare black fox, quern stones for milling grain, soapstone and ceramics, raw iron, copper, and lead. Merchants from the Far East sold brightly colored silks, aromatic spices, glittering gemstones, and artifacts carved from ivory and bone. The sweet floral fragrance of perfumes and scented wax mingled with the woodsy blend of essential oils, incense, and herbs. And the smell of roasted meat and fresh bread made Alberic’s ravenous stomach growl .

After a long, arduous journey in the saddle, sleeping in tents on the hard, mountainous terrain as they traveled from West Francia to Dorestad, the Count of Soissons looked forward to a hot meal, proper lodging, and meeting the Dark Elven blacksmith Gúldur.

Alberic and his personal guards dismounted before the Sapphire Chalice Tavern, a popular timber framed waterfront inn located on the banks of the Rhine River in the thriving Frisian trade center. The Count of Soissons barked orders to his men. “Gozo and Engilram—with me. The rest of you, settle the horses and remain here until I return.”

Alberic led his two most trusted and highly skilled guards into the tavern which provided meals and lodging for shipping merchants, travelers, and wealthy patrons of the lucrative Frankish emporium. Inside the bustling establishment, female attendants clad in sapphire blue dresses poured goblets of mead from gleaming pewter pitchers behind a carved walnut bar. Muscular male servers carried heavy wooden trays laden with steaming oysters, mussels, and clams as they wove among the crowded tables packed with boisterous customers. Savoring the appetizing aroma of fresh seafood and the exotic scent of incense, Alberic settled at a table in the Sapphire Chalice Tavern with his two armed guards and waited for a server to approach.

He eyed the elaborate display case above the walnut bar which contained the exquisite sapphire chalice for which the tavern was named. A royal gift from King Lothaire of West Francia, the heirloom was engraved with the fleur-de-lys emblem of the Frankish monarchy and studded with rare blue sapphires from the Far East. Inside the intricately wrought silver filigree casing of the display cabinet doors, burning candles flanked the treasured chalice, casting an incandescent light which reflected off the polished silver and glittering sapphire gems. Not only did the chalice represent the distinctive name of the lively tavern, it also symbolized the wealth and power of the Frankish monarchy which controlled the profitable Frisian port of Dorestad.

An amiable female server greeted Alberic and his men with a cordial smile. “Good day and welcome to the Sapphire Chalice Tavern. How may I serve you fine gentlemen?”

Alberic ordered a pitcher of ale and three goblets. When the attendant returned and poured them each a mug, he placed the silver Dokkálfar coin with sinister swirls and etched Nordic runes on the gleaming wooden table. “I wish to speak to Lord Gúldur. Please inform him that a patron has presented this coin and requests the royal favor owed to King Lothaire.”

The woman’s eyes widened in instant recognition. She replied in a reverent whisper. “Of course, my lord. Please wait here until I return.” With a discreet bow of her head, she backed away from the table, wove through the chattering crowd, and disappeared into the rear of the tavern.

A few moments later, she returned to the table. “Please come with me. I will take you to Lord Gúldur.”

Alberic retrieved the rare Dokkálfar coin and tucked it securely into the pouch at his waist. As he rose from his seat with Gozo and Engilram, he tossed a few Carolingian deniers on the table to pay for the ale and followed the server out the back door.

She led them into an adjacent wooden building where a burly blacksmith and four apprentices hammered and hollered over an open forge. “This is Lord Gúldur’s shop,” she said as she hailed the brawny smith.

Obviously impressed with the regal attire of a wealthy Frankish count, the blacksmith summoned an assistant to take his place at the anvil, wiped his blackened hands on a dingy apron, and greeted Alberic as the serving wench excused herself and returned to work in the tavern. “Good day, my lord. You wish to speak to Lord Gúldur?”

“I do indeed. Please inform him that the Count of Soissons has presented this coin.” Alberic removed the unusual token from his pouch and displayed it to the sweaty blacksmith. Recognition blazing in his dark eyes, he bowed his head and disappeared behind a thick black curtain into an adjoining room .

Like all Dokkálfar, Gúldur cannot bear sunlight. He works in darkness behind a wall of thick, heavy drapes.

The burly smith returned a few moments later and motioned for Alberic and his two guards to follow, parting the curtains for them to pass through.

Inside the darkened workshop, candles in metal sconces burned upon the wooden walls above numerous rows of hammers, tongs, pliers, pincers, and countless assorted tools. An enormous fire burned in a confined stone hearth which occupied the entire back wall. A dutiful apprentice diligently pumped air onto the raging flames from a huge bellows attached to the side of an enclosed furnace. On the right side of the room stood a large trough of water for cooling. Huddled over a giant anvil in the center of the room was a stout, swarthy blacksmith with wiry black hair, hammering white-hot metal into the shape of a sword.

As Alberic and his two guards entered the workspace, the Dokkálfar blacksmith—whose dark, leathery skin and golden eyes evoked the image of a deadly snake—turned away from his forge and strode across the workshop to greet them. “ Góean dag , Alberic of Soissons. It is always a pleasure to do business with a wealthy Frankish count.” Gúldur bared a garish grin, revealing a repulsive array of yellowed and blackened teeth. A revolting odor of foul, fetid breath assailed Alberic’s nostrils.

“Fetch two goblets and a pitcher of ale, for my guest and me.” Ignoring Alberic’s two personal guards, Gúldur sent his assistant scrambling to obey while he conducted his important client to a comfortable chair at a corner table. “Come, Alberic, have a seat. And tell me how I may serve the mighty Count of Soissons.”

Alberic settled into the carved wooden chair and accepted the goblet of ale from the diligent apprentice who had returned. He ordered Gozo and Engilram to wait outside the curtained door while Gúldur dismissed his own assistant. Now that the two of them were alone and could speak privately, Alberic explained the purpose of his visit. “My king is most grateful to you for crafting the Dokkálfar spear with which I slew Dag Thorfinsson. He also wishes to express his appreciation for sending the troll Narglok as a Frankish spy. The disguise as a Varangian warrior is perfect.” Alberic sipped his ale and eyed the ominous Dokkálfar over the rim of his goblet, a shudder of revulsion slithering down his spine as he withdrew the strange silver coin from the pouch at his waist and placed it on the table before Gúldur. “King Lothaire of West Francia has sent me to claim the debt owed to him by the bearer of this coin.”

Gúldur picked up the silver piece and examined it before placing it inside the leather pouch belted at his own hip. He nodded once, his penetrating stare piercing Alberic with sinister reptilian eyes.

“ I must seize the castle of Chateau Blanc and establish a Frankish colony in the Pays de Caux —the Viking heart of Normandy. Twice before, I attacked étretat and failed to capture the fortress. I am here today to request your otherworldly aid in finding a subtle, infallible way to infiltrate and conquer the castle. I cannot fail again.”

Gúldur rose from the table, strode to the curtained door, and spoke to the apprentice before returning to Alberic’s side. Donning a dark cloak which hung from a hook on the wall, he said to Alberic, “Follow me. There is someone you must meet.”

The apprentice parted the heavy black drapes to allow Gúldur and the Count of Soissons to exit the workshop. His two Frankish guards close behind, Alberic followed the Dark Elven blacksmith—meticulously shaded from the sun by his hooded cloak—out of the smithy and into a separate wooden building with thatched roof behind the blacksmith shop.

“Have your men wait outside.” Gúldur’s commanding tone brooked no argument.

Alberic nodded to his two guards, who positioned themselves on either side of the oaken entrance door as their lord followed the Dokkálfar blacksmith into the darkened abode.

The ordinary exterior of the simple hut belied the lavish, sumptuously decorated interior where silken tapestries—embellished with glittering gems and glistening silver threads— adorned the elaborately decorated wooden walls. In a corner of the expansive room, beside an impressive display of handcrafted jewelry and ornate trinkets for sale, a large ebony sculpture of the Nordic Goddess Hel stood in magnificent wooden splendor.

Atop her head, a spiked crown of interwoven thorny vines and sacrificial animal bones was embellished with glistening onyx jewels and inscribed with glowing, pulsating runes. At the crest of the crown, an enormous faceted black obsidian gemstone emitted eerie shadows and reflected incandescent light. Like the goddess herself, half of the statue’s face and body were exquisitely beautiful and lovingly carved with delicate features, long cascading tresses, and elegant, flowing gown. One slender hand was bejeweled with silver filigree rings, glittering bracelets, and gleaming gems. The other half of the sculpture depicted decay and death with skeletal fingers, sunken cheekbone, and hideously exposed skull. At the base of the statue, a dazzling collection of vividly colored jewels sparkled amidst fragments of bone stained with blood, the gruesome remains of sacrifices made to the deity of darkness whom the Dokkálfar served. Exotic incense burned, emitting the sweet, cloying aroma of myrrh.

From behind a wall of black fabric embroidered in silver, a short, dark-haired male with wiry black hair, wrinkled skin, and alarmingly reptilian yellow eyes approached the red silk display where Alberic waited with Guldur.

“Allow me to present Zhúlgorr, the highly skilled Dokkálfar craftsman who now runs Sapphire Sands Silver, the jewelry shop which formerly belonged to my late brother Nithrak.” Gúldur introduced the golden eyed, serpentine silversmith to Alberic. “And this is the Count of Soissons, sworn vassal of the Frankish king.”

As Alberic shook the icy, proffered hand, an ominous chill shivered up his shaking limb.

Zhúlgorr eyed the silver coin engraved with shadowy scrolls and arcane runes which Gúldur had retrieved from his pouch and now held in his leathery palm. “It appears King Lothaire of West Francia wishes to redeem the royal debt.” The Dokkálfar’s raspy voice and unearthly grin were repulsive and unnerving. “ Svá skal vera. So be it . ” Golden eyes with the vertical slits of a viper assessed Alberic with an unsettling, hypnotic stare. “How may I be of service to the Frankish Count of Soissons?”

Alberic swallowed the bitter bile rising in his gorge. “I have been ordered to establish a Frankish colony in the Viking heart of Normandy. I am here to request the aid of the Dokkálfar in infiltrating and capturing le Chateau Blanc for my generous but impatient king.”

Zhúlgorr’s serpentine stare transfixed Alberic as he digested this information like a python swallowing its prey. He strode across the shop, retrieved a wooden sign with the word Sletten painted in dark blue, and hung it on the exterior of the entrance door, indicating that the shop was closed. “To ensure that we are not disturbed,” he hissed as he bolted the heavy door from the inside with a snide grin.. Returning to the display counter, he led Alberic and Gúldur behind the black velvet curtain, past his silversmith workshop strewn with benches, tools, gemstones, and shelves loaded with jewelry, and up a hidden wooden stairwell whose metal handrails were carved with sinister scrolls and ominous runes.

At the top of the stairs, a foyer opened onto an obscure living area devoid of light, with a dim hallway leading to two bedrooms on the left and an apparent workshop or studio to the right.

“Come, I’ll introduce you to Myrkkha. She is a malva — a Viking volva who delves into the dark side of seier magic.” Zhúlgorr knocked on the black wooden door elaborately carved with swirling thorny vines and Nordic runes.

A strikingly beautiful woman with long red hair, pale ashen skin, and startling crimson eyes opened the door and smiled cryptically at Zhúlgorr. Beneath the high cheekbones of her polished angular face, black tattoos with intricate knotwork graced her slender neck and draped her shoulders, shimmering like shadows in the dim light. A black obsidian amulet—with the image of the Goddess Hel carved into the glimmering stone— hung between her voluptuous breasts, temptingly displayed by the deep, alluring cut of her amethyst colored gown. Long, graceful sleeves, like the wings of a swan, fluttered to the floor as she swept her arm to invite Zhúlgorr, Alberic, and Gúldur into her enchanted abode.

Inside the macabre domain, flickering candles in metal sconces on the walls and tables cast eerie shadows on the wooden shelves cluttered with glittering crystals, glowing stones, malevolent charms, glass elixirs, animal skulls, and fragments of bones. A black iron cauldron simmered over a crackling fire in a stone hearth along the right wall. Embroidered tapestries in shades of deep purple and black, interwoven with shimmery threads of silver and sparkling gems, depicted ancient deities and mythical creatures from Hel’s underground realm. In a back corner, a tall wooden chair with intricate carvings of Nordic runes stood near a stone table covered with vials of strange liquids, metal tools, talismans, and scrolls. The heady aroma of drying herbs, suspended from metal hooks in the wooden ceiling, mingled with the sweet smoke of frankincense and the exotic scent of myrrh.

“Myrkkha, I’d like you to meet the Frankish Count of Soissons.” Zhúlgorr closed and bolted the heavy door behind him. “He presented Gúldur’s silver coin in the Sapphire Chalice Tavern.”

Alberic had the unnerving sensation of being lured into a lair, like an insect impossibly ensnared in a spider web. He repressed the fleeting, impulsive urge to flee and instead kissed the malva’s tattooed, bejeweled hand. On her long finger, a bloodstone ring etched with blackened runes pulsed with preternatural power. “I am honored to meet you, Lady Myrkkha.”

“How may I serve you, Zhúlgorr?” Myrkkha’s crimson eyes glowed as she scrutinized Alberic like a black widow poised to strike.

“The Count needs our assistance to seize the Chateau Blanc in the White Chalk Cliffs of Normandy. Perhaps through seier magic, you can foresee how to infiltrate the castle.” Zhúlgorr flashed a garish grin at Alberic, his repulsive teeth as yellow as his reptilian eyes.

“Of course. It will be my pleasure.” Myrkkha took a handful of seeds from a pouch belted at her waist and tossed them into the fire. As they snapped and popped in the flickering flames, a thick, woodsy smoke wafted into the gloom.

The malva retrieved an ornate silver chalice embellished with glistening gems and shadowy swirls from the wooden shelf and ladled some liquid from her cauldron into the goblet. She added three spoonfuls of herbs and a trio of droplets from an opaque vial into the chalice, stirred it, and drank the contents in one long gulp.

A tall wooden staff leaned against a wall near the hearth. Gnarled, twisted, and blackened, it was carved with glowing, pulsating runes and topped with the sharp-beaked skull of a raven, whose beady eyes of glittering black crystals glowed with otherworldly light.

Thumping her ebony staff rhythmically on the elk skin covered floor, Myrkkha chanted an eerie invocation, her grating voice like the guttural caw of a carrion crow. When she settled into the tall wooden chair, her head lolled to the side and her crimson eyes rolled back as she emitted a series of sharp, shrill shrieks, like the piercing cry of a keening hawk.

After a stilled silence, her raspy whisper floated from far away. “The great white wolf was a Volsung descendant of Odin. Killed by the Dokkálfar Varok in the Battle of the Faroe Islands.” Myrkkha swooned in her carved wooden chair, her throaty voice raw, hoarse, and haunting. “The brown wolf with the maimed foot knows the location of the Dwarven sword . And the hidden stairwell which leads into the castle. From a secret cave near the sacred grove.” The malva slumped forward in her chair, as if asleep, then bolted upright, instantly awake. A malevolent grin spread across her exquisitely disturbing face. “The troll Narglok is the key.”

She slid off her chair and slithered up to Zhúlgorr. “I’ll need a man’s ring. And an amulet pendant. Each set with a dark gem. ”

Zhúlgorr’s golden eyes glowed like otherworldly orbs in the firelight. “I have several already crafted. In bloodstone or black onyx. Which do you prefer?”

“Bloodstone. It will bind the curse to the wearer’s blood.” While Zhúlgorr left to fetch the jewels, Myrkkha turned to Gúldur. “I will also need a dagger with a dark gem in the hilt.”

Gúldur unstrapped a sheathed blade belted at his hip and gave it to her. Within the tooled black snakeskin leather of the sheath, a trio of black gems glistened in the incandescent light. And in the intricately engraved hilt of the dagger, a large black gem glittered like a malevolent midnight star. “Take mine.”

“Black obsidian. Like the stone in my own amulet.” She tenderly stroked the carved image of the Goddess Hel in the pendant suspended from her tattooed throat. “Perfect.” The malva carried the sheathed blade across the room and laid it carefully upon a table draped in sumptuous purple velvet.

Myrkkha searched among the vials, instruments, and artifacts cluttering her wooden shelves. She selected a fine tipped chisel, a metal file, and a glass vial, which she placed upon the counter. With a slender taper which she dipped into the fire, she lit myrrh incense inside a gem encrusted dish, murmuring an incantation as she placed nine dark crystals in a circle on top of the velvet covered table.

When Zhúlgorr returned, he handed her the ring and talisman, each set in polished silver, which the malva placed inside the circle of nine enchanted crystals. Amethyst gown shimmering in the firelight, sleeves fluttering like a raven in flight, Myrkkha settled onto a wooden stool near the table, chanting in a gruff, guttural language which Alberic had never heard. With meticulous precision, she engraved Nordic runes into the silver band of the ring, smoothing the shapes with the metal file, all the while whispering mysterious words of evil enchantment. When she’d finished the ring, she repeated the process with the silver setting of the talisman, inscribing the same runes in the pendant as she had carved into the ring.

Alberic’s heart hammered wildly as he, Gúldur, and Zhúlgorr watched Myrrkha wield her malignant magic.

“ Thurisaz, the thorn, to bind and protect the crippling curse. Berkana, to heal the stonecutter’s injured foot. And Kaun , the rune of fire. For transformation, communication, and subjugation .” Myrkkha withdrew from the black leather belt at her waist a twisted knife etched with twining vines, a glistening black gem affixed to the intricately engraved hilt. Slicing the tip of her finger with the razor sharp blade, Myrkkha added three drops of her malva blood into each of the trinity of runes, chanting a diabolical incantation as she imbued them with a powerful curse. “This enchanted ring will heal the injured foot of the brown wolf—the úlfhéenar permanently maimed by a Dokkálfar trap. Bodo le Bo?teux will want to wear it, for without his disfiguring limp, the lame stonecutter will be much more attractive to the female thrall he wishes to mate. But the Shadowbind curse—which I have enshrouded in malva magic to make it undetectable, even to the heightened senses of the úlfhéenar —will bind him to Narglok through the Dokkálfar spell imbued in the bloodstone pendant.” An insidious smile blazed across her pallid face and flared in her infernal crimson eyes. “The troll will control the brown wolf, who will bring you the Dwarven sword. And lead you from the secret cave in the sacred grove into the bottom of the castle keep.”

Zhúlgorr hissed as his serpentine gaze narrowed onto Gúldur. “Narglok will deliver the Dwarven sword that you searched for but could not find on your voyage to the Faroe Islands. At long last, you will be able to avenge Nithrak’s death. By killing the Ljósálfar who turned your brother to stone.”

A wicked grin stretched the withered, wrinkled skin of Gúldur’s gruesome face.

Myrkkha rose to her feet and smoothed her amethyst gown. “And now, the dagger.” She unsheathed the Dokkálfar blade that Gúldur had given her and placed it inside the circle of nine enchanted stones. Inhaling the thick, sweet smoke of myrrh incense, the malva retrieved her ebony staff and pounded it like a drum upon the wooden floor. She chanted a discordant, disturbing melody, her guttural incantation different from before. As her skeletal fingers flitted like dragonflies over the pernicious blade, the black obsidian gem in the engraved hilt glowed with malevolent menace. When Myrkkha withdrew her bony hand, the gem absorbed the otherworldly brilliance, its stellar radiance collapsing into the midnight void of the black obsidian stone.

Her spell complete, Myrkkha sheathed the dagger and handed it to Alberic. “Narglok has assumed the human form of a Varangian warrior. Give him this dagger, Wolfsbane. It will kill the great grey wolf—the leader of the úlfhéenar warriors who are training at le Chateau Blanc .” She watched with bated breath as Alberic examined the shadowy swirls of the curved, insidious blade. “The Dokkálfar essence of the dagger is hidden from detection by the úlfhéenar — through the malva magic I imbued in the black obsidian stone. The grey wolf will be injured in a friendly competition, and no one will suspect that the minor wound will prove fatal.” She grinned wickedly, her gleaming white teeth displaying an alarming array of sharp, pointed fangs. “Until it’s much too late.”

Myrkkha faced Gúldur, her velvety voice laced with forewarning. “Once you have slain Ildris—the Ljósálfar Light Elf who killed your brother—you must destroy the Dwarven blade in the fires of your Dark Elven forge.” Her scarlet eyes glowed like cursed bloodstones. “For the Wolf of the Nordic Seas is prophesied to wield the Volsung sword, úlfsongr. To kill you, the Dokkálfar blacksmith of Dorestad.”

Pungent herbs smoldered in the sizzling fire and heady smoke hovered in the intoxicating air. The malva’s bloody gaze held Gúldur’s until he ducked his wiry, bristled chin in stark comprehension. Satisfied with his nod of acknowledgement, Myrkkha slipped across her sanctum in a swish of amethyst silk to retrieve a black leather cord and goatskin pouch from the artifacts assembled on her wooden shelves. When she returned to the table, the malva threaded the leather strap through the silver loop of the pendant, securing the bloodstone amulet with an intricately tied knot. She placed the cursed ring and talisman necklace into the black leather pouch, tightened the drawstring closure, and handed the small sack to Alberic. “Give these to Narglok. Inform him that the bloodstone talisman will enslave the brown wolf through the Shadowbind curse in the ring. Explain that the ring will cure the crippled foot of the maimed stonecutter, so that the brown wolf will be eager to wear it— but the curse will bind Bodo le Bo?teux to Narglok.” Myrkkha’s scarlet eyes glowed like fiery rubies. “The troll will obtain the Dwarven sword for you. And lead you from the forested cave in the sacred grove through the secret tunnel into the castle. To infiltrate and seize le Chateau Blanc.”

Tension coiled tightly in Gúldur’s venomous voice as he hissed at Alberic. “Have Narglok bring me the Dwarven sword. And when you are ready to infiltrate the castle, I will bolster your Frankish army with a horde of Dokkálfar Dark Elves to destroy the wolf warriors of the úlfhéenar. ” With a sinister smirk, Gúldur shook Alberic’s hand, sending another ripple of chilling numbness up his arm. “Narglok is essential for our success. I shall make a sacrifice to the Goddess Hel, to ensure that the troll prevails.” Gúldur’s rotten, revolting teeth flashed in the firelight.

Alberic withdrew his icy hand, shaking off the peculiar prickling sensation and a premonition of doom. Mouth dry, limbs shaking, he strapped the sheathed Dokkálfar dagger to his waist and secured the leather pouch containing the Shadowbind ring and amulet to his belt.

Myrkkha spotted the sword Galadir, which was sheathed at Alberic’s hip. She hissed, recoiling as if in pain. “That is a gildir starstone… imbued with powerful Ljósálfar magic.” Fury and fear flickered in her scarlet eyes, replaced by cunning as a wicked grin stretched across her eerie, exquisite face. “Place it upon my table.” She gestured to the nine glittering gems atop the purple velvet where she had enchanted the Wolfsbane dagger.

While Alberic complied, the malva selected three herbs suspended from her ceiling and tossed a handful of each into the fire. As the thick smoke permeated the gloom, she centered the Ljósálfar sword in the circle of nine black obsidian stones, rearranging the dark gems around the gleaming blade. Myrkkha fetched her ebony staff, thumping it rhythmically on the floor and chanting an infernal incantation. She hovered over the sword like a voluptuous vulture, her skeletal fingers flittering over the glittering gem as she cast her diabolical spell.

"Goddess Hel of the hidden night, In shadows deep, I seek your might.

This gemstone bright, in light it gleams, Shroud it now in severed dreams.

Reverse what the Ljósálfar Elf has made, Its gildir protection to blackness fade.

Let this Elven sword, forged in light, Bring death to the hand that crafted its might."

While Alberic watched in morbid fascination, the clear, sparkling gildir gem in the carved hilt of the sword glowed with a sudden blinding brilliance, which quickly dulled and dimmed like a dying star. With a triumphant gloat, Myrkkha handed the blade to Alberic. “In my seier vision, I glimpsed a glorious Viking burial for a fallen hero.” Mesmerizing crimson eyes held his rapt gaze. “Return this Ljósálfar blade to its owner, for it will be buried beside the warrior that you slew with Gúldur’s Dokkálfar spear.”

“Dag Thorfinnsson.” Alberic whispered with awe as he reverently accepted the altered sword and sheathed Galadir beside the Wolfsbane dagger.

Myrkkha spun toward Gúldur, her scarlet eyes red as blood. “When you attack the castle, unearth this sword from the grave in the sacred grove. And use it to destroy Lugh, the Ljósálfar Light Elf who crafted it.” She lovingly traced long white fingers inked with black over the gem in the hilt of the weapon sheathed at Alberic’s quivering waist. “I have reversed the protective enchantment of the gildir starstone,” she murmured seductively into his attentive ear. His pulse quickened at the warm breath caressing his cheek and her intoxicating, toxic presence. “It is now cursed by the Goddess Hel herself. So that the Light Elven blade designed to protect against Dokkálfar darkness will instead inflict death and doom.” Myrkkha’s cryptic smile sent a frisson of dread through Alberic’s shivering limbs.

Zhúlgorr stepped forward and gallantly bent at the waist to kiss Myrkkha’s skeletal, tattooed hand. “ Takk, elska minn ,” he murmured, his dusky voice like the croak of a toad. Inclining his head with a provocative grin, Zhúlgorr thanked the malva and led Alberic and Gúldur out of her sinister abode.

In the downstairs display room of the silversmith shop, Alberic expressed his gratitude to Zhúlgorr and followed Gúldur—who carefully shielded himself from sunlight with the hood of his voluminous cloak—back outside, where his two trusted Frankish guards awaited at attention.

“Send a messenger when you are prepared to infiltrate the castle. Until then, I bid you good day. Farewell Alberic, Count of Soissons.” Gúldur’s frozen grip sent more shards of ice slivering up Alberic’s tense, taut arm.

“Indeed, I will. Thank you, Gúldur. Fareu vel .” Alberic bowed his head and, with a jut of his chin, led Gozo and Engilram back into the Sapphire Chalice Tavern where he and his men would celebrate with a sumptuous seafood feast.

Tomorrow, they would return triumphant to his Frankish fortress in Soissons.

He would deliver Lord Thorfinn to Richard the Fearless as promised on the first of October—along with the magically altered sword Galadir .

He would present the Dokkálfar dagger Wolfsbane , the cursed Shadowbind ring, and the bloodstone amulet to the shapeshifting troll Narglok.

Alberic’s valuable spy, safely ensconced in the Land of the White Chalk Cliffs .

Undetected by the Vikings of Normandy and the úlfhéenar wolves of Norway.

The Varangian warrior óttarr Skov.