Page 35 of Wolf of the Nordic Seas (Valiant Vikings #2)
Skugga
“You six, tend the horses. Egon, position your men. Gozo and Engilran, with me.” The Count of Soissons posted his two dozen Frankish knights as sentinels at the doorways, windows, and alleys around the Sapphire Chalice Tavern in Dorestad. As Alberic led his two most trusted armored guards into the waterfront establishment of the bustling Frisian port, apprehension gnawed at his gut like the sharp fangs of a rodent.
He'd been summoned by Zhúlgorr, the Dokkálfar silversmith whose scarlet-haired witch had enchanted the Shadowbind ring and amulet for the troll Narglok. The messenger had said it was urgent, and for him to come at once to the tavern in Frisia. Alberic and his men had ridden hard, covering the distance from Soissons to Dorestad in five days — half the usual time. Nevertheless, nearly a week had passed, and anxiety gripped Alberic in a choking vice as he maneuvered through the amiable barmaids clad in sapphire blue dresses and the raucous crowd enjoying the festive atmosphere of the thriving riverfront inn.
Alberic spotted the wiry black hair and murky skin of the Dark Elven silversmith sitting at a private table in a shaded corner, carefully shielded from sunlight. Zhúlgorr, having replaced the slain proprietor Nithrak, was now one of the two owners of the lucrative Sapphire Chalice Tavern, along with Gúldur, the Dokkálfar Blacksmith of Dorestad. Since the Franks controlled Frisia, and King Lothaire of West Francia was the royal patron of the lucrative tavern, both Gúldur and Zhúlgorr were eager to be of service to Alberic, the Frankish Count of Soissons.
Gúldur was en route to ísland as planned. So why had Zhúlgorr summoned Alberic? Something must have gone dreadfully wrong. Apprehension throttled him like a noose.
Seated beside Zhúlgorr was Myrkkha, the exotic enchantress with eerie crimson eyes. She recognized Alberic and whispered into Zhúlgorr’s pointed ear.
With a terse nod of his head as he removed his bejeweled, feathered felt cap, Alberic silently commanded his two armored knights to stand guard along the nearby wall. They would remain alert and defend him if necessary. As would his two dozen men surrounding the inn.
Zhúlgorr rose to his feet and extended his hand to welcome Alberic. “ Goda dag, Min herra. Greetings Lord Alberic, Count of Soissons.” Ducking his unkempt bearded chin, the Dark Elf bowed humbly before Alberic as his honored noble guest. “You certainly remember my malva, the Lady Myrkkha.” Zhúlgorr gestured to the intoxicating beauty whose full, creamy breasts tantalized Alberic as they overflowed the seductively low-cut bodice of her amethyst velvet gown.
Alberic stifled his traitorous body’s vigorous response. Between the alluring pearlescent globes which transfixed his lusty gaze, a black obsidian amulet with the carved image of the Goddess Hel glistened with a dark, foreboding aura. Myrkkha was a voluptuous vulture who would sink her claws into his hungering flesh and suck out his soul. Dread shivered down Alberic’s spine. With concentrated effort, he diverted his attention from her luscious curves and met her disquieting garnet gaze. “Of course I remember her.” Alberic bent his head to kiss the malva’s porcelain hand, shuddering as his lips brushed the ominous swirls and arcane runes inked upon her pale flesh. “My lady, your exquisite beauty has left its indelible mark upon me. I shall never forget your irresistible allure, nor your astounding, malevolent power.”
A sultry smile stretched Myrkkha’s pouty, sensuous lips .
“Please, be seated, Lord Alberic.” Zhúlgorr gestured to a barmaid, who promptly brought a sapphire-studded silver chalice filled with golden mead and placed it on the table before Alberic. “Did you relinquish Lord Thorfinn to Richard the Fearless in Reims?”
“I did indeed.” Alberic settled into the wooden chair across the table from Zhúlgorr and Myrkkha. He took a hearty gulp of mead to quench his parched, constricted throat and calm his quavering limbs. “Thorfinn was gaunt and weak—having spent three months in my dank prison—but in relatively sound health otherwise, as agreed.” He took another long pull from his silver goblet.
“And the altered sword, Galadir ?” Zhúlgorr’s yellow eyes glowed with predatory intent.
“Delivered to Jarl Rikard himself.” Alberic smirked at the thought of the sinister sword being interred alongside Thorfinn’s deceased son in the burial mound near the castle. With Myrkkha’s evil enchantment, the Ljósálfar protection of the sacred grove would be desecrated by Dokkálfar darkness. Which would aid Alberic immensely when he infiltrated le Chateau Blanc through the hidden, forested tunnel near the castle.
Alberic’s muscles twitched with trepidation. Why had he been summoned here? The increasing tension was unbearable. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat and took another long gulp of mead.
As if reading his thoughts, Zhúlgorr announced the purpose for their meeting. “Myrkkha will relate what she has foreseen in a recent seidr vision.”
Alberic’s heart hammered in his chest. What had she seen which would require such an urgent summons?
Myrkkha’s voice was as velvety as her deep purple gown. “Three drakkar longships set sail from étretat. Elfi Thorfinnsdóttir was aboard the ship with her betrothed, the Wolf of the Nordic Seas.” The malva sipped from her silver goblet, crimson eyes locked on Alberic. “They plan to marry in ísland, to prevent you from acquiring the clifftop castle of Chateau Blanc through a forced marriage to her.” With a long, skeletal finger, Myrkkha pushed a wayward lock of blood red hair from her hauntingly beautiful face. “My vision also revealed that a volva —gifted with powerful magic from the Sun Goddess Sól—is sailing with the bridal couple as well. It is therefore imperative that I sail to ísland at once. To destroy the volva through the Dokkálfar darkness of Helheim.”
Frustration and impotent fury raged through Alberic. He had already failed twice in his attempt to seize the castle of Chateau Blanc and establish a Frankish colony in the Viking heart of the Pays de Caux. King Lothaire had promised to make Alberic the Frankish Duke of Normandy if he succeeded in this quest. Alberic simply could not fail a third time. “I do not understand. Why must you sail to ísland now? By the time you arrive, Elfi will already be married, so my plan to invade the castle and force her father’s hand will be futile.”
“Not if I arrive in time to stop the wedding.” Myrkkha grinned like a cat who had just swallowed a mouse.
Alberic was dumbfounded. “How is this possible? The drakkar ships left étretat a week ago.”
Myrkkha flashed another sly feline grin and nodded imperceptibly to Zhúlgorr, who gestured to someone sitting at the polished oak bar in the center of the tavern.
At the Dokkálfar’s signal, a towering brute with a savagely scarred face arose from a stool and strode across the tavern floor with the swift stealth of a serpent.
Braided black hair tumbled over his broad shoulders, his thick black beard plaited with the same silver beads and dark glittering gems as those woven into his long, wiry locks. Chain mail glistened over his black leather armor, the metal greaves inscribed with Nordic runes covering the shin area of his black leather leggings. Steel vambraces engraved with swirling snakes protected his forearms from wrist to elbow. Draped over his wide shoulders, a gleaming black fox fur cloak—fastened with a silver brooch engraved with a slithering snake — fell to the middle of his black leather boots .
Strapped at his left hip inside a black snakeskin sheath was a magnificent sword forged from dark, shadowy steel. A vicious snake coiled around the pommel, its reptilian head the focal point of the hilt. Venomous fangs bared, its golden amber eyes emitted an uncanny, preternatural glow. A bearded axe hung from the leather belt on the warrior’s right hip, and a black snakeskin scabbard sheathed a dagger just behind his sword. His round shield was painted a deep blood red, with a coiled snake — ready to strike — engraved on the metal boss.
Tucked under his brawny arm, a conical metal helmet with a nose guard glistened in the morning sunlight streaming through the windows overlooking the Rhine. Alberic recognized the helmet and armor. It was the same that the troll Narglok wore for his assumed identity as óttarr Skov. A Varangian warrior and Rus raider from the Baltic Sea.
As the menacing Viking approached their table, Zhúlgorr rose to his full diminutive height and introduced him to Alberic. “Lord Alberic, Count of Soissons, may I present Ilya Rurikovich, a Varangian warrior from Novgorod known as Skugga—the Shadow.”
Alberic remained seated, asserting his superior rank as a Frankish count, but ducked his clean-shaven chin to acknowledge the Viking brute. Still rattled by the unexpected summons and the unsettling presence of the Dokkálfar and the mysterious malva, he wondered where all this was leading.
While Zhúlgorr continued his introduction, the Varangian warrior assessed Alberic with an icy blue stare that sent shivers through his shaking limbs. “Skugga is not only the commander of an elite band of Varangian warriors, he is also the hersir of a snekkja — a sleek, swift vessel capable of reaching ísland before the Wolf of the Nordic Seas and his trio of drakkar longships.”
Skugga inclined his dark head in homage to Alberic.
Myrkkha greeted the Varangian warrior, who bent at the waist to gallantly kiss her elegant, tattooed hand. “Please join us, Ilya.” She smiled as the bearded Rus Viking lowered his armored bulk into the available chair and accepted a mug of mead from Zhúlgorr. “Is your ship ready to sail?”
Skugga downed half the contents of his goblet and swiped a swarthy hand over his black braided beard. “It is, indeed, my lady. I suggest we depart within the hour. To take advantage of the outgoing tide.”
An astounded Alberic addressed the bearded brute. “Your vessel can overtake the three drakkar longships hat sailed from étretat a week ago? How is that possible?”
Mellow laughter rippled from Myrkkha. “Because the Wolf of the Nordic Seas plans to stop at the Faroe Islands. To replenish supplies, of course. But also to enlist the aid of his ally, Haldor Falk. The shapeshifting vitki known as the Falcon of the Faroe Islands .” The malva’s lush lips clamped on the rim of her silver goblet, sending a staggering wave of lust straight to Alberic’s straining loins. The sultry glimmer in her crimson eyes conveyed comprehension of her intended effect on Alberic. She smirked with sly satisfaction. “Skugga and I shall arrive in time to prevent Elfi Thorfinnsdóttir from marrying the Wolf of the Nordic Seas . I shall destroy the volva who wields solar magic. Gúldur will avenge the death of his brother Nithrak. And you, Lord Alberic of Soissons, will successfully seize le Chateau Blanc .”
Adrenaline spiked in Alberic’s veins.
The deep, gravelly voice of the Varangian warrior interrupted his racing thoughts. “I shall abduct Elfi of étretat in ísland and return her to you, so that you may force the marriage as planned. I shall also aid you in seizing the castle, eliminating Richard the Fearless, and the Dragon of Denmark, Sk?rde the Scourge. You will establish a Frankish colony in the Viking heart of the Pays de Caux .” A serpentine grin slithered across Skugga’s scarred face. “And when your grateful king proclaims you the Frankish Duke of Normandy, you will ally with me against the newly crowned Danish king, Sweyn Forkbeard — son of Harald Bluetooth, our mutual enemy. With an alliance between King Lothaire of West Francia and you as the Duke of Normandy, my magnanimous prince Vladimir will proclaim me Knyaz of Novgorod —a rank of Rus nobility equivalent to your title as a Frankish duke.”
Myrkkha leaned forward, offering Alberic another enticing view. Her melodic voice was smooth and rich as honey. “Skugga and I shall ensure that Gúldur and Narglok prevail in ísland. That the Wolf of the Nordic Seas and his allies — the Ljósálfar and the úlfhéenar— are slain in the bloody battle. And that you, Alberic of Soissons, shall marry Elfi of étretat and acquire the clifftop castle of Chateau Blanc.” She inclined her scarlet head, deferring to Skugga.
“Do we have an agreement, Alberic of Soissons? Two thousand five hundred pieces of silver for my snekkja longship and the services of my elite band of Varangian warriors.” Skugga’s wintry stare pierced like shards of ice. “I shall ensure your victory in ísland and enable you to seize le Chateau Blanc . And you, as the future Duke of Normandy, will ally with me against the Danes.”
Alberic’s pulse pounded in his ears. He couldn’t believe his good fortune. With Skugga’s aid, he could prevent Elfi from marrying the Wolf of the Nordic Seas . He would still be able to seize the castle as planned and establish a Frankish colony in Normandy. And best of all, he would forge a crucial alliance between King Lothaire of West Francia and the Grand Prince Vladimir of Kievan Rus, enabling both sovereigns to reclaim their rightful lands and solidify their respective monarchies. Alberic would be proclaimed the Duke of Normandy. And Ilya Rurikovich, the Varangian warrior known as Skugga, would become the Knyaz of Novgorod. Grinning from ear to ear, Alberic extended his palm and shook Skugga’s scarred hand. “Agreed.”
Alberic raised his goblet. “To victory in ísland and étretat. To the alliance between our grateful monarchs. And to the wealth, prestige, and power that you and I shall wield as Duke of Normandy and Knyaz of Novgorod.”
“Skál!” Skugga drained his goblet and slammed it down upon the table. A deep rumble of laughter rolled from his husky throat. “Gúldur shall slay the Wolf of the Nordic Seas— with his own father’s reclaimed Dwarven sword.”
Myrkkha traced the rim of her goblet with a slender finger. “And prevent the white wolf from fulfilling the prophecy.” Her uncanny gaze transfixed Alberic. “But Skugga will also prevent the fulfillment of two additional prophecies. A trio of omens which the Norns have entwined with the fate of the Frankish crown.”
Alberic’s breath caught in his suddenly constricted throat.
“The child born to the son of a Danish king and the daughter of a Norman duke will forge a dynasty to unite the land and rule for a thousand years.” Haunting and ethereal, Myrkkha’s otherworldly voice swirled like evanescent shadows. “ The son of the dragon will shield the cape and defend the future crown .” The malva paused, allowing her cryptic revelations to hover in the heavy silence. “The coveted crown of your Frankish king lies at the heart of the prophecies. By slaying the son of the dragon , Skugga will prevent their fulfillment. And enable you, Alberic of Soissons, to ensure that King Lothaire of West Francia retains his Carolingian throne.”
Alberic was baffled but exhilarated. “Who is the son of the dragon ?”
“A young warrior named Skjold. Born to Sk?rde Haraldsson, son of the Danish King Harald Bluetooth, and Ylva Rikardsdóttir, daughter of the Viking Duke of Normandy, Richard the Fearless. Skjold is the son of the dragon— the Dragon of Denmark. He is a powerful vitki , like his mentor, Haldor Falk. And he will be in ísland, where Skugga will slay him with a Dokkálfar sword.”
The Varangian warrior seated beside Zhúlgorr leaned back in his chair, exposing the carved, fanged snake in the hilt of his astounding weapon. “ Zmeydokk. Black Serpent. Imbued with the essence of a deadly black mamba. Forged by Gúldur himself — the Dokkálfar Blacksmith of Dorestad.” The golden eyes of the black mamba carved on his sinister blade glinted with malignant malice. “Swift, stealthy, and lethal. ”
“My seidr vision also revealed a most interesting development.” Myrrkha positively purred. “The volva who sails to ísland is the lover of Haldor Falk — a powerful vitki who commands winged creatures and can assume the form of a falcon. In fact, he is the sorcerer who enabled Richard the Fearless to reclaim his ducal fortress in the bloody battle of Fécamp against the Franks.”
Alberic remembered how his colleague Badelbert had successfully captured Richard’s ducal fortress in the white chalk cliffs of Normandy. But with the combined alliance of King Harald Bluetooth, Bluetooth’s bastard son the Dragon of Denmark, and a sorcerer who had summoned thousands of attacking birds, Richard the Fearless had reclaimed his clifftop castle — in a resounding defeat of the Franks. All the more reason why Alberic could not fail in this attempt to conquer le Chateau Blanc .
Myrkkha finished the last of her mead and set her silver goblet down, her disquieting gaze locked on Alberic. “The Falcon of the Faroe Islands will be in ísland. With his acolyte, the son of the dragon . And Skugga will slay them both.”
As Alberic processed this startling information, he was still bewildered by the prophecy. “How does slaying the son of the dragon save my king’s Frankish crown?”
Myrkkha regarded Alberic as if he were a dimwitted pupil. “Because Skjold will shield the cape.” At Alberic’s look of incomprehension, she chuckled in disbelief. “Do you not know who is called the cape?”
Although her mocking jeer rankled Alberic, he reluctantly admitted his ignorance. “I must confess that I do not. Please enlighten me.” He unstrapped a pouch of silver coins from his waist and placed it on the table before the elusive malva .
She inclined her bloodred head and secured the leather pouch to the deep blue woven belt adorned with gems, trinkets, and fragmented bones strapped at her narrow waist. Fire blazed in her fierce gaze. “ Hugh Capet. The powerful Count of Paris. The greatest rival for King Lothaire’s West Frankish crown.”
Comprehension flooded Alberic with excitement that bordered on ecstasy.
Alberic would seize the castle of étretat and establish a Frankish stronghold in the Pays de Caux. The alliance with Prince Vladimir of Kiev and the Varangian warriors of Novgorod would enable King Lothaire to finally dispel the Vikings from Normandy and reattach the fertile dukedom to the kingdom of West Francia.
Alberic’s hands shook as he raised the goblet of mead to his parched, puckered lips. And by killing the son of the dragon , he would prevent his king’s greatest rival from capturing the coveted Frankish crown.
Like a coiled serpent poised to strike, Skugga watched with eyes of ice as Alberic digested the magnitude of the malva’s vision. Venom laced his deep, throaty hiss. “I shall slay the son of the dragon . And the shapeshifting vitki , Haldor Falk. Falcon of the Faroe Islands .”
The promise of death in his soulless stare, Skugga rose to his towering height and inclined his dark head to Alberic. Strapping his spiked helmet under his bearded chin, he nodded farewell to Zhúlgorr. And — linking Myrkkha’s inked, porcelain hand through his mail clad elbow — led the malevolent malva through the boisterous crowd, out of the Sapphire Chalice Tavern.
Elation overflowed like the mead spilling from his shaking hand as Alberic raised his goblet, prompting Zhúlgorr to do the same. “To Skugga. May he triumph for us all.”
Thank you for reading Wolf of the Nordic Seas.