Chapter 20

Harald’s Hammer

Bustling female servers, clad in dark blue dresses and white linen aprons, poured goblets of golden mead from gleaming pewter pitchers behind the carved walnut bar. Their strapping male counterparts 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 enticing scent of exotic spice from Far Eastern incense, Lothaire sat with Count Badelbert of Embda at a back table of The Sapphire Chalice Tavern in the lucrative Frisian trade center of Dorestad.

Ideally located on the eastern bank of the Rhine River, the popular timber framed, waterfront inn provided meals and lodging for shipping merchants, travelers, and patrons alike. Today, as he waited for the anticipated arrival of his expected guest, the King of West Francia and his royal guards were dressed as clients of the silversmith whose adjacent workshop abutted the congested, two-story tavern. Badelbert, seated across from Lothaire at their small, private table, spotted the Danish warrior who had been summoned.

Anvarr Hrafnsson.

Harald Bluetooth’s fearsome new Viking warlord.

The Raven Warrior.

Wild mane of black hair tumbling over his chain mail clad shoulders, long black beard extending to the top of the raven emblem emblazoned on the white surcoat which covered his impressive armor, Anvarr strode confidently toward the table. A battle axe on his left hip and bearded axe on his right, each weapon was securely hafted in a loop on the wide leather belt wrapped around his sinewy waist. With a jut of his scarred, bearded chin, he silently commanded his six armed guards to stand at attention along the side wall where they could instantly defend him if necessary. As Anvarr warily seated himself upon the bench across from Badelbert, Lothaire eyed the hideous gash which marred the entire left side of the Viking’s savage face—the brutal, irrefutable evidence of the Raven Warrior’s failed attempt to challenge the Dragon of Denmark as leader of Harald Bluetooth’s Viking army. Thickened, hardened skin of a mottled, dark purple scar prevented the beard from growing over its widened base, giving Anvarr the feral, untamed appearance of a grotesquely ravaged wolf. But in his glossy black eyes shone the fierce intelligence and piercing intensity of a raven.

Lothaire gestured to an attentive server, who promptly brought a goblet of mead to the table and placed it in front of Anvarr. He waited while she refilled both his and Badelbert’s mugs from the pewter pitcher on their table and returned to serve her other customers. Raising his chalice, which prompted Badelbert and Anvarr to follow his lead, Lothaire inclined his head in a respectful nod. “Greetings, Raven Warrior. I am pleased that you swiftly answered my summons.”

Black eyes ablaze, Anvarr reverently ducked his chin and muttered, “Your Majesty.” He took a long pull of mead, his shrewd gaze assessing Lothaire’s modest attire as a patron of the Sapphire Chalice Tavern rather than the opulent King of West Francia who controlled the entire territory of Frisia—and therefore the profitable trade center of Dorestad where they now sat in the clamorous inn. The Raven Warrior eyed the elaborate silver display case—standing on a wooden shelf above the walnut bar—which contained the exquisite sapphire chalice for which the tavern had been named. A royal gift from Lothaire himself, the priceless heirloom was engraved with a floral pattern of the fleur-de-lys emblem of the Frankish monarchy, studded with rare sapphires from the Far East. Inside the intricately wrought silver filigree casing of the cabinet doors, burning candles flanked the treasured chalice. Incandescent light reflected off the polished silver and glittering gems, the flickering flames casting a brilliant blue glow throughout the Sapphire Chalice Tavern.

Hardened warrior and vigilant warlord, Anvarr remained silent as he perused his surroundings, patiently waiting for Lothaire to explain the purpose of the summons and the reason for this clandestine meeting.

Lothaire got straight to the point. “My reports indicate that the Danish port of Heieabyr was recently attacked and that you suffered heavy losses. At least five warships and an estimated three hundred men.” Lothaire slowly sipped his mead, observing Anvarr over the rim of his goblet. Anger simmered in the Raven Warrior’s bold black eyes. “Given that your king, Harald Bluetooth, foolishly bequeathed a sizeable Viking army and a fleet of drakkar warships—as a bride price for his bastard son’s wedding to the daughter of Richard the Fearless of Normandy— Heieabyr was severely compromised prior to the assault. And now, as a result of the recent onslaught, your valuable Viking trade center is likely to fall into the greedy hands of Otto the Red, the King of East Francia and Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire. Indeed, my cousin Otto is anxious to seize not just the port of Heieabyr, but all of Denmark, in his fervent attempt to expand his empire to match the grandeur of our ancestor, Charlemagne. Which is why I have summoned you, Anvarr Hrafnsson. I wish to propose a mutually beneficial arrangement. Whereby you seize the ducal palace of Richard the Fearless and establish a Frankish fortress in the Pays de Caux of Normandy for me. And I, in return, shall assist you in defending Denmark against the formidable forces of the Holy Roman Empire.”

Battle fury, tempered by wisdom and experience, blazed in Anvarr’s astute gaze. “My king has formed an unbreakable Viking alliance with Richard the Fearless, the Duke of Normandy. Harald Bluetooth never breaks an oath, nor would he betray his son, Sk?rde the Scourge. Even if I were willing to accept your mission, I could never convince my king to break his pact with Richard. Or betray the Dragon of Denmark. ”

Badelbert nodded imperceptibly at Lothaire and leaned forward across the table, baiting the hook to land their prized catch. “Sk?rde the Scourge is no longer the Dragon of Denmark. His loyalty has shifted; his allegiance is gone. He’s the Dragon of Normandy now. You, Anvarr Hrafnsson, are the new Defender of Denmark. Since your king would never break his alliance or betray his bastard, you must do what is necessary to save your kingdom. When Harald returns to Denmark and finds the devastation of Heieabyr, he will undoubtedly blame you for its inadequate defense. And when he discovers that his legitimate heir was abducted during the raid, he will execute you for his perceived failure on your part. This is the perfect opportunity to redeem yourself as the Defender of Denmark. Should you succeed in capturing Fécamp and establishing the Frankish colony in Normandy, you will not only gain a crucial ally to defend Denmark against Otto the Red. You will save Sweyn Haraldsson. Bluetooth’s legitimate heir.”

Anvarr’s incredulous gaze shot to Lothaire. “You abducted Sweyn?”

Lothaire’s soothing voice was as smooth as a swallow of mead. “I ferreted the boy to safety. He is unharmed and well cared for. He knows that his father will come to fetch him as soon as it is safe to return to Denmark.” He met and held Anvarr’s grim gaze where resignation and acceptance now replaced his earlier rage. Although Lothaire wanted the Raven Warrior’s compliance, he needed an indomitable warlord, not a defeated, demoralized chieftain.

Now was the time to bequeath the unparalleled royal gift.

The King of West Francia nodded to one of his armed guards, who rose from the nearby table, reverently bowed his head, and returned a few moments later with a sword sheathed in a sapphire encrusted scabbard.

The royal guard, whose armor glinted under the black cloak which concealed the chain mail and sword strapped upon his hip, handed the sheathed weapon to his king before retreating to rejoin the Frankish knights disguised as merchants.

Lothaire laid the glittering leather scabbard upon the table and slowly withdrew the ominous sword. The malevolent blade gleamed with a dark, otherworldly sheen amidst smoky, shadowy swirls of sinister steel. “ D?kksáfir —Dark Sapphire. Forged in the shadowfires of Svartálfheim by the Dark Elven blacksmith Guldur. Crafted from invincible D?kkálfar steel. With shards of black obsidian for a razor-sharp edge… which inflicts inevitable death.”

A deep blue faceted sapphire, encased within the sword’s elaborate hilt, sparkled like a dark star in the torchlight of the boisterous tavern. “This sapphire is imbued with the essence of deadly D?kkálfar magic. An enemy struck by this malignant blade who does not immediately succumb will nevertheless die of the mortal wound within three days.” Lothaire traced a bejeweled finger over the dark blue gems in the leather sheath. “These sapphires in the scabbard are also imbued with Dark Elven magic. To infuse you with D?kkálfar strength and prowess in battle.”

Anvarr gripped the sword, assessing the superb craftsmanship and the sparkling sapphire embedded in the ornate hilt. Admiration and awe edged his deep, gravelly voice. “Its power is palpable. It pulsates in my hand.”

“Use it to slay the Dragon of Normandy. The bastard who maimed your face.” Badelbert taunted the Raven Warrior, fueling the fire of retribution and revenge.

“I have amassed a fleet of ten ships, equipped with white sails emblazoned with an enormous black raven. Each vessel transports sixty armored knights, bearing surcoats which display your raven emblem. As we speak, the ships are being loaded with weapons and supplies for the voyage to Normandy. They are docked here at the harbor and are ready to depart upon your command.” Lothaire drained his goblet of mead, setting the chalice down upon the table as he met Anvarr’s scrutinizing gaze.

“It is essential to depart at once, before Harald Bluetooth returns to Heieabyr.” Lothaire waited for the efficient server to refill their mugs of mead and return to her duties behind the walnut bar before continuing. “ Richard the Fearless is in Rouen, leaving his ducal palace in Fécamp largely undefended.” He pensively sipped his mead. “The fortifications at the five new Viking settlements along the Pays de Caux are incomplete and therefore vulnerable to attack. You will strike Fécamp by sea, and Badelbert’s army will invade by land. Defenders of the castle will light the fire beacon, summoning the Dragon of Normandy. Whom you will slay with your Dark Elven sword.”

Badelbert grinned wolfishly and expounded upon Lothaire’s plan. “Attack with half of your fleet, reserving the rest for a second surprise offensive. When Sk?rde the Scourge disembarks, engage his army in a battle on the beach. He’ll underestimate your number and expect a quick victory. You will then launch the remainder of your fleet, trapping him between two crushing waves of Frankish assault.” He gulped his mead and wiped his clean shaven mouth with the back of his hand. “While you take the port, I’ll seize the castle. And install myself as the Frankish Duke of Normandy. In the former ducal palace of Richard the Fearless.”

Lothaire embellished the enticing bait. “Once you’ve taken Fécamp, I’ll arrange for the boy Sweyn to be brought to you at the castle. Leave your Frankish army behind with Badelbert, and return triumphant to Heieabyr . When you bring home to your grateful king his beloved young son—heir to the thrones of Denmark and Norway—you’ll be known as Anvarr the Anvil . Harald’s Hammer.”

Disfigured face aglow as he savored the delicious bait, Anvarr rose to his feet, sheathed the sapphire sword, and strapped the Dark Elven blade upon his hip beneath the pair of axes belted at his waist.

Lothaire raised his chalice in tribute. “To the Raven Warrior with the D?kksáfir sword. May you defeat the Dragon of Normandy in a decisive victory. And establish a Frankish fortress at Fécamp.”