Chapter 23

Ravenous Raptors

Utter chaos was unfolding when Ylva arrived at the castle.

Knights were donning armor and strapping on swords, axes, and shields. Servants rushed to load weapons and supplies on ships docked at the port. Frenzied shouts carried across the teeming courtyard as warriors raced to ready the drakkar warships and retract the newly completed chain boom at the mouth of the river. Sentinels scrambled to their posts in the watchtowers, and castle guards manned the barracks tower on either side of the port.

Ylva frantically searched for Sk?rde, but didn’t see him among the hectic crowd. She dashed inside the castle, leaving Kallez and her personal guards to help the castle knights prepare for battle. As she raced across the foyer, she spotted Gyda, who indicated with a hand gesture that Sk?rde was upstairs. Hoisting her skirts to free her feet, Ylva sprinted up the stairs and down the hall.

When she burst into the room, relief flooded her at the sight of Gunni helping Sk?rde into his chain mail armor. Once the heavy hauberk tunic was in place, Gunni urged Sk?rde to hurry with a menacing glare, ducking his chin respectfully to Ylva as he hastened out the door.

She flew into Sk?rde’s arms. “Thank the gods you’re still here!”

He wrapped her in a tight embrace and swooped down to swallow her lips. When he raised his grim face, his heavy brows were furrowed into a scowl. “My voyage to Denmark is impossible now. Fécamp is under attack. We must sail at once. I’ve sent word to your father in Rouen. But it will take him at least two or three days to arrive by sea. By then, the battle will be over. It’s up to me as Count of the Pays de Caux to defend his ducal fortress.”

Pulse pounding in her constricted throat, Ylva quickly withdrew the talisman from the pouch at her waist and showed it to Sk?rde. “The emerald is imbued with galdr magic. And the three runes are etched in my blood.” She cradled the amulet in her palm and indicated the Nordic markings engraved in the silver. “ Tiwaz , to give you Tyr’s fury in battle. Algiz , for the protection of the elk. And Eihwaz, so you may summon the aid of the gods when you need them.” She reached up under his long, braided hair and tied the black leather cord around his oxlike neck. Ylva nuzzled the blond tuft at the base of his throat. “You must wear it at all times. Promise me.”

He tucked it safely under his chain mail shirt. Devotion and duty blazed in his brilliant blue eyes. “I promise. And you must promise me that if I do not return…” he lifted her recalcitrant chin, forcing her to face a future she did not want to confront, “…that you will rule as Lady of Chateaufort and Countess of the Pays de Caux. And when this vitki… this Falcon that úlvhild has summoned…finally arrives, you and Richard will work with him to free my brother Sweyn. And find a way to return him to my father in Denmark.” Sk?rde’s piercing gaze bore into her very soul. “Promise me, Ylva.” He kissed her with urgent, imploring lips. “Promise me, my Viking Wolf.”

She blinked back tears, struggling to remain strong. “I promise.” With a tender fingertip, she traced his bearded cheek, fighting the dread that threatened to drown her in despair. “The Raven Warrior has an enchanted sword.”

“So do I.” With a wolfish grin, he patted the Ljósálfar blade strapped at his hip that Lugh had given him at the wedding. “ Duradrakk . Infused with the strength of a dragon.”

She desperately wanted to tell him about her sighting in the waterfall pool. How he would behead the Raven Warrior, but be stricken by the malevolent enemy sword. Yet—sometimes the Norns altered the threads of the fate they wove, and Ylva feared that if she voiced her horrific vision, it might indeed come to pass. So instead of revealing all, she decided to simply warn him of the danger she had foreseen. “Beware the Raven Warrior’s blade. It’s imbued with evil. I can sense it. If you are wounded in battle, you must hurry home to me. So that I may heal you with my gift of nen glir .”

“Agreed.” He kissed her softly. “But now, I must go. It will take at least three or four hours—if the winds are with us—to sail to Fécamp.” He pulled her close one last time, his touch searing her with a sizzling current. “I love you, Ylva. Remember your promise.” Grasping her two hands, he fervently kissed the inside of both palms. Eyes ablaze with blue dragonfire, he held her gaze as he yanked the chain mail coif onto his head. With a silent, intense goodbye, he stormed out the oak bedroom door.

She heard his heavy footsteps barreling down the stairs, his deep voice bellowing orders to his men. Desperate to see him off, she raced to the foyer.

And saw the blue woad painted face and feathered, bejeweled cloak of úlvhild, with a solemn Maeve standing at her side.

“The fire beacon was lit … we heard about the attack on Fécamp. We’ve come to chant a vardlokkur at the port and guide our warriors to victory. Come with us. Three is a sacred number.” Moonstone staff clutched tightly in her right fist, úlvhild grasped Ylva’s hand with her left and led her through the enormous double exit doors of Ch?teaufort.

Below the clifftop castle, at the mouth of the Arques River, a towering stone watchtower stood on each side of the natural harbor where Sk?rde’s men prepared to launch six of the ten Viking longships sheltered in the port.

Gyda, Dagny, Norhild, and Eydis stood with servants and villagers on the west bank near the castle, watching the knights who would remain to defend Chateaufort operate the massive winch which slowly retracted the chain boom stretched between the two towers. Amidst the creaks and groans of the lifting crank, the heavy links slowly rose to the surface, dripping with brackish water and glistening in the setting sun. As the crew aboard each vessel unfurled sails and hoisted the heraldic banners bearing the green and silver emblem of the Dragon of Normandy, the oarsmen began rowing through the clear passage, setting forth toward the open sea.

úlvhild thumped her staff on the ground. Ylva and Maeve joined in her harmonious chant, summoning the vareir protective spirits to bless the valiant Vikings and the departing drakkar ships. Together, their three voices blended in a lyrical, haunting melody that floated on the western wind across the white-capped waves.

When the last of Sk?rde’s ships disappeared from view, the trio of priestesses ceased their invocation and went back into the castle to pray with Gyda while servants resumed their duties and villagers returned to their homes.

Atop the crenellated walls of the defensive ramparts surrounding the castle and village of Dieppe, vigilant knights kept watch, defending Chateaufort. Along the river’s edge, fortified outposts and watchtowers, manned by a garrison of knights, were equipped with catapults and ballistae, ready to launch enormous stones, javelins, bolts, and flaming arrows at incoming enemy vessels.

As the sun set over the Narrow Sea, streaking the sky with brilliant shades of orange, pink, and mauve, Ylva prayed for a swift victory and Sk?rde’s safe return.

And that her sacrifice had been enough.

****

Moonlight glimmered on the waves which lapped against the sleek hull of the drakkar warship. Sk?rde stood with Gunni in the prow behind the carved wooden figurehead of the fierce dragon. Clashing swords, battle cries, and the shrieks of wounded and dying men carried across the Narrow Sea as they navigated the sheltered inlet and approached the besieged harbor of Fécamp.

“Why does Anvarr have a fleet of Frankish ships?” Gunni indicated the five vessels beached upon the rocky shore. In the iridescent glow of the full moon, the billowing white sails fluttered, as if wings of the raven emblems flapped in the westerly wind.

Memories flooded Sk?rde like a raging, rapid river.

Anvarr Hrafnsson.

The warrior whose name meant “son of the raven.”

The Danish Viking warlord who had chosen the black bird, symbol of Odin, as his personal crest.

The rancorous rival Sk?rde had humiliated in the holmgang six years ago.

“For revenge against me.”

While oars splashed, thudded, and swished over the white capped waves, propelling them toward the beleaguered beach and imminent bloody battle, anger and adrenaline surged as Sk?rde relived the bitter past.

Anvarr Hrafnsson had expected to be appointed leader of the Danish Viking army in Heieabyr . He’d already led many lucrative raids against the Rus settlements on the eastern coastline near Denmark and all along the Varangian trade routes extending to the Black and Caspian Seas. He’d brought back timber, furs, amber, silver, and slaves from Novgorod which had profited the kingdom of Denmark and asserted the power of Harald Bluetooth throughout the Baltic Sea. A highly skilled warrior and proven leader with a long history of impressive, distinguished achievement, Anvarr had anticipated equally distinguished compensation.

So when the king instead bestowed the coveted position of warlord of the Danish Viking army and awarded the prestigious title of Dragon of Denmark to his bastard son, Anvarr had been infuriated, indignant, and incensed. He’d insinuated that Sk?rde had received the title simply because of his birth rather than by meritorious valor or prowess, implying that the Dragon of Denmark was not worthy of leading the Danish army.

The resultant holmgang —a traditional Viking trial by combat to settle disputes or insults of honor—had been witnessed by hundreds of Danish warriors and King Harald himself on Bockholm Island, at the mouth of the fjord near Heieabyr . It had been agreed in advance that Anvarr and Sk?rde would engage in a single combat using shields, axes, and swords. And that the winner would be determined by the warrior who drew first blood.

With a slice to Anvarr’s left cheek, Sk?rde had won the holmgang , restored his besmirched honor, and established himself as the king’s champion and warlord of the Danish Viking army .

But in doing so, he had permanently maimed his opponent’s face. Anvarr would forever bear the visible result of his audacious, scandalous challenge and his humiliating, debilitating defeat.

Harald, sagely separating the two combatants while simultaneously compensating Anvarr for his indisputable value as a Viking chieftain, named the Raven Warrior as Jarl of Aros, sending him to rule over the vital Viking trade center on the eastern coast of Denmark.

Sk?rde had not seen Anvarr in the six years since the holmgang. But now, with the deafening din of battle raging in his ears as the drakkar ships beached on the pebbled shore, he would once again confront the formidable foe.

Adrenaline surged as Sk?rde leapt over the side of his ship onto the rocky shore where the ongoing battle raged on the gore-strewn beach. The coppery tang of blood and the fetid stench of bowels blended with the salty brine of the sea.

Five Frankish ships had already landed on the more advantageous western bank of the river at the base of Richard’s clifftop castle. Sk?rde and his six ships, having approached from the east, had navigated the curve of the chalky cliff and now disembarked onto the opposite bank. As his warriors poured off the drakkar ships, they quickly formed a shield wall to advance into the frenetic fray. Richard’s archers, some of whom were firing arrows at the enemy from the clifftop ramparts defending the castle, halted their barrage at the sight of Sk?rde’s men.

Amidst the chaos of clashing swords and the piercing, pitiful screams of the wounded, Frankish invaders—clad in white surcoats bearing an ominous black raven—battled the beleaguered knights defending Richard’s fortress. When Sk?rde’s Viking warriors from Chateaufort arrived on the scene with thunderous shouts and rhythmic rapping of swords on shields, their presence injected renewed vigor into the embattled defenders, and the tide of the battle turned.

Dissolving the shield wall, Sk?rde’s men engaged the Franks from the shoreline, wedging them between Richard’s defenders at the base of the cliff and the Viking reinforcements emerging from the sea. As the salty spray of crashing waves buffeted Normandy's white chalk cliffs, Sk?rde’s Viking warriors and Richard’s valiant knights crushed the Frankish soldiers on the pebbled beach of Fécamp. Blades gleaming in the moonlight, the Norsemen pushed forward, felling Franks with battle axes and swords in the brutal dance of combat on the blood and gore soaked shore.

Sk?rde scanned the carnage, searching in vain for Anvarr among the few Franks still fighting. Just as it seemed like victory was theirs, Gunni’s frantic shout pierced the salty moonlit air. “Frankish ships!”

Five more enemy vessels beached on the western bank. Sk?rde rallied his men to face the raven warriors who poured like ravenous raptors onto the bloody shore, their shrill shrieks the harsh, grating caws of carrion crows.

And there—in the brilliant light of the full moon which illuminated the gruesome, ghastly scar—he spotted the distorted, disfigured face of Anvarrr Hrafnsson.

The Raven Warrior who now betrayed his king by leading a Frankish invasion against Richard the Fearless, longtime ally and lifelong friend of Harald Bluetooth of Denmark and Norway.

Anvarr flashed a garish grin and fixed a predatory gaze on Sk?rde. Wild black mane dense as a raven’s wing, chain mail armor glinting in the moonlight, he advanced, a curved sword with glittering stone in his raised right hand.

In a flash, the Raptor attacked, slashing a downward strike which Sk?rde barely parried with his Ljósálfar sword. Blow after jarring blow, Anvarr unleashed his relentless fury, battering and finally shattering Sk?rde’s leather embossed oak shield.

As he staggered under the impact of Anvarr’s devastating onslaught, Sk?rde felt the emerald talisman over his heart and remembered Ylva’s words. “I chose the Eihwaz rune, so that you may summon the gods when you need them.”

Calling upon the galdr magic imbued in the amulet, Sk?rde invoked the god who had marked him in battle once before. “Thor, grant me the strength of your thunder. That I may strike down this enemy like a lightning bolt from Mj?lnir. ”

As a tremendous surge of power seethed into his limbs, Sk?rde spun in a deadly circle and severed Anvarr’s neck, swiftly separating the Raven Warrior’s head from his brawny body. Yet, in a simultaneous move, the enemy blade broke the chain links in the armor covering Sk?rde’s right thigh, slicing into the surface of his exposed flesh. As he watched his decapitated enemy drop to the ground, he glimpsed Frankish warriors overwhelm Richard’s castle archers at the top of the cliff. All around him, raven warriors swarmed the beach, felling the knights of Fécamp and overpowering his own men.

A foul, fetid odor permeated Sk?rde’s nostrils, smothering him in suffocating fumes. His leg was suddenly as heavy as lead, and he couldn’t move any of his limbs. In a dim, distant echo, he heard Gunni shout, “Retreat!” as the pebbled shore slammed painfully into his paralyzed cheek and darkness descended like doom.