Chapter 27

Frisian Royal Fleece

Aboard the Frisian vessel Sea Siren , whose square green sail flapped in the Baltic breeze, the silver and gold scales of the turquoise painted mermaid which was carved into the wooden prow glistened in the morning sun. After three weeks at sea, sailing around the Jutland peninsula of Denmark, navigating the Skagerrak and Kattegat straits, Sk?rde’s crew of thirty maneuvered the knarr ship up the fjord and into the bustling Danish port of Heieabyr.

Hundreds of longships and trading vessels bobbed along jetties lined with warehouses and workshops. Shipbuilders, woodworkers, and craftsmen repaired damaged vessels with timber, metal, and resin. Dockworkers unloaded heavy sacks of grain, bundles of fur, barrels of wine, and livestock, such as cattle, sheep, and prized warhorses. From shops which lined the jetties and the beach along the shore, silversmiths sold arm rings, pendants, and jewelry made with precious gems. A dazzling selection of glassware and ceramics competed with colorful silks, fragrant incense, and exotic spices from the Far East. Amidst the din of merchants hawking their wares, the shouts of men unloading cargo, and the bellowing of cows, the tang of freshly cut timber and roasted meats mingled with the salty scent of the sea.

While members of Sk?rde’s crew unloaded the bundles of wool from the Sea Siren that they had brought from Normandy to pose as Frisian traders, others procured supplies for their return voyage to Chateaufort. Bearing a letter with the official seal of the Count of Lisieux and clad as wealthy wool merchants, Sk?rde, Gunni, Viggo, and Ildris—each carrying samples of their esteemed Frisian Royal Fleece —were escorted by armed guards into the royal longhouse of King Harald Bluetooth.

Inside the vast hall, the enormous oak posts supporting the high peaked roof were intricately carved with motifs of Nordic myths and legends. Richly woven tapestries, embroidered with threads of silver and gold, adorned the wooden walls. A central hearth with a blazing fire ran the length of the royal residence where thralls prepared the king’s sumptuous midday meal. At the back of the longhouse, flanked by royal guards, Harald sat upon an elevated dais in an ornately decorated high seat that served as a throne. Cloaked in deep blue silk over a white tunic embroidered with gold, King Harald Bluetooth greeted the Frisian merchants and invited them to display the royal fleece at the table near his feet.

“Good day, Your Majesty. We are honored to present you with our finest quality wool, which we have named “Frisian Royal Fleece” in your honor.” While Gunni, Viggo, and Ildris set up wooden racks to display their prized product and attract the attention of the king’s vigilant guards, Sk?rde unfolded a sample of sublimely soft fleece dyed a rare royal blue. Holding the exquisite wool for his father to inspect, Sk?rde flashed the distinctive dragon ring which Harald had given him along with the prestigious title as Dragon of Denmark.

Intricately carved into the etched silver, the sinuous body of a massive dragon coiled around the band, its finely crafted scales shimmering in the incandescent light. Within the finely detailed head of the fierce beast glowed two deep green emerald eyes, the finely faceted gems blazing with verdant fire and dormant power.

Harald’s perceptive gaze reflected instant recognition. While Sk?rde removed the ring which might be recognized by others and discretely slipped it into the pouch at his waist, the king proclaimed loudly for dramatic impact, “Truly exceptional quality. Bring it closer, that I may feel the softness and examine the vivid color.”

Sk?rde elaborately draped the wool over Harald’s lap and spoke quietly into his father’s ear. “Sweyn is imprisoned in the royal palace in Paris. Richard and I will free him and bring him to Chateaufort .” He repositioned the fleece and raised his voice for theatrical effect. “"King Harald, this exceptional wool is meticulously dyed using the finest natural woad extract, resulting in this unique, vibrant color which symbolizes your royalty and prestige. It's a testament to our commitment to produce Frisian Royal Fleece of the highest quality."

Harald made a pretense of inspecting the wool. Keeping his voice lowered so that only Sk?rde could hear, he said, “I know of Anvarr’s betrayal. And that Lothaire has taken Fécamp. He has now ordered me to attack Ch?teaufort . To recruit an army and sail to Normandy on the fall equinox.” Harald smoothed his hands over the fleece in his lap, nodding his head and murmuring as if in approval. “Watch for my fleet to arrive at the Pays de Caux in late October. Have your sentinel on the eastern border at Le Tréport light the fire beacon to alert you when he sees my ships.” Ferocity blazed in Harald’s deep blue eyes, stormy as the Baltic Sea. “Lothaire will believe I’m attacking Chateaufort . But I’ll join you and Richard. To retake Fécamp.”

Although his pulse was pounding, Sk?rde calmly folded the fleece and placed it on the table, mimicking the completion of his presentation. He inclined his head, as if bowing before the king while he quietly warned his father. “Send Tova to Trelleborg Castle. Heieabyr is no longer safe.” He met his father’s shrewd, solemn gaze. “If you and I should fall in battle, Ylva will deliver Sweyn to his mother there. To ensure that the kingdoms of Norway and Denmark will have their legitimate heir.”

Harald rose from his throne, beaming in approval of the superior wool and profound relief from the clandestine message. “I am indeed pleased with the quality of the Frisian Royal Fleece . Please accept this as a token of my gratitude for today’s presentation and my intent to formalize a trade agreement for the future.” He handed Sk?rde a bag of silver and shook hands with each of the four disguised Frisian wool merchants as they disassembled the display and prepared to depart.

"It has been an honor, Your Highness. The Frisian Royal Fleece reflects our utmost respect and admiration for your kingdom. With this verbal agreement and silver exchanged, my colleagues and I eagerly anticipate a prosperous, enduring partnership." Sk?rde formally accepted the bag of silver and bowed with Gunni, Viggo, and Ildris before the powerful Viking king.

Armed guards escorted them from the royal longhouse, back toward the boisterous loading docks and lively quays along the shore which featured taverns, food merchants, and market stalls. As they stood under the wooden overhang of a nearby inn, the garlicky aroma of roasted meats, the tang of fresh seafood, and the sweet cinnamon scent of pastries wafted on the salty breeze.

“I’ll pay the tax on our transaction, to ensure everything appears legal and to dispel any possible suspicion. With your towering height and bulk, you might be recognized by one of the magistrates.” Viggo grinned at Sk?rde and withdrew a small pouch from the belt at his waist. He glanced toward the dock where the Sea Siren was moored at the port and waved to the captain of their Frisian ship . “The crew has finished loading the supplies for our return voyage. I’ll head over to the administrative office and take care of the tariff, so we can set sail with the outgoing tide.”

Ildris suddenly stiffened at Sk?rde’s side. As his long fingers instinctively sought the gildir starstone in the silver brooch which fastened his cloak, he hissed under his breath. “Take two steps to your left.”

When a tense, cautious Viggo complied, a dazzling ray of brilliant, blinding sunlight reflected off the glittering gem on the Ljósálfar’s shoulder. As Ildris directed the radiant beam onto a short, swarthy male with wiry black hair and predatory, reptilian eyes, an eerie crackling and creaking sound, like the shifting of stone or the hardening of metal, petrified the dusky skin of the D?kkálfar before their very eyes.

With preternatural reflexes, Ildris quickly draped the empty hemp sack which had transported the Frisian Royal Fleece over the slate grey stone figure, shrouding it from view. In the shade of the overhang, at the base of the statue’s feet, lay a peculiar ring of dark metal which he deftly ferreted into the leather pouch strapped to his belt. Hoisting the heavy sack with seemingly effortless ease, he announced to Sk?rde, “We’ll load this onto the ship. And dispose of it at sea.” He turned to Viggo, danger flaring in his feral eyes. “Forget the tax. We must leave at once—before this D?kkálfar is discovered missing.”

Aboard the Sea Siren, they stored the statue among the barrels of fresh water and cargo of supplies for the return voyage. As the crew unfurled the square sail, raised the anchor, and maneuvered the mermaid-painted trading vessel out of the teeming port of Heieabyr , the captain steered the knarr ship through the narrow, winding channel of the fjord, out into the open waters of the Baltic Sea.

Once they had passed into the Kattegat strait heading northwest toward the Skagerrak and the North Sea, the crewmen Dachelin and Gosse started a fire in the contained hearth near the stern of the ship. As the talented cook Jehan simmered a stew from the scallops, mussels, lobster, and crab he’d obtained at the port, the savory aroma of steaming seafood and crisp pine woodsmoke filled the briny air. Seated with Viggo, Gunni, and Ildris on the raised platform in the aft, Sk?rde drank a mug of mead, watching the wake of the ship part the waves of the brackish sea.

Ildris rose from his seat, crossed the deck, and retrieved the hemp sack containing the stone stature of the D?kkálfar . Hefting the heavy bag, he returned to the stern and motioned for Sk?rde to give him a hand. Together, they hoisted the sack and hurled it over the back of the ship into the vast ocean. “Rán, Mistress of the Depths, claim this vile stone creature for your underwater realm.” The loud splash as the statue sank reverberated against the wooden hull, the echoes of the stone sacrifice swallowed by the sea.

Under the watchful eyes of the fascinated crew, the Ljósálfar lowered himself to sit upon an overturned barrel and withdrew the mysterious dark ring from his pouch.

Sk?rde studied the ominous talisman which lay on Ildris’ luminous palm.

Light silver runes—pulsating with sinister power—glistened in stark contrast to the shadowy, blackened metal of the gnarled, twisted band. Clutched within the sharp claws of a fearsome beast, an eerie blue sapphire stone glowed like an otherworldly eye. As Ildris held the ring in his left hand, the long, elegant fingers of his right bathed it in purifying Ljósálfar light. The runes stopped pulsing and vanished, blending into the metal band. And the malevolent blaze of the sapphire dulled, dimmed, and disappeared. Ildris returned the nullified ring to his leather pouch.

Golden eyes gilded by the setting sun, Ildris stared pensively into the distance. “The D?kkálfar I turned to stone was Nithrak, a Dark Elven silversmith from Dorestad.” He took a long pull of mead, his otherworldly gaze focused on the calm horizon. “That ring was the D?kkálfar Death Claw, inflicting unbearable agony and eventual death, enabling Nithrak to obtain information from his enemies. While it’s possible he was at Heieabyr as a Frisian merchant, like us…” he grinned wryly at Sk?rde, Viggo, and Gunni. “…it is much more likely that he was sent as a spy.” The smile disappeared from his suddenly solemn face. “Nithrak and his brother Guldur—an unparalleled Dark Elven blacksmith—are the proprietors of the Sapphire Chalice Tavern. Named for the Carolingian heirloom bequeathed by the Frankish king Lothaire.”

A thunderbolt shot through Sk?rde as stark realization dawned. “Anvarr’s Dark Elven blade.” A violent shudder shook him at the memory of the Raven Warrior’s sinister sword. Guldur was the D?kkálfar who crafted it. If not for Ylva’s Ljósálfar gift of nen glir, the infernal wound on his leg would have killed him.

“Once Guldur realizes his brother has disappeared, he’ll come to Heieabyr to investigate. Witnesses will say they observed a blinding flash, followed by inexplicable dark shadows in the vicinity of the inn. With his keen D?kkálfar senses, Guldur will detect traces of solar radiance, stone petrification, and Ljósálfar magic at the sight. Once he does, he’ll be able to track me. For I will bear the residue of Nithrak’s shadow essence for the rest of my life. Which will enable Guldur to hunt me. And kill me to avenge his brother’s death.”

“Unless you kill him first. ” Gunni’s brows furrowed as he tugged on his long red beard. “Is D?kkálfar magic more powerful than yours?”

“ D?kkálfar and Ljósálfar powers are quite evenly matched, though our magic abilities differ. Light Elves can cast an impenetrable shield of defense, but can be killed by a D?kkálfar before the protective wards are in place. If Guldur were to catch me unaware, he could kill me with a Dwarven weapon. But I, in turn, could slay him with a Ljósálfar blade through the heart. Or with a gildir starstone.” Ildris ducked his chin to admire the radiant gem in the brooch which fastened the cloak at his shoulder. He traced the clear oval stone with a reverent finger. When he smiled, his white teeth gleamed like perfect pearls. “ Gildir not only reflects sunlight. At night, it can radiate starlight.”

“So, Ljósálfar magic has the advantage. You can kill with a Light Elven blade or a gildir stone.” Viggo’s ragged voice was tinged with hope.

“But the D?kkálfar can track residual magic. Giving them the chance to hunt their prey and strike before the Ljósálfar can cast his shield of protective light.” Ildris drained his mug of mead. “Each balances the other.”

Jehan’s grinning, bearded face interrupted their ominous conversation. Wrinkled skin weathered by years at sea, fierce pride shone in his dark, gleaming eyes as he handed each member of the crew a wooden plate heaped with steaming, succulent shellfish.

As winds billowed the green square sail, and the iridescent scales of the mermaid shimmered in the golden rays of the setting sun, the Sea Siren sailed swiftly across the Baltic Sea.

Home to the Pays de Caux .