《Valkyries Calling》


 Chapter 1 - 1 The Oath Beneath Basil鈥檚 Tomb

    ?1: The Oath Beneath Basil¡¯s Tomb 1: The Oath Beneath Basil¡¯s Tomb Light shone through the windows, casting their gaze upon the procession below, a solemn ceremony for an emperor brought to the afterlife by the hand of Azrael, far too soon for this mortal world to fully bear the consequences of his departure.


    At the age of sixty-seven, death by some subtle illness was a deeply ironic end for the man whose name would echo through history as the ¡°Bulgar Slayer¡± but that was exactly what had come to pass.


    In accordance with his wishes, Basil¡¯s funeral was held in a far more modest setting.


    While most Byzantine emperors had been buried in the lavish halls of the imperial mausoleum within the hallowed Church of the Holy Apostles, Basil had chosen to rest eternally beside his soldiers in a far humbler abode.


    Thus, the Church of St.


    John the Theologian in Promodos located in the Hebdomon district just beyond the Theodosian Walls became his final resting place.


    A fitting end for a man of war who wished to sleep among the dead who bled for his empire.


    However, for a military man choosing to sleep with his fallen comrades, his funeral itself was far from spartan in aesthetic.


    Rather than the men who had fought and bled by his side over the course of the last few decades of campaign, Basil¡¯s corpse was now surrounded by sycophants and socialites, their crocodile tears cascading down their false expressions and onto their silk-ridden bodies.


    No, there was but one man out of place in this lavish and farcical ceremony.


    Surrounded by a sea of Tyrian purple and gilded silk, jewels on every limb, skin olive and hair black, stood a man who looked almost alien.


    But he was silent, unemotional as he stood at the rear of the hall, next to the brothers of his elite guard.


    Only three of such members were tasked with protecting the ceremony, of which he was by far the most striking in appearance.


    Standing taller than the legend of Charlemagne, and with an appearance so ethereal he might have been the spirit of the north¡¯s winter itself, was a man whose skin was whiter than snow, and whose beard was somehow even further lacking in hue.


    His eyes were the personification of northern ice, only his piercing gaze visible beneath the ocular rim of his iron spangenhelm, and the black war paint concealing the whitened flesh of his eyelids.


    A cross hung over the leather lamellar vest which itself was the third and final layer of armor, adorned over proper riveted mail and a gambeson beneath.


    But this was not a Christian cross, no.


    It was a far more rare symbol: a wolf¡¯s cross, typically found in the frozen tundra of Iceland among the pagans who lived there, a variation of the hammer which the god Thor wielded.


    This wasn¡¯t just a Norseman; he was a Varangian, and by the looks of it, a venerated captain at that.


    Hence why his open display of heathenry was barely tolerated within this sacred cathedral of Christ¡¯s army on earth.


    Still, he could not bear to witness such falsehood, especially in the professions of love and loyalty by men and women who deserved neither, and had received none from Basil in life.


    Because of this, the Norseman was about to turn and leave when one of his subordinates stopped him, placing himself directly in the captain¡¯s path before reminding him why they were here in the first place.


    ¡°I understand how you feel, brother¡­ But our duty is to stand here and guard the Emperor until he is fully laid to rest.


    Do not let your disdain for these whelps cloud your judgment, or your honor, Vetrulfr¡­ We stand with you.¡± Despite wanting to snarl like the skin of the arctic wolf which sat atop his helm and draped across his shoulders and back as both cloak and spiritual relic, the captain named Vetrulfr simply turned around silently and waited until the lies, the deceit, and the empty platitudes were finished.


    Then, and only then, after every Byzantine aristocrat and bureaucrat worth his weight in gold had said their farewell to their ¡°beloved¡± Emperor, did Vetrulfr finally step forward, placing a hand on the gilded casket, its cover carved in the shape of the man he had known in life, and whose corpse was now interred within.


    A solemn gaze, like that of a man who had not just lost a commander but a close personal friend and mentor, overcame the otherwise ferocious warrior as he said his final words in a language only the other Norsemen would know, one that he had personally taught to Basil during their time together at war.


    ¡°I have spent the entirety of my adult life thus far fighting your wars on your behalf¡­ Not just out of the fortune you have paid me, and the one I have yet to collect, but because you were a man worth following into battle.


    Since the day I first met you, you had spent our time together attempting to convert me to your faith, and educate me in a way that I would become more than just another barbarian from the North¡­


    I can say with certainty that at least half of your intentions have stuck with me throughout the years.


    However, I fear not the part which you desired most of all.


    Now that you have left this world too early to finish what you have started, my time of service and the loyalty I owed you is completed.


    Now I must go north, back to my people, and to the calling I was always meant to fulfill in this life.


    There is a reckoning to be paid in the lands of those who would usurp your rightful title¡­ A debt of blood owed for what happened 200 years ago, and when the gods call for blood, it must be paid in full¡­


    Ironic, that all that you have taught me will now be used to wage war against the very god you tried so hard to make me kneel before¡­ Rest well, brother.


    We will meet again when the Valkyries come to take me.


    Even if your death was unworthy of their calling.¡± Basil had, unfortunately for the Byzantine Empire, married no wives, taken no concubines, and fathered no sons.


    All that remained to rule in his stead was his brother, Constantine VIII.


    A man far from worthy of sharing the same blood as the legendary Bulgar Slayer.


    And he was here in this very church.


    Naturally, seeing a northern barbarian, one who dared to profane this cathedral with his open display of heathenry, speak in a vile and savage language of which no man could understand would upset such a foolish and haughty man.


    Though a rarity in history, it was indeed a curse when an idiot came to sit upon the throne of an empire.


    However, the only thing worse than such a ruler was the dangerous mixture of an idiot who believed himself to be a genius.


    And that was the kind of man Constantine VIII was, boldly provoking the very elite soldiers whose loyalty and ferocity had struck fear into the enemies of Constantinople and the empire it had built.


    The man, successfully perturbed by a mild inconvenience, saw this as a chance to be rid of these fur-clad warriors once and for all.


    And he used this as an opportunity to slander them at the funeral of their warrior king.


    Constantine¡¯s voice echoed across the chamber, smooth and false as gold-plated brass.


    ¡°With the passing of my noble brother, the time for war ends.


    Let us move forward into an age guided by reason and unity, by faith.


    We shall no longer need foreign swords in these sacred halls.


    The empire is civilized now.¡± A long silence followed.


    Even the priests looked uncertain.


    Vetrulfr stepped forward, the menacing stride of his leather boots connecting with the marble floor, echoing with each pace he took towards Constantine who stood before Basil¡¯s eternal resting place.


    He gazed over the emperor¡¯s resting place one last time, then turned to face the living.


    ¡°You speak of faith and reason, yet you lack both.


    Your brother understood the cost of empire.


    He bled for it.


    Bled beside men like me, men you now call foreign, barbarian, unnecessary.¡± He unclipped the ornate imperial sword from his belt, the one given to him by Basil himself, and tossed it with a clang to the floor before the throne.


    ¡°You are unworthy of my spear, my sword.¡± He unstrapped the great axe from his back, turning it in his hands one last time.


    ¡°And most certainly, my axe.¡± ¡°You think war ends because you say so?


    The Seljuks stir in the east, and in the west, the Pope plots behind golden idols.


    Rome¡¯s enemies are not cowed, they are patient.


    And when they strike, parchment and prayer will not save you.¡± He stepped back, a grim smile beneath his beard.


    ¡°My oath died with Basil.


    I leave now, and I am taking what is mine by right, no more.


    And when your house crumbles, do not call on the north.


    The gods already know your name, and they do not speak it with favor.¡± Without another word, Vetrulfr turned and walked out beneath the watching eyes of marble saints and spineless men.


    The only words spoken in the stunned silence that followed came from the two fellow Varangians still standing guard over the ceremony.


    A simple nod, and a few quiet syllables passed between them.


    ¡°Sk?l, Captain.¡± Normally such words and warriors would not be welcomed in this holiest of places, but the priests did not dare rebuke them.


    Even they knew better than to question warriors in mourning.


    Nobody made a move to stop the Norsemen from claiming what was rightfully theirs.


    They saw to it that their Emperor was buried, and then departed with a horde of treasury worthy of their years of loyalty and sacrifice.


    Where Vetrulfr went, so too did enough of the Varangians beneath his command to fill his longship for war.


    The vessel sat in the docks of Constantinople and was noticeable by its unique design and size.


    With a length of approximately 28 meters, the ship could carry 80 men into battle and had 35 pairs of oars.


    Shields with iron bosses and rims lined the edge, as Vikingr were already in the act of loading cargo and bounty when Vetrulfr, flanked by his most veteran warriors, walked onto the scene. Sear?h the novel(F~)ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    A simple salute followed by the phrase ¡°Sk?l¡± erupted from the crew as they recognized their captain¡¯s arrival with the respect and solidarity he had earned by fighting by the sides of these men for nearly a decade.


    Vetrulfr returned the greeting and gazed upon his longship, which had long since sat idly by waiting for the extended voyage home to the north.


    Its motifs were not of a standard dragon, rather, it displayed Fenrir, bound to its figurehead, chained and snarling in defiance as Tyr¡¯s severed hand, cast in iron, was held within its bloodied maw.


    As for the name of the ship itself, it bore the moniker Frostrt?nn, or Frostfang in the later English tongue.


    A reminder of the island in the deep North Vetrulfr had been born in, and his association with the arctic wolf whose hide he wore proudly as ¨²lfheeinn.


    With a sharp bark of his voice, Vetrulfr issued the commands to depart once it was clear that the men were ready.


    ¡°We sail home¡­ It will be a perilous trek, so make peace with the gods before we depart.


    I won¡¯t remind you that our stops will be brief and few between our destination, so make sure that rations are properly accounted for one last time.¡± With everything confirmed, Vetrulfr stepped upon his ship and sat down next to one of his kinsmen, an older veteran by the name of Gunnar, whose greying beard was as scraggly as a yak¡¯s head.


    The man¡¯s eyes were cast toward the horizon as he began to heave the oars in unison with his fellow Norsemen, speaking of his thoughts regarding their journey in a foreboding and almost prophetic tone.


    ¡°I fear that Nj?rer will not be kind to us¡­ We have been far away from home for much too long, and he will test to see if we are still faithful¡­¡± Vetrulfr said nothing.


    He simply nodded his head in silent approval as he too rowed northward, knowing that a sacrifice was needed to properly appease the wrath and vengeance which the old gods of the north were so well known for.


    And he had just the target in mind for this great bl¨®t.

 Chapter 2 - 2 A Great Sacrifice

    ?2: A Great Sacrifice 2: A Great Sacrifice Nobody knew how long the Norsemen had been at sea, only that the air was fresh with the taste of salt, and their rations, though dwindling, were doing so at a proper rate.


    But Vetrulfr was an experienced sailor, and he knew that any day now, or more precisely any hour, they would be reaching the coastline of their destination.


    The storm on the horizon was growing stronger and fiercer.


    Blood would be demanded in great quantity to appease the gods, and to test the wayward sons of frost and steel who were returning home after being in distant lands for far too long.


    Vetrulfr, being a man of strategic foresight, had long since prepared for this eventuality.


    And when they saw the entrance to the Po River Valley as they approached the Adriatic, he stood up from his seat and howled his commands to the eighty warriors serving beneath him.


    ¡°There!


    Take the mouth of the river and go westward upstream!¡± His orders were followed to the letter.


    And after some time navigating the course he had chosen, it was an abbey with connections to Charlemagne who had once paid patronage to it during his life.


    The crew made berth along the riverbank and disembarked from their vessel, swords, axes, spears, and shields in hand.


    Vetrulfr unsheathed his blade, a sword forged from eastern wootz steel by a Saracen blacksmith in Damascus.


    Just above the bronze hilt, a golden Tiwaz rune was engraved.


    The watery pattern of the multicolored steel shimmered in the sun as Vetrulfr raised his shield and advanced at the center of his men¡¯s shield wall.


    The monks inside had no idea that the old world was calling to them from beyond the false safety which their large wooden doors provided.


    A group of monks were in collective prayer as the head of the abbey led them.


    The stained glass windows of the main chapel dripped with the tears of the heavens, rain falling in lament for the blood that those inside were unknowingly about to shed.


    And then it came, fierce and swift, like the bone-chilling kiss of Iceland¡¯s frost-laced winds.


    The doors to the chapel burst open.


    A tall, broad-shouldered man with pale skin, a beard the color of snow, and eyes the hue of frozen seas stood before them, sword in hand.


    The monks knew immediately who these men were.


    Though Viking raids into Italia had diminished as the 11th century progressed, whispers of barbarians wearing the skins of beasts from the north and raiding coastal villages and river chapels had never truly faded.


    And because of this, they screamed in terror and huddled together.


    There was no escape, the Norsemen had come through the only entrance.


    Yet Vetrulfr did not immediately strike.


    Instead, he walked past the gathering of monks and gazed upon the large gilded crucifix depicting the passion of Christ at the center of the chapel.


    His eyes were not filled with reverence, but with disdain.


    He pointed the sword toward the abbot¡¯s throat, his words laced with contempt for the faith he loathed.


    ¡°No matter how many times I see it, I truly can¡¯t help but pity you all¡­¡± The head of the abbey gazed defiantly at Vetrulfr, undeterred by the sword¡¯s tip, pressed so close that a mere swallow would pierce his flesh.


    His eyes burned with righteous fury.


    ¡°Lay down your arms.


    There is no salvation in blood.


    What you need is the boundless love of God!¡± Vetrulfr stepped forward without a word.


    His hand shot out, seizing the man by his embroidered collar.


    With a casual tug, he ripped the golden crucifix from the priest¡¯s neck.


    The chain snapped with a weak jingle.


    He held it up, turning it slowly in the firelight, examining it like a foreign relic from a dead civilization.


    Smooth.


    Untouched.


    Gleaming.


    Gold that had never tasted blood.


    His voice was calm, but cold enough to make the flames shiver.


    ¡°You Christians always speak of how powerful your god is.


    And yet he¡¯s always shown nailed to a tree.


    Dead.


    Beaten.


    Weeping.¡± He paused, gazing at the crucified figure, arms outstretched in agony, eyes cast downward in eternal defeat.


    Then, slowly, he reached beneath his cloak.


    From the folds of wolfskin and leather, he withdrew a second pendant, older, darker, heavier.


    A rough-forged Wolf Cross, tarnished silver with the wear of decades.


    Blackened by fire.


    Weathered by frost.


    Etched by blood.


    The two symbols, Christ¡¯s clean gold and Thor¡¯s war-worn silver, hung in contrast between his fingers.


    One divine and defeated.


    The other savage and standing.


    ¡°You embody the spirit of a god crucified,¡± he said, voice low but sharp as the edge of a blade.


    ¡°But I embody the spirit of a wolf, forged on Thor¡¯s anvil, hardened in war.¡± He turned toward the brazier.


    Without ceremony, he released the crucifix.


    The gold hissed as it struck the coals, metal curling and blackening in the flames.


    No miracle came.


    No angel wept.


    Only fire.


    He let the Wolf Cross dangle for a moment longer, its silver catching the firelight in flickers like distant lightning on northern snow.


    Then, with deliberate care, he pressed it back to his chest, against the heart it had never stopped guarding.


    The silence that followed was deafening.


    One of the monks lunged forward, enraged by the desecration, his face red, his voice shrill with fear and fanaticism.


    ¡°You have no power here!


    This is hallowed ground!


    A house of God!


    Leave, demon of the North!¡± Vetrulfr turned slowly, his expression unreadable, shadowed by the firelight.


    Then, with a slow, deliberate smile: ¡°A demon, am I?


    Then allow me to show you fools what true power looks like¡­


    before I send you to your god myself.


    After all, Nj?rer demands a great sacrifice from us as a test of our faith, and I am so glad you have all volunteered for our bl¨®t.¡± Without another word, he drove his blade into the monk¡¯s chest.


    The man¡¯s fury turned to astonishment as the Damascus steel drank from his still-pumping heart.


    His eyes dimmed.


    No divine wrath descended.


    Only silence.


    And then the slaughter began.


    Blood, bone, and sinew splattered across the chapel. S§×ar?h the Nov§×l?ire.n(e)t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    The Norsemen tore through the monks with merciless precision.


    No sanctuary held.


    No prayer heard.


    By the end, the abbot¡¯s lifeless body was nailed through the chest with a brass candlestick to the very cross that depicted his own crucified lord.


    Only one monk survived.


    The young man knelt, wailing and praying for salvation.


    Gunnar stood before him, his axe raised high, ready to finish what had begun.


    ¡°No, brother,¡± came the voice behind him.


    ¡°Not him.


    One needs to live to tell the tale.¡± Gunnar stepped aside without hesitation while Vetrulfr stepped forward in his place, kneeling before the monk, eyes glowing like coals beneath a glacier.


    ¡°You will deliver a message to your emperor, the one who falsely claims the name of Rome while cowering in that gilded brothel called Aachen.¡± The monk¡¯s lips trembled, yet no words came in response, resulting in Vetrulfr¡¯s gaze hardening while his voice became a storm, a physical manifestation of the gods¡¯ wrath here on Earth.


    ¡°Tell the sons of Charlemagne that the gods have taken shape in flesh.


    That their wrath walks again.¡± He rose, stepping back slowly, his cloak sweeping with the motion, wolfskin caked in blood and ash.


    His blade lifted like a prophet¡¯s finger.


    ¡°Tell them the son of Ullr has returned.


    That he comes to settle a debt two centuries unpaid, forged in the blood of the Saxons.


    Paid for in fire.


    Signed in ruin.¡± Vetrulfr then cast a glance over his shoulder towards the frightened monk.


    A final look.


    A final warning.


    ¡°Tell him this.


    Word for word.


    Or I¡¯ll carve the runes into your skin myself.¡± Then came the order, his voice like Thor¡¯s thunder which broke the storm behind him.


    ¡°Burn it.¡± ¡ª It took some time for word to reach the King of the Romans, Conrad II, who just a year prior had inherited the throne from the last of the Ottonian dynasty.


    The monk, pale, soot-streaked, and trembling, had only been granted entrance to the palace at Aachen after his so-called ¡°hysterical¡± claims had been properly verified.


    And when they were, he knelt before Conrad and spoke the words he had committed to memory with terror etched into every syllable.


    Conrad remained silent for a long while.


    The last of Charlemagne¡¯s bloodline had perished the year before, leaving him the heir to a throne now transitioning from a feudal kingdom into what would soon be recognized as the Holy Roman Empire.


    Whoever had launched the attack, this self-proclaimed son of Ullr, clearly did not know that the Carolingian line had already ended.


    Which meant he had been gone from the world¡¯s stage for some time.


    At Conrad¡¯s side stood his inner circle, nobles, advisors, clergy.


    Chief among them was his master of whispers, who leaned in to murmur his insight.


    ¡°Basil¡¯s death in Constantinople has had greater consequences than we anticipated.


    It would seem the Bulgar Slayer¡¯s passing has unleashed the wrath of Norsemen kept too long in imperial service.


    If that is the case, this may be more than just another raid.


    It may be an omen of a blight returning to our shores.¡± Across from him, the court chaplain¡¯s voice rose, inflamed with fury and conviction.


    ¡°Heathens!


    Savages!


    They desecrate a holy abbey simply because Charlemagne once blessed it with his favor?


    Blasphemy!¡± The steward, more measured and perceptive, stepped forward with a darker suggestion.


    ¡°The message delivered makes it clear: this is a declaration of war, not only against Christendom, but specifically against the Empire and those tied by blood or legacy to Charlemagne.


    Vengeance for the Saxons, long thought buried.


    But one question disturbs me most of all: how did a Northman know that the Abbey had once received the patronage of Charlemagne himself?¡± He paused, his tone sharpening.


    ¡°This is no mindless brute.


    He is Varangian, yes, but a learned one.


    He knew what he struck and why.


    And if that is the case¡­ may God have mercy on us all.¡± Conrad said nothing as murmurs rippled through the chamber.


    Debate erupted, some questioning whether this was a lone fanatic, others fearing a larger movement among the Norse.


    A few dared to suggest divine punishment for forgotten sins.


    At last, Conrad stood.


    ¡°Enough,¡± he declared, his voice ironclad.


    ¡°See to it that this monk is fed and clothed.


    He has suffered enough without your squabbling.¡± He turned his gaze on the others, his jaw set.


    ¡°As for this raider¡­ this ¡®son of Ullr¡¯, we have more pressing matters than some ghost from the ice.


    The cowards have vanished back into the wilderness from whence they came, leaving no trace of their homeland.


    Let them.


    When they show themselves again, we will burn them at the stake for their crimes against the Empire and Christendom.¡± The chamber fell into silence.


    No one dared to challenge an emperor¡¯s decree, though many disagreed in the privacy of their thoughts.


    The master of whispers and the marshal exchanged a glance, each already formulating contingency plans, quiet preparations for a threat that might not be so easily dismissed.


    But for now, the king¡¯s word was law.


    And far to the north, the Varangians sailed for Iceland, untouched, unchallenged, and unconcerned.


    They had sent their message in blood, ash, and iron.


    No fleet pursued them.


    No retribution followed.


    This had only been the first taste.


    The gods had not been forgotten.


    And Vetrulfr had shown the world that the sons of the North remembered, and still hungered for reckoning.

 Chapter 3 - 3 The Son of Ullr Returns

    ?3: The Son of Ullr Returns 3: The Son of Ullr Returns The journey was perilous, but stable.


    The great bl¨®t committed at the Abbey in Italy had done its job and Nj?rer was appeased.


    Because of this, after a long trek northward with several small stops along the way to replenish supplies, Vetrulfr and his men safely landed upon the isle of ice.


    The centuries had not been kind to the pagan peoples of Europe.


    For nearly a millennium, the Christians had marched against them, taking up sword and cross alike in the name of holy war.


    Now, Iceland was among the last of the old realms to be tainted by this foreign deity and his refusal to coexist with the other gods of man.


    While the majority of the island was Christian, in the far reaches of the Westfjords, where Vetrulfr had been born, the old gods still whispered to their dwindling cadre of loyal followers.


    When Vetrulfr stepped off the ship and onto the mossy shore of the fjord, he breathed deep the cold air.


    Two ravens sat perched on the mast of the Frostrt?nn, their black feathers slick with ocean spray.


    They gazed silently at the warriors who had not set foot on home soil in over a decade, then took flight, disappearing inland toward the village.


    As Gunnar and the others tied off the longship, Vetrulfr laughed like a younger man, pointing toward the sky.


    ¡°Look there, boys!


    Odin greets us!


    At long last we are home.¡± Gunnar shook his head, saying nothing.


    He had long accepted that his captain saw the gods in everything.


    Two birds were enough to send him into divine reflection.


    Gunnar gave Vetrulfr a pat on the shoulder.


    ¡°I¡¯m sure he does, but come.


    We must pay respects to the local Goei¡ªbefore he mistakes us for raiders.¡± Vetrulfr had left Iceland as a young man, and now returned after a lifetime in the East, almost forgetting the political fragility of these northern lands.


    A foreign warship with unfamiliar sails could easily be seen as an invading force.


    Sure enough, as they pressed further into the village, a local band of armed men approached.


    A h¨²skarl or two stood at the center, but most wore little more than wool shirts and hastily cobbled shields.


    One or two had iron helms.


    They looked nothing like the mail-clad, battle-hardened Varangians they confronted.


    One of the h¨²skarlar stepped forward, drawing his sword and leveling it at Vetrulfr, who towered over him.


    Not a step further, outsiders¡­ Or we shall consider you a raiding party from the mainland!¡± Vetrulfr said nothing.


    He lowered the wolfskin hood from his head and lifted his helm, revealing his pale Nordic features.


    He opened his mouth to speak but a voice rang out behind the guards.


    ¡°Out of my way, you lumbering oafs!


    I said OUT of my way, or so help the gods!¡± A woman parted the crowd like a storm parting the sea.


    She looked no more than thirty winters, tall, lean, eyes like glacier glass.


    But the air around her carried the weight of centuries.


    Her cloak of dark fur rippled behind her like wings.


    Her voice, when it came again, held the same ageless quality as the mountains that loomed over Ullrsfj?rer.


    The villagers knew her.


    All of them.


    Yet none had dared speak her name in years.


    She crossed the space in a breath, stopped before the towering warrior, and without hesitation, wrapped her arms around him.


    ¡°My son¡­ you have finally returned to me.¡± Silence.


    Stunned, sacred silence.


    One of the older warriors whispered beneath his breath as if the sound itself could call down gods: ¡°Brynhildr¡­¡± Even the h¨²skarlar faltered.


    One instinctively traced the sign of the cross across his chest¡ªthen lowered his eyes in shame.


    Another bowed, not to her, but as if seeking forgiveness from a god he no longer dared name.


    Only the lead h¨²skarl remained standing¡ªeyes wide, jaw clenched in dread.


    He turned to a younger man beside him and hissed: ¡°Go to the Goei¡¯s hall.


    Now.


    Tell him that Vetrulfr has returned¡­ and so has Brynhildr.¡± While the messenger ran, the h¨²skarl sheathed his blade and stepped forward, wearing a forced smile.


    ¡°I almost didn¡¯t recognize you.


    You¡¯ve grown¡­ tall.


    Strong.


    Still wearing that old mangy mutt¡¯s cloak, I see?¡± The insult was a jab at Vetrulfr¡¯s sacred ¨²lfh¨¦einn wolfskin and was tolerated only because of the h¨²skarl¡¯s station.


    However, those more spiritually inclined gazed at him with quiet scorn.


    Naturally, Vetrulfr responded to the man¡¯s taunts in kind.


    ¡°Of course.


    But you, Halfdan, you haven¡¯t grown a hair since I last saw you.


    Or rather, perhaps you¡¯ve lost a few?


    Tell me, is it normal for a man to begin balding at your age?


    You look older than your father¡­¡± He stepped closer, the grin fading into sharpness.


    ¡°How is the Goei, by the way?


    I see he made you a h¨²skarl.


    An honor¡­ if one earns it.¡± Halfdan¡¯s smile cracked.


    His pride flared, but before he could retort, Vetrulfr¡¯s mother stepped in.


    ¡°My son¡­ you¡¯ve been gone a long time.


    Do not provoke Halfdan.


    His father is¡­ more powerful now than he was when he sent you away.¡± Vetrulfr chuckled.


    ¡°Mother, I¡¯ve fought beside emperors and slain kings.


    The Goei does not frighten me.¡± He turned to Halfdan, voice raised.


    ¡°I have come to call the Goei ergi and challenge him to holmgang.


    A debt is owed for what he did to me and I will see it paid in blood¡­


    Fetch your father, boy.


    I¡¯ll be waiting for him at a time and place of his choosing.¡± Halfdan reached for his sword, but another h¨²skarl stepped in, this one older, clad in a bearskin, his gaze steady and stern.


    ¡°No, Halfdan.


    He has invoked the rite.


    Your father must answer.


    You cannot interfere, at least not until the duel is done.


    You would be wise to run to your father.


    Tell him the son of Ullr stands waiting.


    There is no glory in a duel he was never meant to survive.¡± The older h¨²skarl pushed Halfdan toward the Goei¡¯s hall.


    Once he was gone, he turned back to Vetrulfr.


    ¡°I must say¡­ you are not the feral pup I once knew.


    You¡¯re a wolf now, tempered by war, shaped by fire.


    I think it¡¯s time for change around here.


    Perhaps you¡¯re the one to bring it.


    Don¡¯t disappoint me.¡± With that, the town guard dispersed.


    The challenge had been made and the old gods demanded a response.


    The Goei sat on his carved seat, surrounded by his household and men.


    The hearth¡¯s fire flickered, but his hands trembled as if he felt no warmth at all.


    A foot tapped nervously on the bearskin beneath him.


    His teeth ground silently, but the room heard it all the same.


    Vetrulfr.


    The name alone turned his blood cold.


    The son of that witch-woman.


    The ghost he exiled years ago, sent away before his strange birth and pale eyes could rattle the balance of power.


    But exile had not ended him.


    No, it had forged him into something far worse.


    A Varangian.


    A killer of kings.


    A living myth.


    The Goei knew holmgang had been outlawed under Christian law.


    But the old ways still lingered in the Westfjords.


    Reykjav¨ªk¡¯s laws held no sway out here.


    And more dangerously, the Althing did. S§×arch* The n?vel_Fire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    If he refused the duel, he might be protected by Christian law.


    But the Althing and the villagers could rule otherwise.


    Should they deem Vetrulfr the aggrieved party, and the Goei failed to appear, he would forfeit by default.


    However, if they ruled the Goei to be insulted by Vetrulfr¡¯s words and he still refused to fight, then he would be declared n¨ªeingr; stripped of all rights and become a man outside the law.


    The challenge had been perfectly crafted.


    He could not run.


    He could not win.


    And yet he could not afford to lose.


    With a voice hoarse and low, he turned to his son.


    ¡°Halfdan¡­ you will fight him.


    As my champion.


    It is your duty.¡± The hall fell silent.


    No one moved.


    No one breathed.


    Finally a meager voice cast a whisper, yet it resounded as if spoken with the power of thunder.


    ¡°¡±So¡­


    I¡¯m the shield you¡¯ll break to save your crown?¡± Nothing more was said¡­ For everyone knew Halfdan¡¯s words were true, and yet the Goei¡¯s choice, dishonorable as it was, had been made.


    ¡ª The duel was set for dawn the next day, in the hills overlooking the fjord and the village below.


    But for the evening, Vetrulfr and his men celebrated their return.


    All of his men were Norsemen who still followed the old gods, but few among them hailed from Iceland.


    Yet the bonds forged in foreign wars, and the visions Vetrulfr shared during their service to the Bulgar Slayer, had filled them with loyalty deep enough to follow him home and to see his ambitions through.


    But tonight was not for war.


    Tonight was for tales, for songs, for the fire-lit glory of what had been.


    Vetrulfr stood at the center of the mead hall, not as a chieftain, but as something older.


    A warrior returned from the far reaches of the world.


    A legend born in an age where myths were dying.


    A horn of mead in hand, he raised it high, voice ringing like a war cry turned into song.


    ¡°I¡¯ve meant to say this since our last day in Constantinople, but I reserved it for a night like this; a night not of hardship, but of honor.


    I dedicate this toast to Basil the Bulgar Slayer.


    A Christian, yes.


    A man of illness in the end.


    But I say this now: he drinks in Valhalla beside Odin, the Valkyries, and the Einherjar!¡± A roar of horns followed.


    The men shouted and drank deeply, none dared challenge the sentiment.


    Truth be told, there was little left to celebrate in the village these days.


    But the boasting and battle tales that leapt from the mouths of Varangians: of wars waged, kings slain, and gods remembered.


    It brought warmth to hearts colder than the fjord winds.


    Even the oldest villagers could recall no such night since their youth.


    Their weathered faces brightened with memories, and a whisper seemed to pass through the hall: Perhaps the gods had not abandoned Iceland after all.


    One old man approached Vetrulfr with a horn in hand, raising it high.


    ¡°To Vetrulfr Ullrsson!


    The Son of Winter, and the last true Vikingr!¡± Cheers erupted from the gathered crowd.


    No one contradicted him.


    For that night, in that hall, no truer words had ever been spoken.


    But the celebration did not last long.


    A voice cut through the warmth of the hearth it was feminine, cold as a blizzard sweeping down from the northern peaks.


    ¡°My son is not the last of the Vikingr¡­¡± Gasps rippled across the room.


    The voice belonged to a woman draped in wolf-pelt and runed cloth, her presence sending a chill through even the flame-lit air.


    ¡°He was not birthed in the winter solstice from the seed of Ullr to be a mere henchman to Christian kings in the far East!


    No.


    The gods still whisper, in the winds, in the snow, and in the rain¡­ And they have not forgotten.¡± She turned to her son.


    ¡°You spilled blood in distant lands.


    You offered a great sacrifice to Nj?rer in exchange for safe passage.


    Did you not, my son?¡± The hall fell silent.


    The villagers watched with reverence.


    Many had once called her mad, a Seiekona, touched by spirits.


    But none could deny she had never once broken her story.


    Twelve years ago, the Goei had tried to force her to recant.


    To say her child was no god-born warrior, but a bastard born of sin.


    She refused.


    Again and again.


    Even under threat.


    Even when they exiled her son.


    And now, her defiance was bearing fruit.


    Vetrulfr looked at her, eyes flickering with something colder than the fjord waters.


    And then, without hesitation, he spoke.


    ¡°Of course I did.


    That land was tainted by Charlemagne¡¯s patronage.


    I cleansed it with the blood of the monks who lived there.


    It was the first drop in a debt two centuries unpaid.¡± The room leaned forward.


    These were not educated men, and certainly not of history.


    The name Charlemagne was foreign to them, but they could tell by the pitch in his voice that the debt which Vetrulfr spoke of was very real.


    ¡°Many of you may not know this, but two hundred years ago, Charlemagne, the Frankish King of Christendom, declared war on our Saxon brothers.


    Men who worshipped Odin, Thor, Nj?rer.


    Men like us.


    They refused to kneel.


    So he baptized them in blood.


    And not just the warriors, but their women and Children.


    Their throats slit, before being drowned in the name of his God.¡± His voice grew deeper.


    ¡°And yet the Christians call him merciful.


    Graceful.


    Just!¡± He raised the horn.


    ¡°Since that day, they¡¯ve waged endless war against our gods.


    Even here in Iceland.


    Where cowardly men kneel before a dead god¡¯s broken image.¡± He stepped forward.


    ¡°But I will not kneel.


    The greatest Christian king of this era, Emperor Basil II, could not make me bend the knee no matter how hard he tried!


    What will the heirs of Charlemagne do, when I take their daughters, burn their churches, and silence their prayers with blood?¡± He turned, voice thundering.


    ¡°This war is not over.


    Not until I say it is.


    And that day will never come¡ªuntil every Christian man begs the gods they betrayed for forgiveness!¡± He raised the horn again.


    ¡°Sk?l!¡± Seventy-nine voices joined him.


    ¡°Sk?l!¡± Then more, first the men, then the women, and finally even children.


    And somewhere in the crowd, a voice, high, small, but filled with fire, rose through the chant.


    ¡°Is it true?¡± A young boy stepped forward, eyes wide.


    ¡°Are you really Ullr¡¯s son?¡± Vetrulfr looked down at him.


    The fire crackled.


    The room fell silent.


    He smiled, not kindly, but with a grim pride.


    ¡°I was born in stillness.


    In frost.


    In silence.


    And when I cried, the ice cracked.


    If I am not Ullr¡¯s son, what else can I be?¡± The boy¡¯s eyes blazed with wonder.


    And in that moment, all could see it, another spark had caught flame.


    The age of the gods might be ending.


    But not yet.


    And not without fire.


    The Seiekona looked on, smiling; not with joy, but with certainty.


    Her prophecy had walked into the hall.


    And now it walked into history.

 Chapter 4 - 4 Wrath Reborn

    ?4: Wrath Reborn 4: Wrath Reborn The sun lingered just above the grassy hills and stone mountains of Iceland, its illumination gracing the sapphire fjords below, and the field where Vetrulfr waited.


    His iron mail, partially covered by lamellar plates fashioned in Byzantine leather, shimmered beneath rays of sunlight reflecting off riveted rings and hardened leather scales.


    An armor set more common in Constantinople than here in the North.


    The large, wolfskin-clad warrior loosely gripped his damascus steel sword in one hand, and the handle of his round shield in the other.


    Nearly the entire village had gathered, or at least the men, and those boys old enough to bear witness to the ancient rights of the Norse, and the offended within their society.


    lawspeakers, thingmen, and council elders who were representatives of the local Thing were standing front and center, older men, many still bearing the runes of their ancestors in either silver jewelry, or as lining to their more well-crafted tunics.


    Standing across from Vetrulfr in the circle where the duel would be held was nobody, not yet at least.


    There was still ten minutes for the other party to show.


    And Vetrulfr waited patiently, while his mother stood by his side, speaking ill of the man who had been challenged. sea??h th§× N?vel?ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    ¡°Alfarr has minutes left.


    When the sun kisses the peak of dawn and he has not stepped into the ring, he will be named n¨ªeingr¡ªa coward unworthy of honor.


    Let him flee to Reykjav¨ªk and seek forgiveness from his white-cloaked priests.


    He was never fit to wear the blood of our forebears!¡± Vetrulfr said nothing, merely the eyes beneath the iron ocular rim of his helm shifted and stirred in the direction where a group of men were walking towards him.


    Among them was the Goei Alfarr, but he was neither dressed in armor nor wielding a sword.


    Instead, it was his son, Halfdan, who came to duel as his champion.


    The looks on the faces of all those who bore witness to this scene were truly contemptible.


    Alfarr was not old and feeble enough to avoid fighting in defense of his own honor, and he was not a simple farmhand.


    He had once been a warrior in his own right back in the day.


    To choose his own son as champion as a sacrificial pawn was not only testing the limits of the old law, but was also truly an act befitting a coward.


    But nobody dared say otherwise, not until the duel was concluded.


    Vetrulfr gazed upon Halfdan who stood a full head shorter than his lumbering height, and cocked his neck at an angle, as if questioning the man¡¯s willingness to throw away his life for his cowardly father.


    ¡°Is this truly how you wish to die, Halfdan?


    Defending the man behind you who won¡¯t even fight his own battles?


    I pity you¡­.


    let us pray to Odinn that he sees your sacrifice as somehow noble, and worthy of Valhalla even if you don¡¯t respect our ways¡­.


    Halfdan seemed in no mood for superstitious ramblings about the gods, and the afterlife he was about to go to.


    Instead, he simply demanded the duel begin with haste.


    ¡°Enough!


    This must be done, and since that is the case, let us get it on with already!¡± The two men raised their swords as the thingmen made tribute to Tyr, not Ullr, to watch over the contest, as doing so may invoke favoritism towards his son and champion.


    Or so was the perspective of those who truly believed Vetrulfr¡¯s tale.


    And then the duel began, not slowly, or lazily in an attempt to feel one another out, rather with Vetrulfr closing the distance with his shield raised and using it to ram his opponent to the ground.


    A swift swing of his single-edged blade towards the downed rival would have been enough to kill most men, but Halfdan proved more capable than Vetrulfr initially thought, rolling out of the way of the strike and raising his shield to deflect the next blow as he got back to his feet under the weight of Vetrulfr¡¯s relentless onslaught.


    Alfarr hissed in excitement as his fist clenched tightly with anxiety.


    Seeing his son survive the stampede of a rampaging bull was more than he was expecting.


    And then Halfdan returned his attack with his own sword, lashing towards Vetrulfr with a swift and overhand slash.


    But the whispers in the wind betrayed Halfdan as the frost kissed Vetrulfr¡¯s cheeks, he somehow knew exactly how Halfdan would move next.


    Whether it was the specific way his shoulder twitched, or the voice of the gods revealing the future, only Vetrulfr truly understood how.


    With the raise of his shield and the lunge of his blade, Vetrulfr not only caught his opponent¡¯s attack mid swing, staggering him in a way that exposed his throat, which was swiftly thrust through by Vetrulfr¡¯s blade.


    Halfdan stood in disbelief as his strength left his body and he fell to his knees, bleeding out of his throat rapidly and violently.


    Yet Vetrulfr did not finish the man by chopping off his head.


    Instead he caught his opponent, in a solid embrace, ensuring that Halfdan¡¯s sword was in his hand as he gently lowered the boy to the ground.


    Vetrulfr¡¯s frozen eyes gazed into the panic and terror in Halfdan¡¯s soul, whispering gently as he assured the man that he was off to a better place.


    ¡°You fought better than most who have died by my hand.


    Your bravery and honor were witnessed by the gods here today.


    Odin will deem you worthy¡­ I envy you friend, you will see them before I do¡­.


    Can you hear them?


    The song of the Valkyries as they call out to you?


    Can you see them?


    Are they as beautiful and gentle as we hoped they would be?¡± Whatever strength within Halfdan¡¯s grip went limp as he gazed beyond Vetrulfr¡¯s figure, almost as if in his death throes he truly saw peace waiting for him on the other side, no matter what form that may have taken.


    Upon realizing that the man was dead, Vetrulfr laid Halfdan¡¯s sword hand upon his chest, and closed his eyelids, a serene, yet haunting tableau of a man who had perished far too soon.


    And when the crowd realized what had happened, they paid their respects.


    Alfarr staggered back as if struck, eyes wide, mouth agape at the swift brutality.


    His son, his champion, dead before his cowardice had even settled into the minds of those watching.


    As for Vetrulfr¡¯s mother, Brynhildr, her expression softened into quiet reverence, eyes fixed gently to the empty space near Halfdan¡¯s fallen form, as if seeing spirits unseen by mortal eyes.


    A silent whisper beneath her breath that only she could hear before walking over to her son who emerged victorious in this ancient and sacred rite.


    ¡ª It did not take long for the focus of the villagers to turn to their disgraced Goei.


    Vetrulfr had won the contest.


    He had avenged his exile, but the nature of the grievance meant, and the way Alfarr went about it meant that he no longer had a right to continue with his position.


    For years the majority of the villagers who still followed the old gods had borne silent contempt towards their leader, who curried favor with the Christians in Reykjav¨ªk, while still trying to profess himself as a trueborn Norseman.


    But there was little they could do.


    Nobody had the means to challenge his rule until now.


    Vetrulfr¡¯s return wasn¡¯t just a spiritual revival for the people of Ullrsfj?rer, it was a political one.


    Alfarr knelt in the grass as the cold icy winds swept over him gazing at his son¡¯s fresh corpse.


    The thingmen¡¯s words were ultimately what woke him from his trauma induced stupor.


    ¡°Vetrulfr Ullrsson has emerged victorious.


    He fought with honor, as did his opponent.


    But the aggrieved party, Alfarr Haraldsson, has disgraced the rite.


    By duel and by law, we strip him of the title of Goei.


    From this day forth, the gods have chosen a new chieftain: the Son of Ullr.¡± Cheers erupted from the men present as the thunder crackled in the distance, almost as if Thor himself was striking his anvil in approval at the end result of this honorable duel.


    When Vetrulfr heard that he had been named the new chieftain he was quick to make his first proclamation clear.


    ¡°¡±Gather to me every man and boy fit to bear arms!


    From this village, this sacred fjord that bears my father¡¯s name, I shall forge an army the world will remember!


    Even the mighty Jomsvikings will tremble when they hear our name whispered in the wind.


    Today, we begin a new age.


    ¨ªsland has been tainted by the plague of Christendom, its people cowed, its gods forgotten.


    But we¡­ we remember the old ways.


    And I say this land still belongs to the gods of our fathers!


    Give me six months, and the world shall tremble at our return.


    I swear this by the blood of Ullr, and the fire of Asgard itself!¡± The men who heard Vetrulfr¡¯s proclamation, aside from the Varangians who already bore his fire, felt something awaken within them.


    For too long they had lived as fishermen, goat herders, and forgotten sons of a fading age.


    But the winds had shifted.


    And this small fjord, long silent, would become the place where the old gods rose again.


    Yet, among them, a few quietly tucked their crosses away.


    Their eyes held no fire, only fear.


    For they did not know what place remained for them, now that the gods of old had returned with a vengeance in their breath.

 Chapter 5 - 5 Ullrsfj?rer Reforged

    ?5: Ullrsfj?rer Reforged 5: Ullrsfj?rer Reforged Hammer clashed against iron as the forge hissed and flared, oil sizzling with the quenching of finely tempered steel.


    Vetrulfr and his Varangians spared neither moment nor silver in reforging Ullrsfj?rer not as a village, but as the beating heart of a rising Jarldom.


    Letters were sent by rider across the Westfjords, summoning craftsmen of worth and ambition.


    Blacksmiths, stonemasons, carpenters, miners, runecrafters, farmers, and artisans of every trade answered the call, drawn by the promise of a king¡¯s ransom.


    In the days following Alfarr¡¯s fall, Ullrsfj?rer became a crucible of smoke, fire, and motion.


    Each strike of the hammer rang like thunder, the forge echoing with the might of Thor himself as if the god of war and storm struck in rhythm with the men below.


    Sparks flew as eastern technique met northern steel, blades forged with the pattern-welded methods Vetrulfr had learned in Constantinople, Trebizond, Ani, and even as far as Damascus.


    The water-like ripples now flowed not from imported billets, but from native ore, reborn beneath eastern flame.


    Ravens took flight in the skies above, circling the village, as stone walls rose beneath the hands of masons and carpenters.


    Their design echoed the fortresses of Rome, Byzantium, Trebizond, Ani, and even the black-blooded keeps of the Abbasid East: from places Vetrulfr had studied with a tactician¡¯s eye and a conqueror¡¯s resolve.


    He had seen them all, and conquered most.


    Where their towers had buckled, his would stand firm.


    Where their gates had fallen to fire and siege, his would endure.


    These walls were not built in imitation.


    Rather, they were built in judgment.


    Forged from the lessons of fallen cities, and raised with the hands of a man who had once brought empires to their knees.


    Far from the wind and salt of the fjords, the bones of Emperor Basil II lay in silence, unaware or perhaps unwilling to watch the son he had forged in iron and fire now turn that legacy against Christendom itself.


    Had he lived to see it, perhaps he would have wept.


    Or perhaps he would have understood.


    Regardless, there would be no triple walls to mimic those that protected Constantinople.


    At least not yet.


    Vetrulfr¡¯s labor was limited, his stone and timber not endless.


    But what rose was formidable: a rounded curtain wall encircling the village core, with ramparts tall enough to command the sea and fjord.


    A wooden palisade was replaced with quarried basalt.


    A gatehouse stood like a lion¡¯s maw, bristling with arrow slits and crenellations, the roofline high enough to see any ship before it saw them.


    Even the sea would be guarded.


    The wall curved outward into the bay, ending in a fortified sea gate¡ªprimitive in design, but brutal in purpose.


    At its rear, a moat dug by hand followed a U-shaped curve around the outer wall.


    Fed by diverted mountain streams and spilling into the fjord on either side.


    This formed a watery barrier not just to the north, but flanking both approaches from land.


    Any enemy seeking to storm Ullrsfj?rer would find themselves wading through freezing currents before even reaching the basalt walls.


    Just beyond the curtain wall¡¯s seaward edge, rising atop the tallest hill that overlooked the fjord like a sentinel carved from the earth itself, the foundation stones were being laid for a watchtower.


    A structure that would one day serve both as a beacon and a warning.


    Part lighthouse, part fortress, its flame would burn through the mist and nightfall, casting its glow across the water to guide their ships home, and to spot any foreign sails long before they reached the harbor mouth.


    At its highest point, a copper brazier would be built, fueled by oil and tended day and night, its fire visible for leagues beyond the fjord¡¯s reach.


    The tower was Vetrulfr¡¯s command, born of bitter memory.


    He had seen too many cities fall from a failure of forewarning, and too many gates breached before the alarm ever sounded.


    Not here.


    Ullrsfj?rer would not sleep blindly.


    They named the rising structure ¡°Ullr¡¯s Eye¡±, for what else could it be, if not the all-seeing flame of a god who hunted even in the deep frost?


    It was not Constantinople.


    Not yet.


    But it would be more than Iceland had ever seen.


    Not long had passed since construction broke ground, but the progress was worthy of men born from ice and salt, who had been breaking their backs on this inhospitable landscape with the only means they had for too long.


    Vetrulfr studied the parchment ledgers, hand-made by local craftsmen under his instruction.


    The symbols were Norse runes, but the mathematics on them clearly Latin and Eastern in origin.


    The numbers reflected the totality of the village¡¯s ongoing stockpiles of ore, grain, stone, timber, and any other material worth a damn towards his purposes.


    These were just the latest updates he had personally observed and written down.


    And now he was forced to ask Brynhildr who had appeared at an opportune moment for questioning.


    ¡°Mother, how fare the thrice-divided fields?


    And the terraces along the hill?¡± Brynhildr looked at the numbers written on the paper with an inquisitive gaze that was more understanding than curious.


    Before looking back up at her son and smiling.


    ¡°Everything is on track to be completed within the timeframe you have given us.


    But the ground has only just been broken.


    It has been a mere fortnight since you seized power, my son.


    Give us time, and even the world will quake in tremble at your march¡­.¡± Vetrulfr nodded in approval at his mother¡¯s words as he transcribed a rune onto the parchment which was clearly his seal of approval on the documents before turning around and continuing his inspections.


    ¡°Good.


    Come along, Mother.


    There are still many things I must show you¡­¡± Brynhildr followed after her son as the two approached the fjord, they noticed a group of adolescent boys and grown men training with swords, seaxes, axes, spears, shields, and strange composite bows fashioned in the style found in the East.


    It was clear that Vetrulfr¡¯s orders to raise a proper army were not being taken lightly.


    And when these future warriors were not training with weapons, they were practicing unarmed combat.


    Instructed by the Varangian veterans who had followed the son of Ullr home, these aspiring warriors trained in a mixture of traditional Norse Glima grappling and the styles they had learned and mastered in Byzantium, Armenia, Arabia, and Persia.


    Combined into a lethal form of unarmed warfare designed for military use when one found themselves disarmed or cornered where a spear or sword was not a viable weapon.


    Brynhildr simply nodded in quiet approval as she and her son continued toward the docks, where they found that they had been expanded to accommodate a wide number of ships.


    Whether a future fleet dedicated to the purpose of war, trade, or perhaps both; it did not matter. Sear?h the N?velFire(.)net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    The ongoing efforts of constructing a deeper port, as studied in Constantinople, built from more than just shaky timber, was underway.


    And among its decks was the construction of a dedicated shipyard.


    ¡°The gold I brought back from Constantinople has gone a long way¡­ A decade of service well spent, if you ask me.


    We aren¡¯t just forging a Jarldom, but future prosperity for the people who live in it.


    Whether it¡¯s these shipyards, or the fishing hatcheries under construction to ensure a ready supply of meat for our people, hunger will soon be a thing of the past.


    And when that happens, we will have a surplus.


    If there¡¯s one thing the wars in the East taught me, it¡¯s that an army can only last as long as its stomach is fed properly.


    This is why agriculture, fishing, and shipbuilding are my three largest investments.


    Steel can be forged in lesser quantities for now, and the palisade can be replaced at a slower rate.


    What we need is more food, and that¡¯s why the most gold has gone toward that purpose.


    So tell me, Mother¡­ What do you see in all this?


    Are these the marks of exile¡­ or the seeds of something greater?¡± Brynhildr gazed upon all that was changing, closing her eyes as she felt the frosty kiss of the wind against her cheeks, lifting her arms in the air as if she were channeling something beyond the natural, taking a deep inhale before finally breathing in deeply and exhaling.


    ¡°I see the foundations of a great Empire, whose name will be spoken about with fear until the ends of time¡­.¡± ¡ª By the time Alfarr arrived in Reykjav¨ªk, the foundation of Iceland¡¯s new power in the Westfjords was already being whispered in the halls of the south.


    Though he did not yet know it, word of a Varangian upstart named Vetrulfr Ullrsson had traveled faster than he had.


    He had ridden with caution, avoiding settlements and well-traveled roads, always sleeping with one eye open.


    Whether it was born of paranoia, shame, or a simple instinct for self-preservation, Alfarr had taken the longer, safer route.


    Two weeks of careful movement across the island¡¯s interior had cost him dearly; not in coin, but in time.


    When at last he arrived at the Great Hall of Reykjav¨ªk, he was not received as the noble chieftain he still fancied himself, but as a relic.


    One of the Goei¡¯s h¨²skarlar admitted him with stiff formality and only the barest deference.


    Before long, he stood in the high seat hall, face-to-face with ¨ªvarr, Goei of Reykjav¨ªk.


    To Alfarr¡¯s surprise and dismay, several representatives of the Althing were already present.


    He glanced quickly among them.


    These were not the inattentive scribes and farmers of his past assemblies, but serious men with the weary eyes of decision-makers.


    They had not come here by chance.


    A h¨²skarl gave him an introduction in a clipped tone: ¡°Alfarr Haraldsson.


    Former Goei of Ullrsfj?rer.


    He brings a message.¡± ¡°Former,¡± Alfarr muttered bitterly under his breath.


    But bitterness turned to anger.


    He stepped forward unbidden, raising his voice.


    ¡°Not former.


    My position was stolen!


    Taken by treachery in the guise of tradition!


    The man who took it is no true Icelander.


    He¡¯s a Varangian mercenary, recently returned from the east with foreign steel and foreign gods.


    He challenged me before the Thing in a duel.


    They had no right to sanction!


    My son lies dead, cut down by that monster!


    And now the whole fjord kneels to him as if Odin himself had come ashore!¡± ¨ªvarr did not move from his seat.


    He was younger than Alfarr had expected, perhaps just into his thirties, but his eyes were older: cold, calm, and unreadable.


    He wore a simple grey tunic, and a gilded crucifix that glinted against his chest.


    One hand rested casually on the armrest of his seat; the other held a rolled parchment.


    When he finally spoke, it was with measured coolness.


    ¡°We¡¯ve heard of this Varangian already.


    Word of him reached us well before you did.¡± Alfarr faltered.


    ¡°You¡¯ve heard of him¡­?¡± ¨ªvarr nodded slowly.


    ¡°Some say he brings with him gold from the coffers of the late Emperor Basil.


    That he¡¯s hiring laborers and smiths by the dozen, paying wages most of Reykjav¨ªk cannot match.


    A few of our own artisans have left already.


    Others are tempted to follow.¡± He leaned forward.


    ¡°Does this sound like a warlord preparing for rebellion?


    Or a man building something¡­ lasting?¡± Alfarr¡¯s voice cracked in disbelief.


    ¡°You¡ªyou cannot be serious!


    He¡¯s a heretic!


    He brings back blood-duels and seier rites.


    His mother claims he¡¯s a god¡¯s son; that Ullr begot him in a blizzard like some pagan tale for hearthside children!


    Are you going to let him revive that madness?


    This island belongs to Christ now!¡± A tense silence filled the hall.


    The Althingmen exchanged glances, their expressions unreadable.


    But ¨ªvarr only smiled slightly, though there was no warmth in it.


    ¡°You say his mother is mad.


    You say he¡¯s a blasphemer and a killer.


    And yet, within a fortnight of his return, he is building walls and dockyards, organizing agriculture, training men in the art of war.


    His village does not burn¡­ it thrives.¡± Alfarr saw it then: the currents shifting against him.


    He had come expecting outrage, justice, sympathy.


    Instead, he found caution, and something far worse; curiosity.


    Still, he had one play left.


    ¡°I¡­ I know things.


    About him.


    About where he came from.


    What he¡¯s done.


    Let me tell you everything, and in return, I ask that you raise my grievance at the next Althing.


    Put this man and his claims to judgment before the law.¡± ¨ªvarr reclined slightly, exchanging a look with the senior Thingmen present.


    The oldest among them, a grizzled man with carved bone beads in his beard, finally spoke.


    ¡°Truth for action, then.


    If your claims prove false, you¡¯ll hang for lying to this hall.


    But if they hold weight, we swear by the blood of Christ that the Althing will hear your grievance.¡± Alfarr nodded slowly.


    He had no better path forward.


    As he began to speak, the fire cracked low in the hearth.


    Outside, the wind howled faintly, as if something old was shifting across the plains of Iceland once more.

 Chapter 6 - 6 Two Roads Diverged

    ?6: Two Roads Diverged 6: Two Roads Diverged Gunnar smelled smoke.


    He stood within a siege tower, somewhere in the sun-bleached East.


    Flames licked the walls around him.


    Pitch, hurled by defenders, had taken to the tower¡¯s hide coverings now blazing, collapsing.


    Screams rose behind him.


    The air thickened with smoke; it choked the lungs, blinded the eyes.


    The men inside coughed and writhed, some trying to flee, others already aflame.


    Then, a hand.


    Rough fingers seized Gunnar¡¯s shoulder and threw him into the light.


    He tumbled over the edge of the tower and slammed hard onto the stone ramparts below.


    He landed dazed, surrounded by enemy soldiers who turned toward him, raising spears¡­ and then he came.


    A shape crashed down like a thunderbolt: iron-shod, wolf-cloaked, blade in one hand and shield in the other.


    Steel howled.


    Blood sprayed.


    Vetrulfr.


    The man behind the iron helm and white wolf pelt roared like a storm unleashed.


    His laughter echoed madly as he waded into the fray, cutting down men like wheat.


    He turned and yanked Gunnar to his feet.


    ¡°Odin is with us, brother!


    Fire can do us no harm for we carry the ice of the North in our veins!


    Let these fools taste our fury!¡± Vetrulfr hurled his axe.


    It spun end over end and cracked through an enemy helm, splitting skull and steel alike.


    Another foe charged.


    Vetrulfr met him shield-first, ramming him into the parapet before skewering his belly.


    Gunnar barely had time to register the carnage before they were back-to-back, two against many.


    But together, they broke the enemy, seized the gatehouse, and opened the city to the emperor¡¯s host.


    And then he woke.


    The cold was the first thing he noticed.


    Sweat had frozen on his back.


    His furs stuck to his skin.


    Dawn crept over the Westfjords, pale and sharp.


    Gunnar rose from his bedroll and stepped outside.


    The day began with pain.


    He joined a dozen others for the morning run, led by Vetrulfr himself, fully armored, as always.


    They moved through snow-dusted paths along the cliffs, lungs burning, calves aching.


    The cold bit deep, but none complained.


    After the run came drills.


    They stretched, sparred, and threw each other in the dirt.


    Grappling matches mixed Norse gl¨ªma with joint locks and throws Gunnar had learned in Constantinople, Armenia, and even further east.


    They trained to break limbs, not rules.


    Discipline came first.


    Pain followed.


    Then, weapons.


    The archers lined up.


    Gunnar handed out bows.


    Not simple self-bows of ash or yew, but laminated recurves of horn, sinew, and yew, designed in the eastern style Vetrulfr had brought back from the Byzantine world.


    He had not imported the bows, but learned their crafting from the master bowyers of Anatolia and the Levant.


    Each man received five arrows.


    Miss with all five, and you drilled under full kit until your arms turned to water.


    ¡°Make every shot count,¡± Gunnar growled.


    After archery came the weapons of hand and breath: axe, seax, spear, and sword.


    They rotated through live drills and sparring, striking until wrists burned and breath came ragged.


    Only when the sun stood high did training relent.


    The warriors filed into the mead-hall, red-faced and hungry.


    There, the women and older girls of the village served a communal meal: fish broth with barley and vegetables.


    Simple.


    Filling.


    Nothing wasted.


    Gunnar sat down beside a man he¡¯d come to recognize: Bj?rn, the village¡¯s lone berserker.


    Once, he¡¯d been Alfarr¡¯s most feared h¨²skarl.


    Now, he trained with the others.


    Silent.


    Gruff.


    Watching.


    Gunnar smirked.


    ¡°I thought a berserker would be the first to finish drills, not the last to limp off the field.


    This isn¡¯t even harsh by palace standards.


    In Constantinople, if you fell, you crawled.


    If you bled, you trained more.¡± Bj?rn snorted.


    His breathing was labored, his limbs sore.


    But he met Gunnar¡¯s gaze.


    ¡°I can still stand.


    My bones aren¡¯t so brittle yet that I need pity.¡± Gunnar¡¯s response was short, but honest.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t say you needed pity.


    Just said we¡¯ve all got our limits.¡± Bj?rn stirred his soup and muttered.


    ¡°I was once the fiercest in this village.


    Now even your softest Varangian makes me look like a milk-fed whelp.¡± There was no bitterness in his voice, only frustration.


    And something else.


    Hunger.


    ¡°But I¡¯ve learned more in two weeks than I did in twenty years.¡± Gunnar nodded.


    Respect was earned, and Bj?rn was earning his.


    Bj?rn glanced sideways.


    ¡°Why did you leave the East?


    All of you.


    You had wealth, warmth, comfort.


    Why come back to this frozen hell?¡± Gunnar froze mid-bite.


    He stared at his spoon, then set it down gently.


    ¡°We left more behind than you¡¯ll ever understand.


    And I¡¯d do it again.


    Every damn one of us would.


    For him.¡± He looked at Bj?rn, eyes like cold iron.


    ¡°I followed that man through fire.


    I watched him bleed for others who never thanked him.


    He led us when emperors faltered. S~ea??h the novel(F~)ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    When Basil died¡­ things changed.


    Byzantium changed.


    But Vetrulfr didn¡¯t.


    And when I saw his mother, the Seiekona, and understood truly what he was for the first time¡­ I believed.¡± A pause.


    ¡°He is Ullr¡¯s son.


    I have no doubt.


    And you¡¯d be wise to call him Jarl, because Ullrsfj?rer will be a Jarldom soon enough.


    And when that happens¡­ you¡¯ll be glad you stood with him early.¡± Bj?rn said nothing.


    But he did not eat.


    He simply looked down into his bowl, where the steam swirled like breath on a winter wind.


    ¡ª ¨ªvarr, Goei of Reykjav¨ªk, awoke well past sunrise.


    Unlike the grim discipline of Ullrsfj?rer, his morning did not begin with sweat or steel, but with warmth, the scent of fresh bread, the comfort of Frankish linen sheets, and a leisurely breakfast served by his attendants.


    He stretched, dressed in soft wool and tailored tunics, and reviewed his day while sipping honeyed mead.


    Only then did he summon Alfarr.


    The deposed Goei entered the hall with nervous energy, wringing his hands, dark circles beneath his eyes.


    He had waited patiently for three weeks since his arrival, and the weight of uncertainty clearly wore on him.


    ¡°Is it true?¡± Alfarr asked without preamble.


    ¡°The Althing will not meet until midsummer?¡± ¡°At the earliest,¡± ¨ªvarr replied calmly, standing from his seat and motioning for Alfarr to follow him.


    ¡°Come.


    Walk with me.¡± Outside, the spring air was crisp, the streets of Reykjav¨ªk bustling.


    ¨ªvarr led Alfarr through the town¡¯s central square, where children darted between stalls, women bartered for cod and barley, and men sharpened tools rather than swords.


    In a nearby yard, a few boys practiced spear drills under the eye of an aging veteran.


    Their stances were stiff, movements tentative.


    Most of the adult warriors lounged near the communal fire pit, idle.


    Spears and axes leaned against walls.


    Armor, where present, was rusting.


    Only one in five wore helmets.


    Fewer still possessed mail.


    Across the square, a chapel stood half-finished¡ªstone walls rising slowly around a carved wooden cross.


    The old runestone it had replaced now lay discarded nearby, its etchings weathered and forgotten.


    ¨ªvarr gestured toward the scene.


    ¡°What do you see?¡± Alfarr hesitated.


    ¡°They¡¯re¡­ at ease.¡± ¡°They are at peace,¡± ¨ªvarr corrected.


    ¡°No village in Iceland wages war anymore, not truly.


    We win through law, through trade, through alliances.


    This is Christendom now.


    Our enemies are hunger, winter, and ignorance.¡± Alfarr frowned.


    ¡°And what of Vetrulfr?


    What if he ignores the Althing?¡± ¨ªvarr chuckled.


    ¡°He has what?


    Sixty men?


    Veterans, perhaps, but outnumbered ten to one.


    Reykjav¨ªk alone fields over five hundred spears.


    Add the levy of every Goei in the south, and Ullrsfj?rer becomes an afterthought.¡± ¡°And yet,¡± Alfarr murmured, ¡°my son died in seconds.


    Halfdan was no boy.


    That man didn¡¯t fight like a northerner.


    He fought like something else.¡± ¨ªvarr stopped walking and studied Alfarr.


    ¡°You fear him.¡± ¡°I respect what I saw,¡± Alfarr replied.


    ¡°You should too.¡± ¨ªvarr turned his gaze to the chapel.


    ¡°Let the Althing decide.¡± A breeze whispered through the streets, cold despite the sun.


    Somewhere far off, a raven called, the kind the old gods once sent as messengers.


    Neither man noticed.

 Chapter 7 - 7 Under Pursuit

    ?7: Under Pursuit 7: Under Pursuit Conrad II sat upon his throne in Aachen, chin resting on his gloved fist, while voices clamored around him.


    Stewards, marshals, spies, and clergy all bickering at once.


    ¡°The Danish King cannot be trusted!¡± barked the Marshal.


    ¡°He claims to be Christian, but his people only recently knelt before the Cross.


    It¡¯s likely he¡¯s harboring the very criminals who dared raid a monastery as far south as Italia!¡± The steward nodded in grim agreement, while the diplomat countered with reasoned patience.


    ¡°Stow your sword, Marshal.


    We will not go marching north, not yet.


    King Cnut¡¯s letter remains that of a Christian monarch, and until proven otherwise, it must be taken seriously.


    Is that not so, Your Eminence?¡± All eyes turned to the bishop, who peered over the parchment in his hands, its Latin script read for the twelfth time in as many minutes.


    Cnut¡¯s message denied involvement in the abbey¡¯s destruction but promised to track down the raiders and bring them to justice.


    The bishop sighed and gave a slow nod.


    ¡°He has sworn upon Christ and our Father in Heaven that he speaks the truth.


    He promises a full report by Christmas.


    Until then, I believe we must extend the benefit of the doubt.¡± Conrad gave no reply.


    His silence hung over the chamber like an executioner¡¯s axe.


    At last, the Master of Whispers stepped forward.


    In his gloved hands, he held a parchment roll, which he placed carefully before the Emperor.


    ¡°The abbey was burned to the ground.


    Most curiously, nothing was taken, save for the food stores.


    No gold, no relics, no sacred texts.


    Only ash remains.


    Ash¡­ and this.¡± He unrolled the parchment, revealing a single blood-drawn symbol.


    Conrad squinted at the crude lines with disdain.


    ¡°What is this incoherent nonsense?


    Are these scribbles supposed to mean something to me?¡± The master¡¯s voice was patient, but tinged with weariness.


    ¡°It¡¯s a rune.


    It was found carved into the last remaining segment of wall within the abbey¡¯s grounds.


    Our scholars believe it signifies Nj?rer; the sea-god of the Northmen.¡± At once, the bishop gasped and crossed himself.


    ¡°Blasphemy!


    There is no god but the Father!¡± But Conrad¡¯s voice cut sharp as steel.


    ¡°Enough.¡± He turned back to the parchment.


    ¡°And why, pray tell, should I care what savages etch into the walls they burn?¡± The Master of Whispers gave his answer quietly.


    ¡°Because this wasn¡¯t a raid for plunder.


    It was a sacrifice.


    A bl¨®t.


    The monks were offered to Nj?rer for safe passage north.


    And by strange providence, the great storm that rose in their wake¡­ broke before it struck land.¡± The implication hung heavy in the air.


    The bishop¡¯s fury returned with a roar.


    ¡°Are you saying the demon they worship spared them?!


    Heresy!


    You insult Christ with your words!


    I should see you hanged!¡± The spymaster did not flinch, but Conrad rose, and with thunder in his voice, silenced the room.


    ¡°Enough!


    He speaks not for himself, but for the mind of the enemy.


    Do not mistake insight for sympathy.¡± He turned to the room at large.


    ¡°Cnut shall have until Christmas Day to bring these raiders to heel.


    If he fails¡­ then God help him.¡± The weight of the emperor¡¯s words settled upon the room.


    None dared speak again.


    ¡ª Far north of Aachen lie the city of Hedeby.


    A Danish town, which was currently within the dominion of King Cnut.


    In pursuit of Vetrulfr and his Varangians, mistakenly believing them to be locals.


    Cnut had sent one of his best men to find the traces of those fugitives hiding from the Lord¡¯s justice.


    Asser pulled his fur-lined cloak tighter around his shoulders.


    The wind off the bay was sharp this time of year.


    He walked the muddy streets of Hedeby not as a royal emissary, but as a common Norseman.


    His armor bore no crest, his tongue no Latin.


    To investigate a pagan attack as the King¡¯s man would be suicide.


    So instead, he walked as one of the very men he was hunting and with this goal in mind he entered the mead hall.


    Warmth and noise engulfed him.


    Fires crackled.


    Horns were raised. S§×arch* The N?vel(F)ire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    The scent of roasted meat and sweat mingled in the air.


    It was no ordinary night.


    A band of Jomsvikings had returned, their captain treating his men to drink and feast.


    Their gold came from some unknown venture, but their bellies were full, and their laughter loud.


    ¡°Drink up, brothers!¡± the captain roared, standing upon the table with arms outstretched.


    ¡°The mead is on me tonight!


    For we¡¯ve returned rich and whole, Sk?l!¡± ¡°Sk?l!¡± the men thundered back.


    Asser watched them quietly, perhaps too long.


    One of the warriors noticed, his narrowed eyes cutting across the firelight.


    The captain leaned to whisper, and within moments, a towering brute stomped toward Asser, finger jabbing into his chest.


    ¡°Our captain says you¡¯re not welcome.


    Your eyes linger too long.


    Leave¡­ or be fed to the dogs.¡± Asser batted the finger aside and punched the man square in the jaw.


    The Viking stumbled.


    ¡°Last I checked,¡± Asser growled, ¡°Hedeby answers to King Cnut, not to a pack of Jomsviking lapdogs.¡± The mead hall fell deathly quiet.


    All forty warriors rose as one.


    Hands drifted to hilts.


    The firelight flickered against sharpened steel.


    And then¡­ laughter.


    The captain leaned back, bellowing.


    ¡°Well said!


    You¡¯ve got balls, little man!


    Sit.


    Drink.


    Anyone bold enough to insult me to my face and still breathe deserves a seat at my table.¡± The tension broke like a wave.


    A horn of mead was shoved into Asser¡¯s hand, and a plate piled high with meat.


    They pulled him down to sit.


    He stared for a moment, confused, but knew better than to refuse.


    He ate, drank, and when the captain asked his name, he answered without pause.


    ¡°Svan Olafsson.


    And if you want a tale¡­


    you¡¯d best listen closely.¡± Asser leaned back and took another sip of ale, letting the warmth settle before speaking again.


    He began to spin a tale, not the truth, but something close enough to pass inspection.


    A story crafted with purpose.


    He told them of betrayal.


    That he had sailed with a Varangian warband bound for glory in the south.


    That they had attacked a monastery in Italia, looting its stores and spilling priestly blood.


    But upon returning to Denmark, they had turned on him.


    Leaving him bleeding in the mud, robbed of his share, his brothers¡¯ knives still in his back.


    Now, he claimed, he hunted them for vengeance.


    The Jomsvikings laughed, cheered, and banged the table at the audacity of the tale.


    But Asser was watching their eyes, not their mouths.


    Testing.


    Not because he suspected them, but because if anyone knew of rogue Varangians returning north, it would be men like these.


    The captain wiped his mouth and barked over the noise.


    ¡°A bold tale, and a wild one!


    A monastery raid in Italia?


    If you truly took part in such madness, then Sk?l, brother!


    You¡¯ve earned your fill of mead.


    Wench!


    Pour for this man until his belly bursts!¡± Asser smiled, feigned gratitude, and kept drinking.


    But inwardly, he noted the captain¡¯s words.


    They hadn¡¯t heard.


    Not even a whisper of the real attack.


    His heart sank.


    If even the Jomsvikings knew nothing, then the trail was colder than he feared.


    Still, he kept the mask on and drank until his vision blurred and the table tilted beneath him.


    Eventually, the night overtook him, and he slumped in place, drunk, or pretending well enough to pass.


    Once the noise had settled, the captain leaned over to a sober warrior nearby, lowering his voice.


    ¡°What do you make of him?¡± The warrior glanced toward Asser¡¯s motionless form, studying him in silence.


    Then he shrugged.


    ¡°I think it¡¯s a lie.


    Too much detail.


    Too neat.


    But if there¡¯s even a shred of truth¡­ it could mean trouble.


    We should send scouts.


    Quiet ones.¡± The captain nodded.


    ¡°Aye.


    If there¡¯s truth in this tale, we¡¯ve either found a powerful ally¡­ or a dangerous foe.


    Either way, Jomsborg needs to know.¡±

 Chapter 8 - 8 A Call To Arms

    ?8: A Call To Arms 8: A Call To Arms Months had passed since Vetrulfr and his war-band of Varangians returned to ¨ªsland, claiming Ullrsfj?rer as their personal enclave and investing the vast hoard they had gained from over a decade of service to the late Emperor Basil II into its reconstruction.


    While many aspects of the stronghold¡¯s reforging remained underway, others had been completed as planned, with results that met, or exceeded, expectations.


    Months of relentless training had forged the men of the village into hardened warriors.


    Wind, rain, sun or snow, these men would be in the field training every morning before a large communal breakfast.


    From there, they would begin their day¡¯s worth of labor for the sake of Ullrsfj?rer and the people within it.


    But lately, a thick fog had permeated the land.


    Seemingly having come out of nowhere, it was blinding beyond the point of debilitation.


    Yet, even so, the warriors marched into its depths, guided only by those Varangians who led them.


    And every day by noon they returned to Ullrsfj?rer without incident or injury to begin their weapons and tactics training.


    While swordplay required further mastery, the spear proved far easier to wield, and disciplined formations had been drilled into them through constant practice and live resistance exercises.


    Armor and weapons were crafted with care in the village¡¯s smithies, enhanced by the blessings of runecrafters and Seiekona alike.


    Thor¡¯s hammers and iron arm rings adorned their bodies as they gathered outside the village walls to begin their daily ruck.


    Vetrulfr did not join the new recruits that day, not due to illness or fatigue, but because a rider had arrived in the night bearing a message.


    A formal summons from Iceland¡¯s Althing, declaring that he was to stand trial to determine whether his claim to Ullrsfj?rer and the title of Goei was legitimate; or if, as Alfarr had accused, he was a heathen usurper.


    Standing in the great hall that had been erected since his return, Vetrulfr crumpled the parchment and cast it into the hearth.


    The letter was, unsurprisingly, written in Latin, the language of monks and missionaries, not warriors.


    A tongue meant for laws, not oaths.


    Vetrulfr read it anyway.


    And then, just as quickly, he fed it to the flames.


    To him, the very tongue which the message had been inscribed with was an open challenge to him.


    One he would not tolerate.


    The flames consumed the words without a second glance from him.


    Brynhildr, ever perceptive, stirred the morning porridge as she addressed her son, her tone sharp and knowing.


    ¡°So, the Althing summons you at last.


    No doubt at the behest of that petty coward who sacrificed his own son to save his hide.


    It seems the Christians would rather settle disputes with ink and words than with steel.


    How will you answer, my son?¡± Vetrulfr did not respond immediately.


    He sat at the long table, and an exotic young woman approached, handing him a horn of mead.


    He had seen her often in recent months, but never spoken to her.


    She was his mother¡¯s slave, but her appearance was unlike any he had encountered before.


    Her features were foreign, her skin a shade unfamiliar, and her tattoos mysterious and indecipherable.


    He had traveled as far east as the ruins of Ctesiphon, yet never encountered a woman like her.


    His curiosity was piqued, not out of desire, but by the enigma she represented.


    ¡°I must say,¡± he muttered, gazing into the horn, ¡°I have never seen such a woman.


    Where did you find her?¡± The girl shied away, misinterpreting his gaze for lust, and withdrew.


    Brynhildr calmed her in a language Vetrulfr couldn¡¯t place before answering his question.


    ¡°She is a Skr?ling from the forests of Vinland.


    While you journeyed east in exile, I traveled far west, beyond the edge of civilization.


    There I found her, a young orphan amidst the ashes of her tribe, butchered in some war among her own people.


    She was half-dead, but I took pity on her and nursed her back to health.


    She recovered, joined my service, and has remained with me ever since.¡± She turned to Vetrulfr with a warning in her voice.


    ¡°She believes you desire her.


    So let me make one thing abundantly clear: she is like a daughter to me.


    Whatever thoughts you may have¡­


    purge them.¡± Vetrulfr raised a brow but said nothing, returning his gaze to the table.


    ¡°I intend to answer the summons,¡± he said flatly.


    Brynhildr nearly dropped the clay pot in her hand, startled by the declaration.


    ¡°You can¡¯t be serious.


    You intend to go alone?¡± There was weight in her voice; urgency. S§×arch* The N??eFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    But Vetrulfr was quick to clarify.


    ¡°Of course not.


    What do you take me for, mother?


    A fool?


    The Althing expects me to kneel before their soft gods and their brittle laws.


    I recognize no authority but the clenched fist and the steel that bends me.


    The Althing has neither.¡± Brynhildr smirked.


    ¡°So then¡­¡± He grinned.


    ¡°I will answer their summons, but I will do so with an army at my back.


    Send word to every corner of ¨ªsland.


    Summon every Goei still loyal to the old ways.


    Let these Christians learn that true power lies not in ink and parchment, but in warriors and their blades.¡± Brynhildr nodded with approval, setting their meal before them.


    ¡°Of course, my son.


    I¡¯ll have the letters drafted and dispatched once we¡¯ve eaten.


    But come let us turn from war and politics, and enjoy breakfast while we still can.¡± Vetrulfr took the first bite of porridge, with the weight of destiny already pressing on his shoulders.


    ¡ª  The scene in Reykjav¨ªk was in stark contrast to that of Ullrsfj?rer.


    Warriors did not gather with spear and shield in hand.


    Nor did the fires of industry burn with the forgotten wrath of Brokkr.


    No, the Christians of ¨ªsland¡¯s largest city rather gave thanks to an invisible god, for the products of labor he did not perform, nor guide.


    The scribes among them wrote in foreign characters originating from a dead empire.


    And those of some status gathered in the Great Hall to speak with the local Goei regarding the upcoming Althing.


    Ivarr rested on his seat of power, as those men of influence came to him, expressing their concerns about the fog that had recently formed across the Westjords, like an impenetrable curtain that prevented contact with those who resided beyond its veil.


    ¡°I have not received word from my cousin in the Westfjords for over two weeks now.


    Every messenger I have sent beyond the fog has yet to return to me.


    I am beginning to fear that this is an act of sinister witchcraft by the locals!


    Something must be done about this!


    Without trade from my cousin¡¯s village, I fear our town will be low on food for the winter!¡±  Ivarr naturally had no response to this.


    Fog was not uncommon in ¨ªsland, especially in the regions close to the shorelines.


    Not to mention during the transitionary seasonal period from spring to summer.


    But for it to last so long, and never break.


    It was indeed unusual.


    Even so, he was but a mortal man.


    There was nothing he could do but pray that this darkness broke soon.


    And because of this, he could not help but respond in kind to the Goei who made such unreasonable demands of him.


    ¡°What would you have me do?


    Strike the earth like Moses and part the seas?


    I am no prophet, merely a man.


    I have no power over the mists, nor the storm!


    I can only pray that this fog disperses soon, the same as you!


    Go back to your village and be patient.


    There is no witchcraft at work here!


    Merely the changing of seasons!¡± Despite Ivarr¡¯s words, there were those among his court, especially the Goei affected most by this change in weather, who did not believe him.


    And instead clutched their crucifixes in fear over ill omens gathering in the westfjords.

 Chapter 9 - 9 The Oath at Ullrsfj?rer

    ?9: The Oath at Ullrsfj?rer 9: The Oath at Ullrsfj?rer Helgi Oddrsson was the chieftain of another village in the Westfjords, known as ?nundarfj?reur.


    It was of little renown or size, and yet, among the Westfjords, it remained one of the most notable settlements.


    The goei had received a letter within the fog from Ullrsfj?rer.


    It was written in a language only his scribe could properly interpret: the runes of their forefathers, rearranged as an alphabet for the purposes of communication and record keeping.


    The message was clear; he was being summoned to Ullrsfj?rer by its new goei.


    In fact, he was not alone.


    The letter claimed that all goear of the region were invited to attend a regional thing.


    No doubt it was a breaking of tradition, but rumors of a Varangian warrior returning from exile and seizing control of Ullrsfj?rer through the rite of holmgang had spread across all of ¨ªsland.


    If even half of these whispers were true, then something monumental was stirring in the Westfjords.


    Helgi, bound by duty and curiosity alike, accepted the summons.


    Helgi met several other goear on the road to Ullrsfj?rer.


    Their views were a mixture of outrage, curiosity, and, perhaps in the hearts of a few, hope.


    Hope that the old ways were returning, that reckoning might come for the Christians who had spread across the island.


    They were few in number compared to the broader population of ¨ªsland, but their titles carried weight.


    Still, when they arrived at Ullrsfj?rer, even the proudest among them stood in stunned silence.


    The fishing village they had once known was gone.


    In its place rose a fortress-city, not of timber, but of stone and steel.


    The first sight to catch their eye was the watchtower, a lone spire perched high upon the hilltops.


    Its bronze brazier blazed with eternal fire, a beacon to warn ships through fog and treachery.


    Then came the farmlands, split into three sections, two under cultivation, one left fallow.


    Water flowed through carefully constructed irrigation systems, guided by diverted streams.


    Closer to the town, they found moats encircling the walls, filled with mountain-fed waters.


    Timber bridges crossed these channels, narrow enough for only two men abreast, or a single horse and rider.


    Each bridge could be dismantled quickly, isolating the city from any force foolish enough to besiege it.


    The gatehouse rose ahead, solid and grim.


    Archers atop the walls wore riveted mail and iron helms, hands never far from bowstrings.


    Their gazes followed every movement.


    From above came a shout: ¡°Ullrsfj?rer is closed to all but its residents and those goear summoned to the Thing!


    Present your letters, or disperse.


    You will not be asked twice!¡± Grumbling, the goear produced their parchments; grudging, but compliant.


    ¡°This is outrageous!


    Who does this man think he is?!¡± one scoffed.


    Helgi turned to the speaker, calm but firm.


    ¡°If you had built such a hold, would you not demand the same respect?


    Let us see what we are here to witness before casting judgment.¡± The gatehouse opened.


    Warriors emerged, each clad in superior armor to any h¨²skarl in ¨ªsland.


    One among them, clearly a Varangian officer, wore a leather lamellar vest over his brynja, with iron-splinted bracers and greaves.


    He read the invitations without ceremony, then gave a shrill whistle.


    The ranks of guards parted.


    ¡°You must be weary after the long march,¡± he said.


    ¡°There is food and mead waiting.


    Rest, and when the Jarl is ready, you will be summoned to the Great Hall.


    A word of wisdom; cause no trouble in Ullrsfj?rer.


    We have no tolerance for criminals¡­ or spies.¡± He turned and left without another word.


    As the goear passed into the gatehouse, they noted the space between the two portcullises, a killing zone lined with arrow slits and merlons.


    Any enemy caught between would be torn apart.


    It was a design foreign to ¨ªsland.


    Byzantine, or perhaps of earlier Eastern Roman design.


    To these chieftains, it was as though they had stepped into a hold built by the gods themselves.


    Inside the walls, the town amazed further.


    Stone-laid streets stretched into districts.


    Houses of wattle and thatch lined up in organized rows, each near fresh-water wells.


    Sanitation was evident.


    Armed patrols moved in units.


    Ullrsfj?rer was not a village.


    It was a vision.


    Some among them whispered: ¡°It would appear the rumors are true¡­ times are changing.¡± Helgi did not respond immediately.


    But after a long and thought filled pause he said: ¡°I have been to Reykjav¨ªk.


    I once thought it was the greatest city I had seen.


    And yet¡­ it is but a shadow of what we see here.


    Did you see the men on the walls?


    Mail shirts, iron helms, spears and seaxes¡­ How much wealth does this Vetrulfr possess to outfit each warrior so?


    If our worst fears are realized, I know who I will stand beside.


    But first, I will meet the man who built such a place.¡± No one disagreed.


    When night fell, and S¨®l fled the sky chased by the wolf Sk?ll, the great hall of Ullrsfj?rer stirred with life.


    The Varangians, Vetrulfr¡¯s blood-bound brothers, sat drinking and feasting.


    They wore scars and steel with equal pride.


    Each one had crossed a continent to return here, to raise a new order from ice and ash. sea??h th§× ¦ÇovelFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    The hearth roared.


    Above it, a throne cast in bronze loomed; a seat not for a chieftain, but a king.


    Quilted linen and reindeer hide softened its back and seat alike.


    The armrests bore runic knotwork, carved in the likeness of ancient heroes.


    Fenrir¡¯s jaws snarled from the horn-mounted base.


    But the throne was empty.


    Until he appeared.


    Vetrulfr, clad not in robes of peace, but in leather, iron, and steel.


    A warrior, not a courtier.


    His helm was under one arm, his wolfskin cloak flowing behind him.


    As he sat, Brynhildr, his mother, handed him his drinking horn.


    Carved with his victories and runic inscriptions while crowned with bronze, and tipped with Fenrir¡¯s maw, it was a symbol of legacy.


    As she stepped forward, every Varangian rose.


    Heads bowed.


    Even hardened killers showed reverence.


    The guests watched, puzzled.


    ¡°I don¡¯t understand,¡± one whispered.


    ¡°Why are they bowing to that woman?


    Is she his wife?¡± ¡°Hush.


    Something is about to begin.¡± Brynhildr¡¯s voice cut through the mead-hall like the wind off the glaciers.


    Calm.


    Cold.


    Unstoppable.


    ¡°My son has summoned you to offer a choice.


    For too long, the Westfjords have resisted the Christian yoke, but the storm grows closer.


    They will tell you to kneel.


    To dip your heads in oil and call it salvation.


    But what god allows himself to be nailed to a tree and call it glory?


    We are Norse.


    Our gods do not forgive, they roar!


    For centuries, we have watched our kin in Germania fall.


    Even now the Danes, once mightiest of our kind, bow their heads to this foreign god, and his self-righteous zealots who demand all comply with their madness.


    We are all that remains.


    But my son offers more than defiance.


    He offers renewal.


    He asks you to kneel, not as vassals, but as kin.


    Stand with him, and the gods will remember us.¡± She said no more.


    She turned and vanished into shadow.


    Vetrulfr watched in silence.


    No one moved.


    Until Helgi rose.


    He drew his sword, knelt, and laid it across his palms.


    ¡°I, Helgi Oddrsson, goei of ?nundarfj?reur, offer my life, my sword, and my village.


    From the moment I saw these walls, I knew the truth¡­


    Should you and the Althing come to blows, you would prevail.


    I recognize you, Vetrulfr Ullrsson, as Jarl of the Westfjords.


    And I call upon my brothers to do the same.¡± One by one, the others followed.


    When Vetrulfr rose from his throne, the gods did too.


    ¡ª The fog still veiled Vetrulfr¡¯s movements in the Westfjords.


    And as summer crept near, so too did the date of the Althing¡¯s summons.


    Alfarr¡¯s fear deepened.


    Though the Goei of Reykjav¨ªk had granted him sanctuary, and repeatedly assured him that the Althing would resolve his dispute, Alfarr no longer believed Vetrulfr would honor the call.


    This was not a man of Christian virtue or Latin law.


    He was a wolf, raised in blood and exile, shaped by years of war in the service of the Bulgar Slayer.


    What if, hidden beneath the fog, he was raising an army?


    Alfarr spoke of these fears often.


    But the more he did, the more Ivarr dismissed him.


    The Goei was young.


    Too young to remember Reykjav¨ªk before papal authority spread across ¨ªsland like a creeping plague.


    To Ivarr, the thought of one man defying the Althing with force was absurd.


    Fantasy.


    But Alfarr remembered.


    He had lived among such men.


    Among heathens who fought duels over insults, who shed blood not for law, but for honor.


    He had turned a blind eye for years.


    He had fought village wars over broken oaths and bruised pride.


    The Westfjords still held that fire.


    That madness.


    That code of might.


    If Vetrulfr had used the fog to build an army; if he came not to debate, but to conquer.


    Then by the time the Althing realized it, it would be far too late.


    But Ivarr no longer listened.


    He dismissed Alfarr¡¯s warnings as paranoia.


    Or worse, as manipulation.


    And so Alfarr stood alone, atop Reykjav¨ªk¡¯s timber watchtower.


    The palisade groaned beneath the wind.


    The sky boiled.


    He stared west, toward the fjords.


    Thunder rolled in the distance.


    And he whispered, his voice nearly lost in the storm, ¡°Our Father in heaven¡­


    protect us from what comes.¡±

 Chapter 10 - 10 The Fury of Nj?rer

    ?10: The Fury of Nj?rer 10: The Fury of Nj?rer Spring broke not long after the Jarldom of the Westfjords was established by those who lived within its boundaries.


    In the meantime, Vetrulfr had continued his plans, rallying the men across the Westfjords to his banner.


    For Vetrulfr¡¯s vision of a grand army, it was not the raising of a mass levy of poorly equipped peasants, as was common across the Christian realms.


    No, he selected boys and men most fit to bear arms based upon strict criteria: physical capability, discipline, and above all, faith.


    Those who swore oaths to the old gods and the Norse way of life; and who met his standards were lifted from the ranks of fishermen, farmers, tanners, and smiths.


    They became warriors.


    Each day began at dawn.


    Rise with the sun, march ten kilometers in full kit, then drill in the arts of war: spear, seax, bow, and bare-handed combat.


    At midday, they were fed a hearty communal meal.


    In the evenings, they trained in tactics, learning how to fight as one.


    By the time the final two months passed, and the march to Reykjav¨ªk loomed near, Vetrulfr had forged five hundred hardened warriors.


    Each was armed with spear, seax, brynja, iron-rimmed shield, and a steel helm.


    Among them, a smaller number had become archers of such discipline and skill that even the famed Welsh bowmen would have been impressed.


    This was the core of Vetrulfr¡¯s army, men raised since his return to ¨ªsland, molded by daily discipline and devotion.


    In addition, another three hundred auxiliaries were raised from across the Westfjords following the proclamation of the new Jarldom.


    Though still in training and lightly equipped, they formed a capable reserve and served as garrison forces.


    Now, Vetrulfr stood on the docks of Ullrsfj?rer with one hundred forty of his finest warriors.


    Twenty among them were Varangian veterans who now acted as officers and NCOs each of which had followed him from the East, bled beside him in foreign wars, and who now served as the steel backbone of his fledgling army.


    Two ships waited for them: Frostrt?nn, and the first of five warships built since Vetrulfr seized control of the fjord.


    The shipwrights had labored through the snow and sun alike.


    Sawdust clung to their beards like snowfall.


    The ring of hammers echoed across Ullrsfj?rer like a lullaby of war.


    By midsummer, six longships floated in the harbor; sleek wolves of pine and oak.


    Not enough for conquest, but enough to set the coasts of Christendom on fire.


    Vetrulfr chose the two largest of these vessels to begin the first act of his reign of vengeance.


    As Gunnar inspected his ship and the fifty-nine warriors under his command, his gaze wandered to the painted symbol that adorned its sail and Vetrulfr¡¯s own shield.


    ¡°Jarl,¡± Gunnar asked, curiosity in his voice, ¡°for years I assumed this sigil was native to ¨ªsland.


    But after living here, I¡¯ve yet to see it anywhere else.


    What is its origin?


    What does it mean?¡± Vetrulfr was about to answer when a voice rose behind them, arriving with the same chill that rolled in from the sea.


    ¡°When I gave birth to your Jarl,¡± Brynhildr said, her voice like a whisper etched in frost, ¡°Ullr granted me visions.


    I saw the future he would forge.


    That symbol was carved into the snow the night he was born, surrounding his still form like a stave of fate.¡± She stepped forward, hands outstretched to the sail.


    ¡°It is called the Vegv¨ªsir, a stave to guide the bearer through storms and fog, so they never lose their way, even when the path is unknown.


    It is the gift of his divine bloodline.


    That symbol was placed in his heart by Ullr¡ªto guide him home.¡± She turned to Gunnar, eyes glowing with something otherworldly.


    ¡°Be grateful, all of you.


    He has shared this stave with you on your shields, and your sails.


    That blessing is now yours to carry.


    Do not squander it.¡± Gunnar knelt before the sail, humbled while Brynhildr embraced her son and whispered so only he could hear.


    ¡°I know where you sail now.


    Nj?rer is watching.


    Do not fail him.


    He waits for sacrifice.


    Should you falter, the Vegv¨ªsir will no longer protect you.¡± She withdrew, vanishing into the mist as suddenly as she arrived.


    Vetrulfr gave no pause.


    He threw his satchel onto the deck of Frostrt?nn and climbed aboard, barking orders.


    ¡°Move!


    The hour is upon us!


    The gods are with us, brothers!¡± And with that, the ships departed, sails taut with wind, bound for a destination known only to the wolves that rode upon them, and to the gods that guided them. S§×arch* The Nov§×l?ire.n(e)t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    ¡ª Two suns had risen and set since Vetrulfr and his chosen men had set sail.


    Their route hugged the broken coastlines of southern Iceland, longships gliding like wolves beneath a cloak of fog sent by Nj?rer himself.


    The raid would be silent.


    Swift.


    Absolute.


    Frostrt?nn struck the beach first, its black sail bearing the Vegv¨ªsir outlined in bone-white dye.


    An omen of unerring fate.


    Vetrulfr was the first to leap from the prow, his leather boots sinking into the wet sand.


    In his hand, the curved edge of his damascened sword shimmered like moonlit ice.


    No war cry.


    No drum.


    Only the soft churn of waves and the hiss of wind.


    His warriors followed behind, filing into a cautious staggered formation.


    Not rigid, but tight enough to raise a shield wall if caught unawares.


    The coastal village ahead was asleep.


    No sentries.


    No dogs barking.


    The chapel stood tall near the town center, its fire-lit windows a lone beacon in the night.


    Vetrulfr raised his hand.


    Fingers shifted; three subtle gestures.


    Orders.


    A massive warrior wielding a two-handed Dane axe stepped forward and brought it down with a crack that shattered the chapel doors in one stroke.


    The Norse poured in.


    No prayers met them.


    No resistance.


    The pews were empty.


    The local priest slept soundly in the room above, oblivious.


    Bj?rn moved swiftly to barricade the priest¡¯s door with a stack of benches and broken beams.


    Down below, Vetrulfr stared at the gilded crucifix hanging above the altar.


    Disgust narrowed his eyes.


    ¡°Take what can be melted; silver, copper, bronze, iron.


    The rest¡­ burn it to ash.¡± His warriors set to work with mechanical efficiency.


    It was not loot they craved; it was purpose.


    The stench of holy oil and old incense was quickly replaced by the scent of smoke, kindling, and broken faith.


    The priest awoke to a world choking on heat.


    At first, only a hint of smoke licking at his throat, a strange sound below.


    He staggered to the door, reaching for the handle.


    But it wouldn¡¯t budge.


    Pinned.


    Blocked.


    Then the scent turned acrid, black and thick.


    His lungs filled with soot.


    He coughed and gasped, eyes watering.


    The air shimmered with heat.


    Panic overtook prayer.


    He stumbled to the window.


    No time to hesitate.


    No time to plead.


    He hurled himself out into the night, crashing into the field with a crunch that stole the breath from his chest.


    Vision swam.


    Through the blur, he saw a shape standing over him.


    A man in armor.


    A helm with an arctic wolf¡¯s pelt drawn over it like the skin of Fenrir himself.


    The last words he heard were spoken in flawless Latin, thick with disdain.


    ¡°Your god couldn¡¯t save you from a two-story fall.


    Pathetic.¡± Steel flashed.


    The priest¡¯s head rolled cleanly from his shoulders.


    Vetrulfr wiped his blade on the priest¡¯s robe.


    The execution had been without malice.


    It was not personal.


    It was necessary.


    He knelt beside the corpse and yanked the golden crucifix from its chain, handing it to one of his men.


    ¡°Melt it down when we return to Ullrsfj?rer.


    We¡¯ll press it into bullion.


    This was only the first sacrifice of the night.¡± He turned to the others.


    ¡°This island once belonged to Nj?rer.


    Tonight, we reclaim it in his name.


    Go forth and cleanse it.


    Let none who swear to the cross remain untested.¡± And so it began.


    In the name of the gods of sea and storm, Vestmannaeyjar was set ablaze.


    Not all were killed.


    Those who renounced Christ and bent the knee to the old gods were spared.


    The rest joined their priest in the realm beyond.


    What Vetrulfr did that night was more than symbolic; it was strategic.


    By seizing the southern archipelago, he had choked off Reykjav¨ªk and the Althing from foreign aid.


    No messengers would sail for Norway.


    No reinforcements would come from Christendom.


    More than that, Vestmannaeyjar would serve as the southern naval base of the Jarldom of the Westfjords.


    A spear pointed at the soft underbelly of Iceland.


    The reckoning had begun.


    And none in Reykjav¨ªk would even know it.


    Not until the smoke rose beyond the horizon, and the flames danced in their dreams.

 Chapter 11 - 11 The Storm Breaks

    ?11: The Storm Breaks 11: The Storm Breaks In the span of a single night, Vestmannaeyjar had been seized.


    Any resistance was quickly put down, and the Archipelago purged of Christian sentiment through fire and blood.


    Once more Nj?rer reigned supreme over the island chain.


    And when all was said and done, Vetrulr spent the morning after a sleepless night, not resting, and celebrating a victory, but cleaning his arms and armor from the blood which slaked their iron and steel.


    Gunnar approached the man, watching quietly in deference as his Jarl sat on a small and smooth rock in the bay, watching the waves crash and break across the shore.


    It was a somber sight, not one of wrath or fury like the night before, but reflection.


    Reflection on the beauty of Iceland and its natural world.


    Finally, after long enough silence had passed Gunnar spoke.


    ¡°Vestmannaeyjar is ours.


    The harbor is secured.


    They had no ships of war, but a few knarrs remain¡ªfit for trade or tribute.


    The spoils are counted and await your word.¡± Vetrulfr did not answer immediately.


    He wiped the last stain of blood from the blade, oiled it, and sheathed it with a single fluid motion.


    Only then did he rise, turning his frost-pale eyes toward Gunnar.


    ¡°I leave you in command.


    Half our fleet will remain here.


    This island must not be held, it must be wielded.¡± Gunnar¡¯s brows furrowed.


    ¡°And you, my Jarl?¡± Vetrulfr looked east, toward the mountains beyond which lay Reykjav¨ªk.


    ¡°I march with the rest.


    Three hundred warriors to show them the truth.


    But you, you will strike from the sea.


    Burn their storehouses.


    Shatter their supply lines.


    Torch their churches and salt their morale.


    Bleed them slowly while I draw their eye.¡± He stepped closer, placing a hand on Gunnar¡¯s shoulder.


    ¡°If they rally, fall back here.


    Dig in.


    Hold until I return.


    But strike hard and fast until then.


    Remind them that fire belongs to the gods.¡± Gunnar did not smile.


    He saluted.


    ¡°Sk¨¢l.¡± And so it was done.


    Within days, 200 warriors and the fleet¡¯s strength were transferred to Vestmannaeyjar.


    From there, the southern coasts would burn.


    Meanwhile, Vetrulfr marched across the northern routes, carving a path through the fjords with three hundred spears behind him.


    ¡ª  The Althing had gathered.


    In Reykjav¨ªk¡¯s great hall, the chieftains and bishops sat nervously beneath the Cross, uneasy with the absence of their Westfjord peers.


    Alfarr sat stiffly, his eyes locked on the door, his hands clenched beneath his cloak.


    ¨ªvarr, young and confident in his borrowed robes of piety and power, raised a calming hand.


    ¡°Be at peace,¡± he said smoothly.


    ¡°The sun has yet to reach its zenith.


    Vetrulfr and the goear will arrive in time, and we will settle this with words, not blood.¡± But Alfarr felt the thunder building.


    For too long, his warnings had been stifled.


    And now, he felt the maw of Fenrir closing around him.


    He could not help but stand and speak his thoughts in protest.


    And yet before he could the doors slammed open.


    The doors to the great hall burst open.


    Rain and wind crashed in behind the figure that stumbled through them, soaked to the bone, wrapped in a patchwork gambeson, half-frozen and wild-eyed.


    He collapsed to his knees before the startled court.


    His breath came in ragged gasps, his words torn from a throat hoarse with exhaustion and dread.


    ¡°He¡¯s here!¡± A moment of silence.


    Then¡ª ¡°Vetrulfr¡­ he¡¯s come.


    And he¡¯s not alone.¡± The gathered nobles stirred.


    A bishop muttered a prayer.


    A huskarl gripped the hilt of his sword.


    The man looked up, his face pale, eyes full of storm.


    ¡°There¡¯s an army at his back.


    Steel, shields, and the banner of Ullr.


    Reykjav¨ªk is no longer safe.¡± And then the hall erupted into panic.


    ¡ª  Vetrulfr stood outside the gates of Reykjav¨ªk, with an army of 300 men at his back armed so masterfully even the most wealthy of emperors would be envious at the sight.


    But the Althing were not filled with avarice, no it was terror in their eyes.


    Any commander worth their salt would realize that Vetrulfr had not come here for the purpose of a siege.


    There was no camp setup, no defenses built, neither latrine nor trench could be witnessed.


    Nor could field stakes.


    Yet these were men of peace and law. S~ea??h the N?vel(F)ire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Most accustomed to skirmishes between clan and village.


    Not full scale siege warfare.


    The idea that three hundred heavily armed men stood outside their walls was a terrifying enough reality.


    And when ¨ªvarr stood upon the watchtower, witnessing the sight, his jaw nearly dropped.


    Especially as the thunder crackled in the background, heralding the rain along with it.


    Rain that suddenly burst forth from the clouds, soaking all beneath its might.


    Then came the voice, echoed as if perfectly timed to the Thunder.


    ¡°You have summoned me¡­ Well here I am!


    Shall we settle this the old way?


    Or is it war you seek?¡± Neither ¨ªvarr nor the Althing knew how to respond to this.


    Vetrulfr had not come here to argue and debate over legal claims to Ullrsfj?rer, no, he had marched across the north for the sake of killing those who would deny him his birthright.


    By the looks of it, he would have his pound of flesh, one way or another.


    It was up to the Althing to decide how.


    And after a brief, and rather chaotic discussion, ¨ªvarr marched beyond the safety of Reykjav¨ªk¡¯s timber barriers with a small retinue of warriors to meet Vetrulfr in between their lines.


    Vetrulfr did the same, but when he stood before the young chieftain, face to face, it was clear who commanded the field.


    ¨ªvarr was draped in wool and Latin pretense.


    Vetrulfr was steel and shadow and storm.


    ¡°So,¡± Vetrulfr sneered, ¡°this is the great goei of Reykjav¨ªk?


    I¡¯ve seen stronger arms on temple scribes.


    You stink of incense and fear.


    ¨ªvarr forced composure even whilst enduring Vetrulfr¡¯s provocations.


    ¡°You answer the Althing¡¯s summons with a horde of barbarians?


    Is this justice?¡± Vetrulfr laughed, and behind him, his men laughed too.


    Not mirthfully.


    Rather like wolves scenting blood.


    ¡°My justice is steel.


    My claim is written in blood.


    I won Ullrsfj?rer by holmgang, when Halfdan fell by my hand and his coward father fled with his tail between his legs.


    That is law.


    That is truth.


    And this army?


    It¡¯s a whisper of what¡¯s coming.¡± He stepped closer.


    ¡°I offered peace.


    You answered with summons and threats.


    You thought I would come alone, to bow before your court?¡± He spat.


    ¡°Let me make it simple.


    I will burn your churches.


    I will salt your larders.


    I will raze your markets.


    Your people will starve.


    And when they kneel again before the gods of old, it will be your head they offer to Odin.¡± ¡°My mother saw it.


    I¡¯ve dreamt it.


    Fenrir howls at the gate.


    Ragnar?k comes.


    And I¡ªI am the sword that brings Surt¡¯s flame.¡± He turned his back without another word.


    ¨ªvarr could say nothing.


    Neither could his men.


    They stood, frozen, as Vetrulfr marched back to his host.


    And from that moment on, the war for Iceland had truly begun.


    CREATORS¡¯ THOUGHTS Zentmeister For those unfamiliar with my writing schedule, unless I find myself afflicted with some ailment, I generally write two chapters a day on weekdays, and one chapter a day on weekends.


    Thank you all for the support you have shown so far, and I look forward to writing more of Valkyries Calling in going forward!

 Chapter 12 - 12 Echoes in the North

    ?12: Echoes in the North 12: Echoes in the North Jomsborg.


    A fortress of myth, unequaled in size, scale, or repute across the northern world.


    It did not sit upon maps, for it did not belong to the world of men.


    Here, the Jomsvikings made their stand.


    Not frost-bitten sod-busters turned raiders in lean seasons, but warriors born. S§×ar?h the n?velFire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Disciplined.


    Oath-bound.


    Bred in fire, silence, and blood.


    And it was here the word arrived.


    The fire hissed low in Armodr Ulvsson¡¯s chamber.


    He stood over a round oaken table, eyes locked on the letter sent from Hedeby.


    It spoke of whispers from the shores of Francia, strange sightings on a strange night.


    Near winter¡¯s end, an abnormally large longship had been seen sailing north.


    Its brown sails bore an ochre sigil, unknown to the locals.


    Its prow carved in the likeness of a wolf: chained, snarling, and locked in its jaws¡­ a severed hand.


    Tyr¡¯s hand.


    ¡°Asser¡¯s tale may have been drunken bait,¡± Armodr muttered, ¡°but this¡­¡± He placed the parchment down and drank deep from the horn beside him.


    Wiping the mead from his beard, he continued.


    ¡°This is no lie.


    It¡¯s a message.¡± One of his captains leaned in.


    ¡°A warning?¡± ¡°No,¡± another said grimly.


    ¡°A declaration.¡± Armodr nodded.


    ¡°Fenrir¡­ but with Tyr¡¯s hand in its maw?


    That¡¯s no oath-bound beast.


    That is defiance.


    Not prophecy, but rebellion.¡± He turned toward the window.


    The sea beyond churned dark and wild.


    But something deeper stirred beneath.


    ¡°Wake the hall.


    Arm the warriors.


    We must find where this ship lies anchored.


    If it has gone north¡­¡± His jaw tightened.


    ¡°Then the old gods are not dead.


    And their blood is coming home.¡± By nightfall, the longhouse of the Jomsvikings burned with torchlight and purpose.


    Warriors gathered in the war hall, the walls echoing with the sharpening of blades and the shuffling of boots on timber floors.


    Armodr paced the length of the table where his closest captains sat.


    ¡°He sails beneath a mark none of us have borne, neither raven nor axe, neither hammer nor helm.


    A magic stave, some whisper.


    A thing of storm and fate.


    A thing lost.¡± One of the elders frowned.


    ¡°The ?gishjalmr?¡± Yet Armodr shook his head before correcting the man with a harrowed look in his eyes.


    ¡°No, something new¡­.


    We know not what it means, but it seems to bear the power of the gods within it.¡± Armodr added darkly.


    ¡°And yet now it sails on a ship etched with Fenrir¡¯s snarl and Tyr¡¯s ruin.¡± A younger Jomsman spoke up, uncertain.


    ¡°You think it¡¯s a god?¡± Armodr shook his head.


    ¡°No.


    Worse.


    A man who believes he is.¡± He reached for a map, unrolling the vellum upon the table.


    His calloused finger stabbed the rough coastlines from Hedeby to the Westfjords.


    ¡°He sails west.


    ¨ªsland, maybe farther.


    Gr?nland if he dreams in frost.


    Find him.


    I want scouts sent along every known sea trail.


    Traders, knarrs, even fishing boats if needed.


    The one who carves gods into his prow sails for something, and I intend to learn what.¡± He met their gaze, one by one.


    ¡°If he is kin to our cause, we will know.


    If he is a rival, we will know that too.


    And if he is the storm; then the sea will bear witness to the reckoning he brings.


    Or the one we must become.¡± ¡ª King Cnut sat upon his throne in London, reading the letter written to him by Asser.


    Months had passed, and while the spy he had sent north had sown the seeds that might bear the forbidden fruits of knowledge, they had yet to blossom or ripen.


    Rather, it was beginning to seem like he was running out of time.


    Christmas was roughly half a year away at this point, and despite this, he still had no valid answer about the origin of the Varangians who had sacked the abbey in Italy, or where they made berth.


    A heavy sigh escaped his lips as ministers, stewards, diplomats, marshals, and spies argued once more about potentially plausible theories, yet with little evidence to support them.


    ¡°What if they were a force from the shores of Norway?


    Olaf has been rather brutal in his quest to save the souls of the heathens within his lands.


    Perhaps they were returning to Norway with the intent to turn the Christian kings of Europe against each other?


    Has Asser checked to see if there are signs that they sailed beyond our shores?¡± It was a valid question.


    After six months of traveling, spreading rumor, and searching for answers to the identity of this longship, nobody had given Cnut the slightest inkling of reputable word of its sighting.


    The letter that Cnut held in his hand suggested heavily that Asser was personally losing hope of finding any sign of the Varangians having settled within the lands of the Danes.


    If that were the case, Cnut would either have to find a scapegoat to blame the attack on, or evidence that would convince Conrad and the Pope that these raiders had not come from his lands.


    Either way, it was a daunting task.


    Cnut silenced his ministers, who proposed wild theories and squabbled over them.


    ¡°Enough is enough¡­ Begin crafting an alternative story.


    Someone must be held responsible, even if it is not the raiders in question.


    And if you are unwilling to damn those who had not committed this brutal and horrific attack against Christendom, then find me definitive proof that they never made harbor in my lands!


    Dismissed!¡± Everyone understood why Cnut¡¯s temper frayed, but few appreciated his tone, or the unspoken threat in his commands.


    Even so, they had no choice now but to begin preparing for the worst-case scenario, and that was the idea that they would have to hand over some innocent soul to the Church to be tried, judged, and condemned for a crime they did not commit.


    Even if these souls were heathen, it was still an act of evil that few had the stomach to commit without remorse.


    ¡ª As swiftly as war had been declared, the rumors spread: coastal towns had been burned, storehouses emptied, churches torched in the night.


    No one knew the number of ships, or how many raiders came ashore.


    No one knew where they had gone after the slaughter.


    But it was unmistakable, Vetrulfr had planned this.


    And he had not lied when he said that the 300 warriors who marched with him were only a fraction of his true strength.


    The Westfjords had openly rebelled.


    The south burned.


    And the Althing, caught flat-footed, could do little but argue.


    ¨ªvarr, the young goei of Reykjav¨ªk, was overwhelmed.


    He was no warlord.


    He barely knew how to hold a spear, let alone command an army.


    And yet the burden now sat on his shoulders.


    The representatives of the Althing remained in the city, claiming it was the safest stronghold left.


    But they did not fight.


    They bickered.


    They demanded.


    They shouted.


    ¡°We must march north!¡± cried one chieftain.


    ¡°Let the south burn, if it must.


    Strike at Vetrulfr¡¯s heart, and the serpent dies.¡± A murmur of protest rose from the southern lords.


    ¡°Easy for you to say!


    Your lands lie far from the fires!


    Ours do not.


    If we leave the coasts unguarded, we¡¯ll all starve before winter.


    Split the army!


    One to the Westfjords, one to the southern shores!¡± ¨ªvarr said nothing.


    He had no idea which path would lead to victory, nor the power to choose it.


    That was the flaw in Iceland¡¯s law.


    He was no king.


    No jarl.


    His voice was not law, it was a whisper, lost in a storm of pride and fear.


    So a vote would be held.


    While the lands burned, and people died.


    While the Althing deliberated, Vetrulfr acted.


    No more than a week had passed since the army of Ullr had stood before Reykjav¨ªk.


    And already, the wrath of the old gods had returned to the shores of Iceland.


    Heralded by the son of Ullr, who now stood among his warriors not as captain or chieftain, but as Jarl.


    War had come to ¨ªsland.


    But this was no petty squabble between clans, no village feud over goats or land.


    This was total war.


    The kind waged in the East between empires, where cities burned, and kings bled for dominion.


    And it had come to the world¡¯s far edge, brought by a man who had once commanded legions, and who now forged an army of his own.


    Only now, staring into the firestorm he had failed to prevent, did ¨ªvarr truly understand why Alfarr had warned him so incessantly.


    Vetrulfr was not a savage.


    He was not a raider.


    He was an omen.


    A revenant from a time older and more brutal than the soft peace of Reykjav¨ªk could endure.


    A storm long buried in snow and silence returned with thunder and flame.


    Returned for vengeance.


    Returned for judgment.


    And to the people of ¨ªsland, it seemed as if Ragnar?k had come at last.

 Chapter 13 - 13 The Fires of the Old Gods

    ?13: The Fires of the Old Gods 13: The Fires of the Old Gods The Althing¡¯s decision came to a vote.


    Whether they would amass the entirety of their forces to storm the Westfjords or split them up to fight the fires where they were lit.


    It was a matter that would take hours, perhaps even days, to decide.


    And even then, once the matter of how the army would be fielded was settled, a new question would arise: who would lead it?


    A brutally inefficient system in a time of war.


    But to ¨ªsland¡¯s credit, they had never before borne the brunt of an enemy¡¯s wrath quite like Vetrulfr¡¯s.


    Meanwhile, in the Westfjords, where the jarldom knelt and recognized Vetrulfr as their warlord, men and boys most capable of bearing arms continued to be raised, trained, and armed at a rate that vastly outpaced the enemy.


    Currently, Vetrulfr was inspecting the latest crop of soldiers.


    These were men who had been training since the region bowed to him.


    Most were armed as spearmen, but others had been selected for more specialized roles depending on their aptitude.


    Some were archers, training with composite bows.


    Vetrulfr passed them in silence, walking alongside one of his Varangian officers, who observed their drills with a critical eye.


    ¡°Their form is not yet perfect, but they¡¯ve surpassed the capabilities of novices.


    When grouped with the older recruits and led by a seasoned archer, they¡¯ll perform well enough for our needs.¡± Vetrulfr nodded, saying nothing, and continued on.


    Next came the engineers, men memorizing siege layouts and studying enemy fortifications.


    Others trained in the construction and firing of traction trebuchets.


    What caught Vetrulfr¡¯s attention, in particular, was their timing.


    The pitch-soaked stones were lit and launched in a single fluid motion, their burning trails arcing downrange toward a mock wooden wall.


    ¡°The engineers are adapting well,¡± the officer remarked.


    ¡°If the sappers perform as expected, then all that remains is equipping them.


    In another month, perhaps two, we¡¯ll have a force of a thousand, fully armed and drilled.¡± Vetrulfr¡¯s eyes didn¡¯t leave the flames.


    ¡°We just need to keep the Althing out until then.¡± He turned to the officer, a man by the name of Gorm, and gave the first real order of the day.


    ¡°Gather one hundred of our best.


    Assign four of our brothers from Constantinople to lead them.


    Split them into groups of five.


    Tell them to pick a direction, north, east, or south, and set the borders ablaze.¡± He turned fully now, voice sharpened with intent.


    ¡°They may plunder what they will.


    It matters little to me.


    But the Christians must know the fire is not confined to the south.¡± Gorm smirked, already understanding the strategy.


    ¡°You want to force the Althing to divide their army?


    Clever.


    If we strike from all sides, they¡¯ll be trapped in a reactionary posture.


    They¡¯ll fight on your terms¡­


    and you¡¯ll buy time to finish building the army.¡± He chuckled.


    ¡°I almost pity them.


    I would, if they weren¡¯t Christians.


    They¡¯ve no idea who they¡¯re up against.¡± Gorm paused, then tilted his head.


    ¡°But you said four of our brothers to lead five groups.


    Who commands the fifth?¡± Vetrulfr¡¯s grin was sharp enough to bite through steel.


    He grabbed the back of Gorm¡¯s head, pressed their brows together with a sudden, thunderous laugh.


    ¡°Me.


    Who else?¡± ¡°You think I¡¯ll hide in the rear like some Christian king?


    You think I earned your loyalty by standing behind walls?¡± ¡°I am salt and steel.


    I don¡¯t order, I lead.


    And when we strike first blood, I¡¯ll be among the first to taste it.¡± Gorm let out a bark of laughter, half in jest, half in relief.


    ¡°And here I thought our mighty Jarl had grown soft in his hall!


    Good to know you¡¯re still the mad bastard I followed east!¡± With that, the plan took form.


    A hundred handpicked warriors.


    Five raiding parties.


    Land and sea.


    The Althing would soon learn a terrible truth.


    The fire had not come from one front; but all.


    ¡ª Despite it being the height of summer, the clouds blackened the skies above ¨ªsland.


    No moon.


    No stars.


    Just a blanket of darkness draped over the land.


    Only the glow of braziers and lanterns illuminated the village below.


    The hamlet lay nestled between the Westfjords and the Christian-controlled heartlands.


    Too small to warrant a palisade.


    Too remote to receive more than a single watchman.


    And he, this lone sentry, was nervous.


    Word had reached even this far-flung place.


    The pagans of the Westfjords had declared war.


    Despite his pleas to Reykjav¨ªk for reinforcements, none had come.


    Tonight, the stillness was thick and wrong.


    Even with a lantern in hand, the watchman could barely see beyond a few paces.


    Then¡­.


    a twig snapped.


    He turned sharply.


    ¡°Who goes there?¡± His free hand moved to his sword, but he never drew it.


    The amber glow of his lantern caught on iron.


    Mail glinted in the dark.


    And then he saw them: warriors in shadow, their helms gleaming.


    And at their center, a giant cloaked in frost and bone.


    A wolf¡¯s hide crowned his helm.


    His lips curled in a snarl.


    The steel flashed like moonlight.


    The sentry¡¯s head hit the ground.


    Vetrulfr paid him no mind.


    Instead, he raised his voice to the sky and howled, long and low, a sound that made the village tremble.


    ¡°Ragnar?k has come!


    Come out and kneel before the gods and their fury!


    If you are faithful, you may be spared.


    If not¡­ burn in Surtr¡¯s flame!¡± The village stirred.


    But no one came out.


    No sword.


    No defiance.


    Only silence.


    Vetrulfr¡¯s snarl deepened.


    ¡°Drag out the women and children.


    If they would live, they will learn the rites of penance.


    As for the men¡­¡± He drew his blade again.


    ¡°Make an example of them.¡± His warriors moved like wolves through tall grass; doors kicked in, shrieks rising into the night.


    Homes ransacked.


    Families divided. S~ea??h the N??elFir§×.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    The flames rose.


    This village, and four others like it, were reduced to smoldering memory.


    By dawn, Ullrsfj?rer had new laborers, women and children kneeling in salt, weeping and praying to the gods they had once forsaken.

 Chapter 14 - 14 The Sea is Closed

    ?14: The Sea is Closed 14: The Sea is Closed A seabird screamed overhead as Gunnar stood at the prow of his longship.


    Fog coiled about the masts like wraiths, thick and clinging.


    Behind them lay Vestmannaeyjar, now claimed in the name of the Westfjord Jarldom.


    Before them, in the gray, ghost-lit distance, a lone knarr fled northward.


    Its sail drawn tight, as though it could outrun fate itself.


    It was a merchant¡¯s vessel, small and swift with the wind.


    But against six longships, it had no hope of flight.


    Unaware that Vestmannaeyjar had already fallen to the pagans, the Althing had sent it forth in desperation, hoping to summon aid from the southern seas.


    From Frankia, or perhaps even lands under Papal dominion.


    News of the northern razing had broken their composure, and this vessel had been their plea for salvation.


    But Vetrulfr had foreseen it.


    Long before the Althing realized the necessity of such a message, he had already prepared the noose.


    This was the reason he had launched a pre-emptive strike to seize Vestmannaeyjar for the westfjords.


    And now Gunnar could see this brilliant foresight unfold before him.


    His eyes never blinked as he watched the knarr draw closer.


    Frostrt?nn, currently under his command, was one of six in the flotilla now encircling the smaller vessel.


    He turned, voice calm and sharp.


    ¡°Board her.¡± The knarr was meant for trade, not war.


    It had but a single sail, no oars, and no fighting men.


    She was a lamb caught among wolves.


    There was no escape.


    Soon enough, the longships closed on the ring.


    Grappling hooks bit into timber.


    Planks were cast, and Gunnar¡¯s men crossed onto the knarr with axes and seaxes in hand.


    The sailors aboard, helpless and afraid, offered no resistance.


    Once the prisoners had been subdued, and no hidden arms found, Gunnar stepped forward.


    He was tall even among warriors, a mountain of mail and cold judgment.


    His pale gaze swept over the shivering crew.


    They dared not meet his eyes.


    ¡°Which one of you commands this ship?¡± No answer.


    Only whimpers.


    Gunnar¡¯s hand moved without pause.


    His seax flashed, and one of the sailors collapsed, gurgling as his blood painted the deck.


    With a practiced motion, Gunnar wiped the blade on the dying man¡¯s tunic and returned it to its sheath.


    The cries that followed were stifled by a single, thunderous shout: ¡°I shall only ask once more.


    Who commands this ship?¡± The silence broke.


    A frightened voice shrieked from among them: ¡°The one with tawny hair!


    him!


    He¡¯s the captain!


    I¡¯m just a fisherman!


    They conscripted me, I swear to God!


    I know nothing, I¡¯ll say nothing!¡± Gunnar glanced at the traitor with disdain, then gave a nod.


    One of his men swung his axe.


    The informer¡¯s head fell to the deck, and his body was cast into the sea to be claimed by the cold.


    Then came Gunnar¡¯s final order.


    ¡°Spare the captain.


    Kill the rest.¡± The execution was swift.


    By the time it ended, the knarr¡¯s deck ran red with blood, and her hold was stripped bare.


    Gold, furs, salted fish, wine.


    Anything of value was ferried to the longships.


    Only the captain remained, bound and silent, staring in horror.


    Gunnar looked toward the shore.


    They were not far from land.


    He turned to the captive.


    ¡°You¡¯ll live.


    If you¡¯re a good swimmer that is¡­


    And you¡¯ll carry a message.¡± The man looked up, blinking through salt and tears.


    ¡°Tell your masters in Reykjav¨ªk this¡ª¡± He leaned down, voice like frost upon the wind.


    ¡°No matter how much they pray, no help shall come.


    Vestmannaeyjar has returned to Nj?rer¡¯s hand.


    And any who seek to summon aid from the sea shall find only steel and flame.¡± With that, he cut the man loose and shoved him overboard.


    Gunnar and his warriors returned to their ships.


    Before departing, they cast torches onto the knarr¡¯s blood-slicked timbers.


    Soon, her mast burned like a pyre.


    The smoke rose, black and bold.


    The shore saw it.


    Reykjav¨ªk would know.


    ¡ª Panic now walked the halls of the Althing.


    The raids had come swift and brutal.


    The north lay ravaged.


    Villages burned.


    Churches sacked.


    Priests slain.


    Yet still the Althing squabbled.


    Arguing over who would lead the army, how it would be fielded, where to make a stand.


    By the time ¨ªvarr, newly appointed Marshal of the Realm, had secured command, Vetrulfr¡¯s forces had struck again.


    Reports arrived by the hour.


    Each voice brought worse tidings.


    And then¡­


    a man was dragged through the doors.


    Soaked to the bone, skin bluish from cold, lips quivering.


    He collapsed before the hearth.


    ¡°Get him furs!


    Wine!


    A fire!¡± ¨ªvarr barked, and servants moved to strip the man¡¯s sodden garments, wrapping him in warmth.


    But the chill clung to him like a specter.


    ¨ªvarr stood over him.


    ¡°You were bound for Vestmannaeyjar.


    What happened?


    Where is your crew?¡± The man only shook, staring into the flames.


    ¡°Speak, damn you!


    What befell your ship?!¡± His voice rasped out, low and broken.


    ¡°Six longships¡­


    They came through the fog.


    Surrounded us.


    There was no warning.


    No quarter.¡± ¡°The others?¡± ¡°Dead.


    All dead.¡± ¡°And you?¡± He swallowed. sea??h th§× N??elFir§×.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    ¡°They left me alive.


    Said¡­


    I was to deliver a message.¡± ¨ªvarr leaned in, the room deathly silent.


    ¡°What message?¡± The man turned to the fire as though it alone could shield him.


    ¡°Vestmannaeyjar belongs to Nj?rer once more.


    And the sea no longer heeds Christian prayer.


    Any who sail to seek salvation¡­ shall find only flame.¡± No one spoke.


    No one breathed.


    After a long, harrowed silence, ¨ªvarr straightened.


    His voice was not raised, yet it cut like ice.


    ¡°We waited too long.¡± Nobody dared say otherwise.


    They knew now that they had taken too long to choose a path forward.


    And now they were bearing the cost of their indecisiveness.


    None of them realize that Vestmannaeyjar had been seized before the war even officially began.


    Neither would they learn of this truth.


    For even if they did, it mattered not.


    The Sea was now closed to all but those who worshipped its god.

 Chapter 15 - 15 The Tusks Beneath the Hill

    ?15: The Tusks Beneath the Hill 15: The Tusks Beneath the Hill An army marched through the hilly terrain of the Westfjords.


    Men dressed more in tunic, and gambeson than mail or lamellar.


    Their shields were little more than pieced-together planks; no leather covering, no iron rim.


    The bosses?


    Crudely forged iron, more likely to crack than deflect.


    They marched with spears in hand, singing as they went, some excited, others dreadful.


    These were the men the Althing had gathered for war with Vetrulfr¡¯s horde.


    Farmers, fishermen, and the occasional smithy among them.


    Their training?


    Whatever they could fit in during their spare hours.


    And it showed in their lack of professionalism.


    As they chatted with one another, focused entirely on themselves, in loose formation, if one could even call it that, they marched through a ravine between two hills.


    Few had the attention or the wits to scan their surroundings.


    A young man in particular spoke of the upcoming battle, not as if it were some terrifying meat grinder, but as if it were a sure victory for the Althing.


    ¡°All I¡¯m saying is, what are a few backwards savages from the Westfjords going to do against us?


    Look how many of us there are!¡± he grinned, emboldened by their silence.


    The levies by the young man¡¯s side nodded silently, listening further to his speech.


    ¡°And this is just the force sent to seize back control over the coastal villages!


    More are further inland.


    Let¡¯s not forget that God is on our side, and an army which marches under the cross of Jesus Christ cannot be beaten!¡± The more the green villager spoke, the greater the spirits of the army improved with his words.


    ¡°Before you know it, I¡¯ll be back home, with my beloved, raising a family on our farm with this little war of ours being a fond memory of the past, and something my woman fawns over as I tell her how brave I was!¡± There wasn¡¯t much disagreement from the men by the green village boy¡¯s side.


    Few among the army had ever seen actual combat.


    And those who did participated in small pitched skirmishes between villages based on petty rivalries.


    They had no idea the force of nature they were dealing with.


    And their reckoning was in the hills above.


    There, hidden behind camouflaged timber braces and rubble piled like the wrath of the gods, crouched men not in wolf-skins, but in boar hide cloaks with the beast¡¯s full head draped over their helms.


    Tusks jutting like a challenge to the sky.


    Where the ¨²lfh¨¦enar howled and charged, these men were silent, steady, and unstoppable.


    The tusks of the gods made flesh.


    Their enemies mocked them as beasts.


    But they were wrong.


    Beasts act on instinct.


    Boars choose their kill.


    Beneath the helm was recently crafted lamellar in the Varangian fashion, worn over a mail brynja.


    These were the Svinfylking; the boar-warriors of old, revived by Vetrulfr from half-forgotten Germanic war cults, not as frenzied shock troops, but as engineers and masters of the siege and earth.


    They did not howl like the ¨²lfh¨¦enar.


    They did not need to.


    They were the tusks beneath the hill; the ones who carved death into stone with calm, stubborn precision.


    These were no savages.


    They were Vetrulfr¡¯s chosen.


    Trained under the tactics learned while he served under the eagle banners of Constantinople, now wielding their ancient strength with eastern technique to make Iceland itself a weapon.


    The rockslide was no accident.


    For three nights, they had worked by moonlight, carving weak points into the hillside, stacking boulders with care, and wedging them in place with timber braces and buried anchors.


    A single rope, disguised beneath moss and shale, ran through a pulley system to a ridge beyond.


    It would not be the storm that brought the avalanche, but Vetrulfr¡¯s command.


    He crouched there now, wolf-skin draped over his helm, ice-pale eyes watching the ravine where the Christian levies marched in loose formation, singing hymns, spewing bravado.


    Gorm stood beside him, one fist clenched around the rope that held the trigger brace.


    Vetrulfr raised two fingers.


    Then clenched them into a fist.


    The rope pulled. S~ea??h the N?velFire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    The braces snapped.


    And then it happened.


    The hillside roared.


    ¡ª If not for the fact that the earth quaked, and brought with it the wrath and thunder of nature when it began to collapse upon him, the Althing¡¯s host would have been sorely oblivious to their own ruin.


    Yet there was nothing to mistake, Even a blind, deaf, witless thrall could feel the doom bearing down upon them.


    Panic spread rapidly, as the army pushed, and shoved, and climbed over one another, hoping to get to safety beyond the rockslide tunneling towards them.


    But like an avalanche on a snow covered mountain, there was no escape for those caught within the boundaries of its grasp.


    No, the volcanic earth of ¨ªsland itself swallowed the army whole.


    Spitting out but a few souls in its hunger, yet their salvation was brief.


    Immediately after the earth stilled, and the shrieking gave way to silence.


    Vetrulfr waved his hand forward, a gesture that meant one thing.


    ¡°Knock!


    Draw!


    Loose!¡± A rain of iron arrowheads fell from the sky, but not in an arc that depleted their energy, no, the volley came directly at the survivors from above.


    Shields were splintered, bodies bruised, and bones were broken.


    There was no escape from the final attack.


    No defense could be mustered.


    Any flesh not yet buried beneath fully beneath the earth of ¨ªsland itself, was filled with arrows, looking more like a porcupine than a man.


    And that was what Vetrulfr and his army would leave behind for the scouts of the Althing to find when they realized one of their warbands had gone missing.


    Several hundred men marched into this ravine, and none had survived the ambush.


    Not only had Vetrulfr taken care of a large section of his enemy¡¯s total forces in one surgical strike, but he had also permanently closed off a path into the Westfjords, which was one of few that existed for an army to march through.


    The way was sealed, and now, the Althing would have to fight to enter the lands which bowed to the Son of Ullr through more contested regions.


    Vetrulfr turned his back to the scene of his most recent victory, and in the flash of thunder, he swore he saw a Valkyrie rise from the ravine¡ªher wings black against the storm¡ªas she bore a soul to the realm beyond.

 Chapter 16 - 16 Autumn of the False Confession

    ?16: Autumn of the False Confession 16: Autumn of the False Confession As summer turned to autumn, unease festered in King Cnut¡¯s court in London.


    For months, agents had scoured Europe in search of the men responsible for the winter raid on the Abbey in Italy.


    And for months, they returned empty-handed.


    No names.


    No ships.


    No sign of the Varangians who had struck with such precision and vanished like ghosts.


    Now, only one season remained before the Papacy¡¯s deadline.


    One season before war.


    Cnut sat silent as Danish jarls and Anglo-Saxon lords bickered over theories and dead ends.


    Their voices blurred into static, noise without substance.


    ¡°Our agents as far west as Connacht report no sign of longships matching the descriptions from Frankia,¡± one spymaster said.


    ¡°Not this year.


    Not even last.¡± Another voice cut through the gloom.


    ¡°Asser traveled from Holstein to Jutland.


    He questioned smugglers, shipwrights, even Jomsvikings in a tavern at Hedeby.


    No rumors.


    No sightings.


    Nothing.¡± Cnut clenched his jaw.


    He wanted to shout.


    To strike someone.


    But instead, he let the silence hang like a blade.


    He knew the truth.


    They would not find the raiders.


    Not in time.


    And that was the point.


    The Pope¡¯s deadline had never been about justice.


    It was a leash.


    A provocation.


    A trap.


    And now, if Cnut failed to present a culprit, the Church would declare him complicit¡­ and unleash crusaders to ¡°correct¡± the North.


    His voice, when it finally came, was hollow.


    ¡°The Church doesn¡¯t need the truth,¡± he said. S§×ar?h the N??eFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    ¡°It needs a name.¡± A pause.


    Then the words he barely believed himself.


    ¡°Find me a heathen cult¡­ a village still clinging to the old gods.


    Somewhere remote, somewhere the Pope¡¯s scribes would struggle to reach.


    Burn them.


    Fabricate what proof you must.


    Make them the scapegoat.¡± Silence.


    No one moved.


    No one spoke.


    They all knew what this meant: innocent blood spilled for papal satisfaction.


    A lie built from ash and bones.


    But they also knew the alternative; war with Conrad, with the Church, with half of Christendom.


    And so no one objected.


    ¡ª Armodr Ulvsson sat within his chambers.


    Cleaning his sword, which had been sheathed for far too long.


    Jomsborg had been the same as ever, silent, fortified, waiting.


    The days of his kind were waning, .and so too were the contracts from kings and jarls who demanded hardened warriors and paid for them with women and gold.


    During this time when he and his men could find little employment, he instead focused on a rumor, fixating on it, almost like an obsession.


    The lone longship, the one said to have set ablaze the abbey in Italy.


    Who were these Varangians, where did they make berth?


    And what had they been up to in the seasons since they appeared like thunder, and disappeared as quickly as a bolt of lightning?


    While looking at a map, and all the regions his scouts had scoured and search for a sign of these mysterious warriors, a knock resounded on his door, a voice, gruff but brief.


    ¡°We found them¡­¡± Armodr quickly sheathed his blade and opened the door, a look of something akin to excitement, but not truly across his visage.


    He seized the man¡¯s shoulders, barely restraining the urge to shake the answers from him.


    ¡°Speak dammit!


    I need names, locations!


    Who are these Varangians?


    Where have they been hiding?


    And what are they conspiring?¡± The warrior did not flinch, despite the sudden assault, rather he answered while staring his commander in the eyes, stoic as granite.


    ¡°Nothing is confirmed, but a while ago, we lost contact with Vestmannaeyjar.


    We sent a ship to find them, then another.


    Nobody has heard from them since.¡± A brief pause.


    Tight as a drawn bowstring.


    ¡°So unless Nj?rer is angry with us, I would say the isles wave someone else¡¯s banner now.


    Someone with the force to stop two of our longships and the brethren who sail them¡­.¡±  Armodr was damn near slack-jawed in disbelief.


    Two of their longships went missing?


    After a journey to Vestmannaeyjar along with a smaller scout ship?


    Varangians were known to be hard bastards no doubt, but to a Jomsviking, this was a matter of wounded pride.


    The middle-aged leader of the legendary heathen order gnashed his teeth, as he spat out his order with venom on his tongue.


    Armodr gnashed his teeth, eyes wild.


    He paced, fists clenched¡ªthen stopped.


    Breathed.


    Just once.


    ¡°Two ships?¡± he muttered.


    ¡°Gone¡­?¡± Then louder, venomous: ¡°Rally the fleet.


    We sail at once.


    I want to know which bastard dared lay hands on my warriors¡ªso I can remove them myself.¡± Armodr had no idea what he was walking into.


    How could he?


    And when he arrived in Vestmannaeyjar, things would not be as he had expected them to.


    ¡ª The Fleet of the Westfjords was small, but by no means meager.


    It was a power that no other force in the region could muster.


    In fact, even as far west as Greenland one might not find ships of such size, and craftsmanship.


    As for the men who sailed them, equally mighty and fierce.


    But something was strange¡­ Three new ships sailed in tandem with Vetrulfr¡¯s fleet.


    Their sails did not bear the Vegv¨ªsir like the others, rather their colors were unique, and disorganized, as were the shields of those who rowed aboard their decks.


    Clearly, this was not a fleet associated with Vetrulfr¡¯s domain, and yet they sailed alongside his fleet all the same.


    Gunnar, sitting aboard his deck beneath a tarp, was consulting with the other Varangian officers on his ship.


    ¡°Whilst the newcomers were quick to join us when we discussed our cause, I don¡¯t trust them.


    Their absence from Jomsborg has been too long, and they will eventually draw trouble to us, and to our Jarl.¡± Gunnar however, seemed less concerned than his brothers about the whole situation.


    Rather, he plotted their next target, while dismissing their concerns entirely.


    ¡°Let them come¡­ When they see Vetrulfr in the flesh, they will either challenge him, or bend the knee and offer their swords like those who have joined our ranks already.


    None can deny that he brings Ragnarok with him after what they have seen here.¡± A flicker of shame crossed Gunnar¡¯s face, buried beneath the steel of conviction.¡±I once thought him half-mad,¡± he admitted.


    ¡°But I followed him all the same.¡± He paused¡­


    just for a breath.


    Then his voice hardened.


    ¡°Now, after all he¡¯s done in ¨ªsland¡­ I know what he is.¡± ¡°The son of Ullr.


    The herald of Ragnarok.¡± ¡°The man I¡¯ve pledged my sword to.¡± A short silence, followed by the pointing of his finger on the map that lay before them, safe from the autumn weather, protected from the tarp above their heads.


    ¡°Here¡­ The larders of this village remain unscathed.


    I think it¡¯s about time we changed that¡­¡± The other Varangians found no quarrel with Gunnar.


    His reasoning was sound, his belief unshakeable.


    And they too had witnessed the Jomsvikings come to stir trouble, only to wait until Vetrulfr arrived and kneel before him, pledging their swords, as if the oaths they had sworn to their order meant nothing in the presence of a true god.


    Now, they were another force for Vetrulfr to command, another hundred blades in Gunnar¡¯s fleet, set to bleed the Althing¡¯s supply lines dry

 Chapter 17 - 17 The Battle of the Hallowed Hill

    ?17: The Battle of the Hallowed Hill 17: The Battle of the Hallowed Hill Autumn storms gathered, ravaging the coastlines of ¨ªsland, and yet the fires on its shores continued to burn.


    Village after village, town after town, harbor after tower, stormed, seized, and lit ablaze by the Westfjord fleet and the recently converted Jomsvikings who joined them.


    At first, Gunnar and his men suspected the Jomsvikings and their loyalty.


    But as the raids continued, they proved themselves and their intent repeatedly.


    Even now, the sails on their ships had been stricken and replaced with the ochre Vegv¨ªsir; the same sigil painted on the shields of every warrior in Vetrulfr¡¯s host.


    Symbols of unity, of conviction, of fate.


    And wherever those sails landed¡­ Bodies lay hewn, resting eternally on barrels of hay, while women and children cried in horror, dragged off to the ships.


    Carried off, kicking and screaming, beyond the ruins of homes that now lay in piles of ash and soot.


    Their fate was to repent to the gods which they had forsaken.


    Forgiveness was not up to Gunnar, nor the men beneath his banner.


    Not even Vetrulfr was capable of absolving these sinners, only the gods could do so, and they would make their judgment known in time, after penance had been properly served.


    And finally, after months of raiding and marauding, a letter arrived in Gunnar¡¯s camp.


    The words were written in the runic alphabet.


    One only he and his people still remembered.


    Adapted, innovated, and improved to function as a means to record words, memories, and ideas.


    Beyond the original spiritual context of the glyphs used by their fathers, and their fathers before them: ¡°The host is raised.


    Sixteen weeks to the day.


    Trained and armed.


    Awaiting the banner.


    ¨C V.¡± The letter might not have seemed like much to an outsider, but to Gunnar, it was a sign.


    A sign that the time to end this war had finally arrived.


    With a simple gesture, he tossed the parchment onto a burning cathedral.


    Its golden cross had not been plundered, but rather oozed down its broken spire.


    ¡°Anchor your vessels in the harbor¡­ We march on Reykjav¨ªk at once!¡± A horde of 300 men began their march across the southern coasts of ¨ªsland, north and westbound.


    ¡ª In the North, ¨ªvarr marched with 1,000 men beyond a burning farmstead.


    The cold autumn night chilled his soldiers to the bone.


    Wet, haggard, and brutalized from a campaign too long for comfort.


    Since the rockslide ambush that killed three hundred of the Althing¡¯s host, Vetrulfr had waged relentless guerrilla warfare against the remainder of the Althing¡¯s army, which had regrouped, only to be struck time and again.


    Night raids, intercepted scouts, staged ambushes, and general attrition from severed supply lines all took their toll.


    ¨ªvarr had been taught the true meaning of the term ¡°total warfare¡± by a man who had waged it against empires in the east for the entirety of his adult life.


    This was no skirmish between backwater villages.


    He realized that now, seated atop his horse, while his men marched with empty stomachs and frostbitten fingers. S§×arch* The N?vel?ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Though he had set out with 1,500 men at the start of his campaign, with another 500 sent south to deal with Gunnar¡¯s coastal raids, ¨ªvarr now had no more than 1,000 spears at his command.


    Even so, judging by the tactics Vetrulfr used, he believed he still outnumbered the enemy.


    He simply needed to march further north and force the man into a single and decisive pitched battle.


    Surely then he would win?


    Or so he thought¡­


    until an arrow struck him in the abdomen.


    Yet blood did not pour from his gullet as he fell from his horse and raised his shield.


    His mail brynja and the linen gambeson beneath had saved him from the unhardened flathead arrow.


    But his army, not nearly as well-equipped, fared worse.


    Screams echoed in the mist as men fell to the ground, trying to cover themselves.


    Panic, anxiety, and adrenaline surged through their minds.


    Not one man among the Althing¡¯s forces could rationally call for a shield wall.


    In the sudden torrent of arrows, discipline shattered, and every man ran for himself.


    They broke ranks, fleeing, shields raised over their heads¡ªbut to no avail.


    Only together would they have had a chance to survive the death that came from above.


    And those who survived in a good enough state to fight; by then, it was too little, too late.


    They ran straight into a spear wall that, in the darkness, had silently surrounded them.


    They skewered themselves on a highly organized line of iron.


    Crashing against thick, leather-covered, iron-rimmed shields bearing the ochre sigil of the Vegv¨ªsir.


    And as ¨ªvarr regained his wits, he saw them¡­


    charging with torches and blades in hand.


    An army of wolf-skin warriors howled like beasts, helms crowned with the hides of the very animals they embodied in spirit and behavior.


    At their head was Vetrulfr, sprinting with frenzy and madness, a berserker possessed.


    It was as if hell itself, and its minions, had descended from the hilltops where the arrows once rained.


    Just as ¨ªvarr was about to break into tears and prayer, a hand grabbed him and hoisted him to his feet.


    ¡°We have to go!


    Now!¡± It was Alfarr, the former goei of Ullrsfj?rer.


    Ironically, he seemed to be the only man still thinking clearly, calling the retreat on ¨ªvarr¡¯s behalf.


    ¡°Retreat!


    Return to Reykjav¨ªk!


    All is lo¡ª¡± Before Alfarr could finish, Vetrulfr pounced.


    Feral rage overtook him.


    He stabbed Alfarr in the neck with his damascene seax, pinning him to the floor with one hand while biting through the man¡¯s throat with his teeth.


    Vetrulfr¡¯s fellow Ulfheenar ran past, pursuing the fleeing survivors.


    ¨ªvarr looked back in terror as he stumbled into the darkness.


    The last thing he saw was Alfarr¡¯s corpse, frozen in a mortified expression.


    And the haunting gaze of Vetrulfr¡¯s ice-blue eyes while his blood-stained mouth spat out the flesh he¡¯d torn from Alfarr¡¯s neck.


    The pursuit continued until only a handful of the Althing¡¯s army escaped the wolves that hunted them.


    ¨ªvarr, miraculously, among them.


    They would not stop their retreat until they had reached the safety of Reykjav¨ªk¡¯s palisade.


    But even then, that would not provide them sanctuary for long.

 Chapter 18 - 18 Fenrirs Maw

    ?18: Fenrir¡¯s Maw 18: Fenrir¡¯s Maw The shores continued to burn in the flames which the Westfjord fleet and its raiders had lit in their path of destruction.


    Until now, Gunnar and the three hundred swords at his back had been difficult to track.


    They moved too swiftly, and with complete control of the sea, that by the time the Althing¡¯s southern army even heard whispers of their presence, everything in their path had already been reduced to ash and soot.


    They vanished with the waves Nj?rer blessed them with.


    But now, south of Reykjav¨ªk, they laid anchor.


    Choosing to march inland to regroup with the larger host.


    It was on that path that Gunnar and his men crossed paths with a levy force sent by the Althing to intercept them.


    About five hundred men, give or take.


    Farmers, fishermen¡ªthese were not warriors, but hastily drawn townsfolk, armed with spears, round shields, and if they could afford it, a helm.


    The wolves of the South sounded no horns¡­ no drums to beat, only their shields, and the whisper of a god behind Gunnar¡¯s tongue.


    Upon glimpsing the enemy across the field, Gunnar barked a command loud enough for all to hear: ¡°Shield wall!


    Fenrir¡¯s Maw formation!¡± Instantly, the Viking host formed ranks: a thin center line of newer recruits, with light skirmishers at their rear.


    Each side of that center was flanked by thicker walls of hardened warriors; Varangians, berserkers, Ulfheenar. S§×ar?h the N?velFire(.)net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Elite killers cloaked in myth and iron.


    As Gunnar¡¯s Fenrir¡¯s Maw approached, the Althing¡¯s larger force took the bait.


    Perhaps wary of the animal-cloaked elites anchoring each flank, they rushed to the center, believing it the weak point.


    They crashed forward with all their might.


    At first, the southern commander laughed aloud, reveling as he saw the Viking center bend under pressure.


    ¡°Bah!


    They bark louder than they bite!


    Forward¡ªvictory is ours!¡± Thinking triumph was close, the commander unsheathed his sword and marched into the fray, his personal guard flanking him.


    But the further they pushed, the stranger it seemed.


    He saw only his own men falling, trampled or pierced, while the heathens stood firm, dying in fewer numbers than expected.


    Then it struck him.


    But it was already too late.


    They were surrounded.


    The center hadn¡¯t broken.


    It had lured them forward.


    The collapse was a trick, and now, swords closed in on all sides.


    Panicked and clawing to escape, his men died in place, gutted from the sides, crushed from the rear, collapsed atop one another in a chorus of dying screams.


    ¡°God help us!¡± Bj?rn led the berserkers; veterans who had earned their hides in blood, men who now formed one of the units encircling the Althing¡¯s force.


    Shield to shield, they stood like a wall of wolves, blades in hand.


    While the enemy wielded long spears, useless in the crush, the raiders used short blades to slip between gaps and thrust in seamless motion, gutting men like pigs in a pen.


    They pierced through linen tunics and soft bellies, leaving unarmored levies to collapse screaming or bleed out beneath the boots of their comrades.


    This wasn¡¯t merely a slaughter.


    It was a trap.


    A culling.


    A lesson taught to those who knew too little of war, and paid in full against warriors bred to serve as the vanguard that had crushed emperors and dynasties alike.


    In the end, not a single one of the Althing¡¯s five hundred levies escaped.


    All they managed to do was buy a few days¡¯ time.


    Long enough for the villagers between here and Reykjav¨ªk to flee for whatever sanctuary they could find.


    For many, that sanctuary would be Reykjav¨ªk itself.


    A city of crucifixes, cloistered priests, and timber palisades; the center of Christendom in ¨ªsland.


    But even it would not remain untouched for long.


    When the battle ended, Gunnar stood over the fallen, gazing across a corpse pile that steam still rose from.


    He turned toward Bj?rn, who knelt beside a wounded man, tending to him with surprising gentleness.


    ¡°How many did we lose?¡± Gunnar asked.


    Bj?rn stood upright, patting the wounded warrior¡¯s back.


    ¡°Five hundred lie dead.


    They outnumbered us by two hundred spears.¡± He paused¡ªhis voice softer now.


    ¡°And yet¡­ not a single shield-brother.


    Some are wounded, yes, but they¡¯ll live.


    I can¡¯t help but wonder where did you learn such a formation?¡± Gunnar wiped the blood from his blade on a fallen man¡¯s tunic before returning it to its scabbard.


    He did not look at Bj?rn¡ªhis gaze was fixed north.


    ¡°Vetrulfr taught it to me.


    He said he read about it in the library at Antioch.


    Enough talk¡­


    tend to the wounded.


    We march soon.¡± Bj?rn said nothing.


    He only watched the sky.


    As the storm broke, and sunlight pierced the clouds above, two ravens descended.


    They circled, then landed atop the Althing commander¡¯s corpse.


    Pecking at his throat, they tore loose the crucifix around his neck and took flight once more.


    Bj?rn made the sign of the hammer and whispered a prayer to Odin.


    Then he turned and did exactly as Gunnar commanded.


    OOnly two hundred of the Westfjord swords marched inland with Gunnar to regroup with Vetrulfr and the main host.


    The remaining hundred manned the longships, sailing them around the coast to encircle Reykjav¨ªk by sea.


    Eight vessels, each with a dozen seasoned raiders, now formed a floating noose across the harbor¡¯s mouth.


    No soul would escape the judgment to come.


    Not by land, nor by Nj?rer¡¯s waves.


    ¡ª  After a bloody battle at the Hallowed Hill, which saw the bulk of the Althing¡¯s army annihilated.


    ¨ªvarr found himself stumbling past Reykjav¨ªk¡¯s timber gates.


    Collapsed against the palisade, armor stained in ash and blood.


    His breath came in ragged bursts, each one stabbing at his lungs like frostbitten knives.


    His cloak was torn.


    His sword was gone.


    The men who had followed him¡ªmost of them were gone, too.


    Fewer than a hundred had returned with him from the north.


    Another hundred, maybe, still held the city from within.


    But it would not matter.


    Not now.


    He looked back once, toward the dark hills where Alfarr had fallen¡ªwhere wolves howled in the distance like they carried the souls of the dead in their throats.


    He had marched out with fifteen hundred men.


    He had returned with barely a tenth of that.


    ¡°Why¡­¡± he whispered hoarsely, throat dry as the wind.


    ¡°Why would God leave us to the wolves?¡± No voice answered.


    Only the silence of a sky without stars.

 Chapter 19 - 19 Siege of Reykjav铆k

    ?19: Siege of Reykjav¨ªk 19: Siege of Reykjav¨ªk Church bells echoed across Reykjav¨ªk¡¯s streets as the last civilians flooded behind its timber palisades, believing wooden walls could protect them from the storm to come.


    But they were deceived.


    ¨ªvarr had seen the truth with his own eyes.


    This was not war; it was annihilation.


    The host that approached was not of mortal men, but of monsters born from fire and frost, carved from nightmare.


    He rested against the palisade where he had sat for hours since his broken army limped back to the city.


    Blood crusted his torn cloak, and soot blackened his hands.


    His sword was lost, his shield shattered.


    Only the terror remained.


    A captain of the city watch, flushed and panicked, shouted at him, ¡°Where are all the men?


    Why have so few returned?!


    The enemy is upon us, and Reykjav¨ªk is nearly undefended!¡± ¨ªvarr gave no answer for a long while. sea??h th§× ¦Çov§×lFire .net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    He gazed upward at the serene sky; a cruel contrast to the hell that approached¡ªand scoffed.


    ¡°Gone,¡± he muttered.


    ¡°Dead.


    And soon, so will we be.


    Hell marches on Reykjav¨ªk.¡± The captain started to protest, but a shout from the tower above silenced him.


    ¡°INCOMING!¡± A flaming stone the size of a hog¡¯s belly crashed into the watchtower, exploding the structure in a blast of pitch and timber.


    Screams followed, then silence.


    Another stone followed, slamming into the wall and sending splinters flying.


    A third tore up the gate¡¯s support beams.


    The pitch-laced rocks had been polished smooth, blackened with soot, and lit with torches as they were hurled through the sky.


    They screamed as they flew, and burst into flame on impact.


    Sending sheets of fire crawling over thatch rooftops and wooden scaffolds.


    A panic swept through the defenders as the flames spread faster than they could be extinguished.


    Outside the walls, a chant rose in dreadful unity: ¡°Drepie fyrir ¨®ein!¡± ¡°Drepie fyrir ¨®ein!¡± ¡°Drepie fyrir ¨®ein!¡± Their cries grew louder than the bells, until even the churches went silent, drowned out by the thunderous chorus of war gods.


    Gunnar had rejoined Vetrulfr not long after he annihilated the Althing¡¯s southern levy.


    He brought two hundred swords.


    The remaining hundred had sailed the eight longships around the coast to encircle Reykjav¨ªk¡¯s harbor, blocking all escape.


    The siege camp was already built, trenches dug and palisades of sharpened stakes erected in the night.


    Several mangonels, primitive but sturdy, loomed over the forward lines.


    Vetrulfr stood behind a raised shield wall with his archers, losing arrows in a steady rhythm.


    His pale hair blew like a war banner in the wind, eyes fixed on the city burning beyond.


    Without turning, he called out, ¡°You¡¯re late, brother.


    The fire already rises.¡± Gunnar stepped beside him, crouching under the protection of the raised shields as another volley of arrows was loosed.


    ¡°I must apologize, Jarl,¡± he said, watching smoke rise over rooftops.


    ¡°When you said pitch-soaked stones would suffice, I thought you to be a fool.


    But I haven¡¯t seen fire like this since our days in the East.¡± Vetrulfr chuckled darkly.


    ¡°Stone for stone, no fire burns better than timber and faith.¡± He slung his bow, then turned his back to the burning skyline.


    ¡°Let it burn.


    By dawn, the walls will fall, and the gods will take back what was stolen.¡± Behind them, the boar-warriors manned the siege engines with tireless rhythm.


    Cranking, loading, and releasing.


    Their arms were corded with muscle, their faces smeared with soot and sweat.


    They chanted with every release, as if in prayer.


    Inside the city, chaos reigned.


    The fires spread through the merchant quarter, engulfing homes and warehouses alike.


    Families huddled in churches.


    Priests rang bells and screamed prayers over the roar of collapsing buildings.


    ¨ªvarr watched it all, hollow-eyed.


    He did not weep, for tears would not come.


    Dawn broke, casting gold over a blackened skyline.


    Reykjav¨ªk¡¯s palisade was cratered and cracked, its gate partially collapsed.


    The defenders had spent the night burying the dead and shoveling water into the flames¡ªbut much of the city still smoldered.


    From the north, horns sounded.


    Vetrulfr emerged from his tent, armored from head to toe, shield in one hand, sword in the other.


    His eyes glowed with the morning sun as he raised his blade.


    ¡°To Valh?ll!¡± The camp erupted with the clash of shields and the roar of warriors.


    The charge began.


    Through the shattered palisade they ran; Vetrulfr at the head, flanked by Gunnar and Gorm.


    Behind them came the wall of iron: veterans of a dozen campaigns, shields locked, swords bared.


    The garrison that stood to meet them numbered barely a hundred.


    Most were exhausted, wounded, or barely trained.


    But they held.


    They held because they had to.


    Their families were behind them.


    Their homes.


    Their god.


    They formed a tight shield wall, trembling but determined.


    Vetrulfr crashed into the line like a battering ram.


    His shield struck a defender¡¯s with such force it shattered the rim and sent the man sprawling.


    His sword came down like a falling axe, cleaving through helm and skull.


    Gorm followed, driving his short blade beneath a shield and into a man¡¯s ribs.


    Gunnar parried a thrust and countered with a crushing overhead strike that snapped a spear in two.


    The Norse line pushed forward, grinding like a wave against sand.


    The defenders faltered, then collapsed inward.


    Blood slicked the ground.


    Screams rose and fell in the smoke.


    Men were gutted, trampled, hacked down without mercy.


    The raiders moved as one; shields overlapping, swords striking with rhythmic brutality.


    The few defenders who remained huddled near the church square, forming a last desperate knot of resistance.


    ¨ªvarr stood among them, sword drawn but untouched by the battle.


    Then, the shield wall of the Northmen halted.


    Their blades remained ready, but they did not strike.


    A voice boomed from behind the wall.


    ¡°You have fought well to survive.


    Now lay down your arms, dust your heads with ash, and beg the gods for forgiveness.


    Hand over your goei to me, and I swear by Odin himself that you will be given the chance to earn your penance.¡± The defenders looked to one another, uncertainty spreading like rot.


    The captain of the watch dropped his spear.


    He tore the crucifix from his neck and flung it into the dirt.


    Then he knelt, pressing his forehead to the ash-covered ground.


    One by one, the others followed.


    Helmets cast aside.


    They wept and begged.


    They cried out in broken tongues, pleading to gods they had once forsaken.


    Only ¨ªvarr remained standing.


    ¡°Have you all lost your minds?!


    The Devil forces his way into your homes and demands you abandon Christ!


    And you do so willingly?¡± He spat.


    ¡°The apostles were martyred for our Savior, and you throw your faith away at the first sign of fear?


    Cowards!


    All of you!¡± Vetrulfr¡¯s shield wall parted, revealing the albino giant cloaked in arctic wolf skin.


    ¡°You speak of martyrs, yet hide behind your men.


    Where is your faith?¡± He raised his sword.


    ¡°Bring him to me.


    This victory demands a sacrifice.


    The gods are owed.¡± Confused, ¨ªvarr searched their faces.


    ¡°What¡­ what are you talking about?¡± But the warriors only grinned.


    He did not yet understand what they meant.


    But soon, he would.


    For Vetrulfr had invoked an ancient rite.


    The Blood Eagle.


    CREATORS¡¯ THOUGHTS Zentmeister This is only the beginning.


    The ashes of Reykjav¨ªk haven¡¯t cooled, and already new fires rise across the North.


    From this point forward, Vetrulfr¡¯s saga continues under premium; a journey of thrones, blood oaths, and the price of kingship.


    Thank you for walking with me this far.


    The next saga begins now.

 Chapter 20 - 20 Blood Eagle

    ?20: Blood Eagle 20: Blood Eagle In the days following his victory at Reykjav¨ªk, Vetrulfr consolidated his power and forced the remainder of the Althing to kneel.


    They were made to renounce their foreign faith and beg forgiveness from the gods of their ancestors.


    Even now, his ¨²lfheenar acted as inquisitors across ¨ªsland, tearing down Christian sanctuaries, seizing wealth, and punishing those who refused to return to the old gods.


    ¨ªvarr still lived, but only because he served a purpose.


    His death was certain¡­


    only delayed, not denied.


    Vetrulfr returned to Ullrsfj?rer, the new capital of his kingdom, where he named jarls and thanes from among those warriors who had proven their valor and loyalty.


    These men would carry his vision forward, rebuilding a realm worthy of the gods, a bastion at the edge of the Christian world.


    And they would do so with the same methods that had transformed Ullrsfj?rer into the stronghold it now was.


    When the day of his coronation arrived, his mother carried a crown forged of Damascus steel.


    It was simple, crude, but unyielding; just like Vetrulfr.


    She would perform the rites as the highest remaining seier in ¨ªsland.


    But before the crown could grace his brow, a great bl¨®t had to be held.


    Trodden out, stripped naked, bound in chains and covered in the rotting blood that still scarred his flesh from the battle.


    flogged through the cobbled streets of Ullrsfj?rer, came the last Christian goei of Reykjav¨ªk, ¨ªvarr.


    Unwashed since the day of the siege, his body was coated in filth too grotesque to describe.


    Surrounded by warriors with raised spears, dressed in full armor, he was marched to the harbor as chants echoed ancient and primal.


    There, staked into stone, stood two diagonal timber posts, their joints reinforced with iron¡ªa shrine built not for prayer, but punishment.


    He stared at the posts in confusion, thinking them some crude crucifixion.


    He did not recognize the shape, nor the fate that awaited him, but his imagination was kinder than the truth.


    Forced to his knees and bound in such a way that he could not rise, he looked up at Vetrulfr and Brynhildr, standing side by side.


    Hatred burned in his eyes, but before a word could leave his lips, Vetrulfr struck him with a clenched fist, knocking his teeth into the sand.


    Then, raising that same bloodied hand, Vetrulfr addressed the crowd: ¡°The gods return to ¨ªsland!


    With our victory, we will build a realm cleansed of Christian rot, untainted by the world¡¯s decay.


    While the North bleeds, we will grow strong.


    But first¡­


    we must offer a gift.


    This traitor shall be our sacrifice, here in Ullrsfj?rer, untouched by the dead god¡¯s reach.


    We honor our ancestors with the rite they reserved for the greatest of traitors.


    A rite so cruel that he who endures it without scream or sob may yet earn redemption.


    I speak of the Blood Eagle!¡± The warriors of Ullrsfj?rer howled in response.


    Brynhildr raised her hands and began the invocation: ¡°In the name of Ullr, ¨®einn, T¨®rr, Nj?rer, and all the gods of our forebears, we give you this offering!


    Bless this land today and for all the days to come.


    Begin!¡± Just as the ¨²lfheenar stepped forward to begin the rite, a great horn bellowed through the fjord, its call bouncing across water and stone.


    Brynhildr turned to Vetrulfr.


    ¡°Intruders come by sea!


    Raise the gate!


    Prepare for battle!¡± Vetrulfr unsheathed his sword and snarled: ¡°It seems the gods wish to test our faith.¡± He rushed to ready the defenses, not knowing who approached, only that their arrival was an offense.


    ¡ª Nearly a moon had passed since the sails of the Jomsvikings cut westward across the Baltic.


    Some whispered they had been claimed by Nj?rer¡¯s wrath, lost beneath the waves like so many arrogant ghosts.


    But on the twenty-ninth day, as Reykjav¨ªk¡¯s fires still smoldered and ash settled like snow, the dragons returned.


    Black-painted prows.


    Shields tight along their hulls.


    Silence.


    Not a chant.


    Not a cry.


    Only the sound of oars, and the wind, and the steel certainty of men who demanded a seat at a table already set.


    Somehow, they had overshot Vestmannaeyjar and Reykjav¨ªk entirely, arriving instead in the Westfjords; as if Nj?rer himself had guided them with the winds and the tide.


    There they found something that should not have existed: a great city, fortified and thriving, unknown to their records.


    Its grandeur was greater than anything they had ever seen north of Hadrian¡¯s wall.


    Armodr Ulvsson expected a town with a weak palisade, not a Roman fortress.


    He turned furiously on his scribe.


    ¡°You told me Reykjav¨ªk was a glorified village! S§×arch* The N?vel(F)ire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    You lied to me!¡± The scribe, stunned as he studied the walls nestled in the fjord, replied: ¡°This isn¡¯t Reykjav¨ªk¡­


    We are in the Westfjords.


    But this place,this fortress¡­


    was never recorded.


    I did not lie.


    This place should not exist.¡± Realization dawned.


    Had this city been built by the same Varangians who sacked the Abbey in Bobbio?


    If so, they were far more capable than he had imagined.


    After a long silence, Armodr gave his order: ¡°Find a way to signal them.


    We came for war, but I will not charge blind into the den of wolves we cannot see.¡± A white shield, unmarred, was raised on a spear above the prow of Armodr¡¯s flagship.


    The sails were drawn, oars stilled, and the fleet drifted anchored at distance.


    Then came the horn; three steady blasts, not a cry of war, but a plea for caution.


    A skiff lowered, bearing only two men.


    One rowed.


    The other held no weapon, only a silver-bound horn and a folded banner of wolfskin.


    Armodr had chosen his message carefully: We are wolves, not jackals.


    We will feast beside you¡­


    or fall with fangs bared.


    CREATORS¡¯ THOUGHTS Zentmeister Just a heads up, I¡¯ve come down with something, and will be taking the next few days to decrease my chapter output.


    I¡¯ll get back to the normal two chapters a day routine when I am able.


    Thank you all for your understanding and your continued support.

 Chapter 21 - 21 A Crown in Blood

    ?21: A Crown in Blood 21: A Crown in Blood The sea gate lowered, and the skiff slipped through the jaws of Ullrsfj?rer unmolested.


    The Jomsvikings were indeed surprised to see such a heavily armored force waiting at the harbor to greet them.


    Their weapons weren¡¯t raised with hostility, but were at the ready.


    A moment¡¯s notice and the uninvited guests would be skewered by a hundred spears which surrounded them.


    Knowing that they had entered a realm of true professionals, the Jomsviking representatives were quick to hand over their gifts.


    The message these trinkets carried was clear.


    Vetrulfr stepped forward, his mother at his side, gaze cold; calculating, and tinged with spite.


    These men had forced their way into his home and disrupted an important ritual.


    Coronation be damned, Blood Eagle had been invoked, and these mortals dare keep the gods waiting.


    ¡°You have thirty breaths to speak your truth, or I¡¯ll return your heads to your Jarl and loose the harbor ballista upon his fleet.¡± The envoys were quick to bow their heads, anxiety clearly stricken across their faces as they did so.


    ¡°Jarl Armodr Ulvsson of the Jomsvikings, seeks an audience with whoever rules this fjord.


    We have come a long way to search for our brothers who have gone silent.


    We were not expecting such a grand fortress here in ¨ªsland¡­¡± Vetrulfr said nothing, he thought diligently on the matter, the words in his throat cut off by a man who stepped forward on his behalf.


    ¡°You stand before Vetrulfr Ullrsson, High King over ¨ªsland and Vestmannaeyjar. Sear?h the nov§×lF~ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Your Jarl would have been wiser to come and kneel himself if he wished for words to be had!¡± The man who said this was one of the Jomsvikings who had already pledged his life, and loyalty to Vetrulfr, taking part in the last stage of the war against the Althing.


    He was now speaking as if the men who were once his sworn brothers-in-arms were now outsiders intruding upon sacred ground.


    And this caught the attention of everyone who witnessed it.


    What was more shocking was that his fellow brothers, who followed him into Vetrulfr¡¯s service stepped forward, all alive and well as they too made their voices heard.


    ¡°You have intruded upon a great Bl¨®t.


    The gods will not be pleased with your disturbance!


    Tell your jarl that the men he seeks are no longer here, and that he should go home to Jomsborg!¡± Vetrulfr could only smirk at the words spoken by the former Jomsvikings.


    When presented with their old master¡¯s call to return, they refused to recognize his authority.


    It was a bold profession of loyalty, but from his perspective they had chosen their side wisely.


    As for the other Jomsvikings who were clearly staring at their missing sword brothers, yet they rejected the very reality of this bond.


    It was a jolting experience for them.


    Causing several moments of silent confusion before one stepped forward with his fists clenched and curled.


    ¡°What is the meaning of this?


    Have you forsaken our brotherhood so easily?¡± The men stood firm, and by Vetrulfr¡¯s side, refusing to say any more.


    And ultimately, it was not a man who spoke next, but rather a woman.


    Brynhildr made her presence known as she did the unthinkable.


    ¡°Tell your Jarl he has trespassed upon a Blood Eagle in progress.


    The gods are watching.


    If he wishes to join us in tribute to the gods, then he will have to come to Ullrsfj?rer personally.¡± A pause, and then a shift in the woman¡¯s tone that was almost bone chilling.


    ¡°But if he is to be welcome among us, he and all his men will have to surrender their arms until they leave.


    These are not my words, but those of the Tyr¡­.


    Do with them as you will¡­¡± One of the envoys was about to mock Brynhildr for daring to make such a claim, but the men by his side grabbed hold of him, and forced him into silence with a shake of their head, and whisper beneath their breath.


    ¡°Don¡¯t¡­ I can¡¯t explain it, but there¡¯s something unnatural about this place¡­ about everything¡­ You wouldn¡¯t want to anger the gods, would you?¡± With that, the man who whispered into his friend¡¯s ears stepped forward and bowed with a truly humble gesture.


    ¡°We will convey your words, great seiekona, and I apologize for the brashness of my brother¡­¡± After saying this, the envoys piled back into the Skiff, and left Ullrsfj?rer¡¯s harbor, returning to the Jomsviking fleet to relay what they had seen and heard.


    Thus the gates closed behind the envoys¡ªsealing the fjord, and the fate of those who dared trespass ¡ª Far from Ullrsfj?rer, aboard his flagship, Jarl Armodr Ulvsson was stunned at what he had heard.


    Not only had their brothers forsaken their oaths and thrown their lot in with this Varangian upstart.


    But the man was now proclaiming himself the High King over ¨ªsland and Vestmannaeyjar.


    Just what had happened over the course of the last year in this distant realm?


    As much as Armodr wanted to drag his men back by force, and punish them severely for their betrayal.


    He felt compelled to see what kind of man could inspire such a treasonous act to begin with?


    And thus, he submitted to Vetrulfr¡¯s request.


    A Blood Eagle, here in ¨ªsland?


    A fortress that should not exist?


    And the sudden defection of his own sword brothers?


    Something strange was happening here, and Armodr would be damned if he did not investigate it personally.


    Thus, he and his men found their way to the harbor of Ullrsfj?rer¡¯s where they handed over their weapons to the local garrison.


    After which Vetrulfr did not waste time with pleasantries, but rather led the way back to the beach, where ¨ªvarr still lied bound and chained.


    ¡ª The sacrificial rite was long and gruesome.


    And ¨ªvarr¡¯s death was the furthest thing from painlessly possible.


    He did, in fact scream in agony throughout it all.


    And in doing so, forsook any chance at redemption the gods had given him.


    As for Armodr and his men.


    They were shocked¡­ Not because of the blood and gore presented to them, such was their way of life.


    No, they were stunned that someone still knew how to perform such a legendary Bl¨®t.


    Let alone do it justice in a way that appeased the gods.


    What came next was the coronation ceremony.


    Vetrulfr was properly crowned in the traditions of legendary Norse and Germanic kings before him.


    His mother, the seiekona, had performed the proper blessings, and had placed the crown on her son¡¯s head.


    In doing so she cited authority from Ullr himself, blessing his son with a crown worthy of a king and conqueror of divine blood.


    The fact that Vetrulfr¡¯s crown was forged from Damascus steel, in a simplistic circlet, without any gilding, or embellishment of any kind.


    Had caught the eyes of the Jomsvikings.


    And then came the feast.


    The hall rang with cheer¡ªvictory songs, boasts of valor, and oaths to the fallen.


    Those few souls that had been taken by the Valkyries to Valh?l during the war.


    Throughout it all, Vetrulfr did not speak to the Jarl¡ªnot once.


    This wasn¡¯t his celebration.


    He was a guest, one that was barely tolerated.


    And Vetrulfr made sure to treat him as such.


    Still, Armodr was not petty enough to force himself into the discussion.


    No, he observed the Kingdom that Vetrulfr had built, the customs of his warriors, ancient, and yet innovative.


    He could not find fault with the new High King.


    In fact, the more he witnessed the celebration unfold in the exceptional Great Hall that Vetrulfr had built, the more Armodr, joined along with the festivities.


    And before he knew it, he and his men were drinking, feasting, and wrestling with Vetrulfr¡¯s best and brightest.


    It was a clash of two distinctive Viking cultures, in a world where they were a dying breed.


    And for a single night, they laughed, they fought, they bled, and they shared in joy, like it was not the end of their era.


    But rather the birth of a new one.


    By the end of the night, Armodr finally managed to speak with Vetrulfr in private, the two of them watching as Gunnar and the Jomsvikings own second in command threw axes at a target to see who had the best aim.


    ¡°I must say¡­ I had much doubts when I first arrived here¡­ But I can see now why my men chose to follow your lead.


    I wash my hands of them.


    They are yours to command from now on.


    And though I won¡¯t bend the knee to you, if you have need of our services, call upon us, and we will be there to defend your flanks!¡± Vetrulfr, grasped Armodr¡¯s forearm, and clasped it tightly with a single shake of solidarity.


    And when he did so, his words were like a prophecy woven by the norn.


    ¡°Our time isn¡¯t over¡­ Not while I still draw breath!


    But if this is to be the end of our days¡­ Then let it be such an end that it echoes in eternity!¡± With that said, an alliance was forged on this day.


    And a High King had been crowned by the gods.


    By the time the dawn rose on the morrow.


    The tide had already receded.


    There, lashed to water-worn posts at the harbor¡¯s edge, what remained of ¨ªvarr still clung to the waking world.


    But there was no flesh.


    No voice.


    Only bone, bleached and split, with ribbons of flesh long since stripped by the sea.


    The ribcage had been bent backwards, protruding like a pair of bloodstained wings.


    While a raven picked at the sockets.


    The blood had dried in strange, curling patterns across the stone; not scattered, but carved, as if the gods themselves had written his fate in crimson runes.


    Thus was the fate reserved for the greatest of traitors.

 Chapter 22 - 22 Ashes for the Cross

    ?22: Ashes for the Cross 22: Ashes for the Cross The Isle of Man, located between Ireland, Alba, and England was a relatively overlooked area of the world.


    Despite being situated between three major trading routes.


    It was, for the most part, remote, secluded, and deeply traditional.


    It was because of this that the island became a prime target for Cnut and his search for a scapegoat.


    Time was running out, and he needed someone to face the justice of the papacy¡¯s righteous fury.


    And it was here, on this island, in its most isolated hill lands, that a village which still worshipped the old gods found themselves living a relatively peaceful day-to-day life.


    Nobody knew the storms which were gathering across the sea, in the north.


    Nor could the people on this island know what the King of England and Denmark had planned for them.


    No, they tended their fields, baked their bread, and forged their iron, not for weapons of war, but for tools of trade.


    It was a peaceful day, albeit a dreary one, as autumn came closer to an end.


    And yet, the village folk were running around all the same.


    A farmer was currently tending to the fields just outside the hamlet¡¯s center.


    No sword upon his hip, only a hoe in hand, and sweat upon his brow.


    In fact, the weeping sky felt comfortable to him, with all of his effort.


    Yet¡­ As he was tending to the fields, something ominous stirred in the distance.


    Down the old dirt road, the gallop of horses resounded in the distance.


    The trodding of their iron sodden hooves clunking against the earth beneath their feet was unmistakable.


    And while horses were not an unusual part of life in this day and age.


    So many of them sprinting towards the town was indeed.


    Because of this the farmer found himself curiously poking his head out from his field, trying to see just how many men were visiting and from where?


    Unfortunately, as he stepped out from beyond his crops, and into the dirt path, a steel blade passed by his neck.


    His head detaching from his shoulders and rolling onto the ground below, his blood spilled, and his face having the same curious expression as it had the moment before the farmer was killed.


    Yet his death went entirely unnoticed by his fellow village folk, rather it was not until the horses stopped, and lit the fields aflame with torches did the people within the hamlet begin to panic and scream for their lives.


    ¡°Your village has been found guilty of harboring a pack of Varangian heretics!


    Your judgment has come!


    May god have mercy on your souls!


    For we will not!¡± The isle of Man burned, and the world?


    It barely seemed to notice.


    ¡ª Cnut received word not long after his agents had concluded the task.


    They had burned village after village on the Isle of Man to ash and cinders.


    Searching for anyone, anything that could be used to fabricate their guilt.


    Eventually, after the fourth or fifth village was massacred.


    Some old runestones were found in a small settlement.


    They were excavated and brought back to London.


    Along with helmets, swords, and coats of mail.


    Not forged on the Isle of Man or used by its inhabitants, but rather made here in England, merely brought forth as additional ¡°evidence¡± of the Isle¡¯s connection to the Varangians.


    Cnut gazed upon what had come of his orders, and let the Master of Whispers speak for himself.


    ¡°There are no witnesses left to speak of what was done, and the evidence we have¡­ gathered¡­ Is just enough to convince the Papacy that we not only ¡®found¡¯ the Varangians, but brought them to justice along with those harboring them.


    It would appear that for the time being, war with the Germans has been avoided, wouldn¡¯t you say, your majesty?¡± Cnut was as silent as the dead which were slain on his orders.


    He understood the weight of what he had done.


    And he took no pleasure in it.


    Heathen or Christian, what he had done was wrong, and he knew it.


    But what he had done had also prevented the outbreak of war, a conflict that would have seen many more dead, and many more innocents to suffer.


    So, he may have just committed a great act of evil, but unfortunately, it was a necessary act of evil.


    Nevertheless, he remained silent, if not simply for those who had perished under his command.


    And when the time finally came for him to speak, his tone was both heavy and solemn.


    ¡°Very well, as you said, the evidence is sufficient to keep the Germans off our back, and the Pope satisfied.


    Send What you have gathered to Rome.


    I will not give that scoundrel Conrad a chance to undo all that we have worked so hard for!¡± The master of whispers said nothing in response.


    He simply bowed respectfully, before departing so that he may carry out his liege¡¯s will.


    As for Cnut, he remained with his steward, a man he was close to, and had been for many years.


    And when the two of them were alone, only then to Cnut reveal his true thoughts on what he had done.


    ¡°Go ahead¡­ Say it¡­ Tell me what a fiend I am¡­ How I have just damned myself to the depths of hell for eternity.


    I deserve it!¡± The Steward remained silent, just as Cnut himself had done when he first heard that his orders were completed.


    And the longer he held his tongue.


    The more Cnut lashed out.


    ¡°What?


    I¡¯m giving you permission to speak your mind freely!


    Without any recourse on my behalf!


    Are you so frightened by the man that I have become that you won¡¯t even tell me the truth!?!¡± Finally, the steward spoke, after a long and heavy sigh.


    ¡°It¡¯s not that sire¡­ Rather, you already fully understand the weight of the decision you have made.


    In fact, I¡¯m quite pleased to see that despite having committed such a wicked deed, you are so burdened by it¡­ Had you not been, perhaps I would have found myself fleeing your court this very evening.¡± Cnut sank back in his chair as the aging steward continued with his speech.


    ¡°I have known you since you were a young boy, your highness.


    The fact that you punish yourself so severely over doing such a necessary act is proof enough that you are not the monster you fear yourself to be.¡± A slight pause, and an inflection in the man¡¯s tone.


    Followed by the end of his statement.


    ¡°Yes, you condemned a few hundred innocent souls to death.


    But you saved thousands in the process¡­ Perhaps even tens of thousands.


    And that is not something I would rebuke you for.


    You have done the best you can, with the circumstances you were dealt, and all we can do now is wait for Rome¡¯s response¡­¡± Nothing more needed to be said, the Steward simply patted the King on his shoulder, before walking out of the room altogether, leaving Cnut to drink by himself as he truly reflected on this whole situation, and what had led him to make such a horrific action.


    In truth, the Varangians had sacked Bobbio, but the Pope and Conrad were no less complicit.


    Their demands were both unreasonable and manipulative.


    Since their real goal was to create a casus belli which saw the North full under Conrad¡¯s control, or at the very least their influence.


    They had tasked Cnut with an impossible task.


    And when they realized he had succeeded, they would naturally be suspicious.


    Now, however, the only thing he could really do was ensure they did not find proof that he had lied.


    In fact, the only thing that could truly ruin his plan was if those damned raiders had returned.


    But they had not been spotted in close to a year now.


    Perhaps they had died at sea¡­ As unlikely as that was, Cnut sincerely hoped this was the case, and put the matter to the back of his mind for the rest of the evening.


    ¡ª South Connacht, near modern Kinvara, on the southern coast of Galway Bay, within a few kilometers inland lie the monastic site of Kilmacduagh.


    Within this was a convent, a young maiden knelt in prayer within her private quarters.


    Her room was locked, but not from the inside.


    Rather, it was the exterior of her doors, which were barred.


    Keeping her inside these old stone walls.


    Barely enough firewood in the hearth to keep her warm.


    The windows, slightly cracked, allowing a draft to waft within, ever present, and chilling, especially on a rainy autumn night like this one.


    Nevertheless, she, dressed in her nunnery robes, prayed to the old, rotting wooden cross above her hearth.


    Asking the lord god almighty and Saint Brigid for the prosperity and the safety of the people of Connacht.


    It was then, amidst her silent prayers, she heard the words spoken by her fellow sisters.


    ¡°I don¡¯t care what Mother Superior says¡­ It¡¯s not acceptable that we are forced to keep sister R¨®is¨ªn locked away like this all hours of the day, save for mass, and mealtime!¡± Yet, the other voice was shrill and accusatory.


    Almost even fearful as she slapped the woman who had dared suggest unbarring R¨®is¨ªn¡¯s doors.


    ¡°Are you mad! S~ea??h the novel(F~)ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Have you seen that woman?


    And her unsightly appearance!


    She¡¯s clearly been touched by the supernatural!


    It¡¯s why she¡¯s here!


    She¡¯s the last of a tainted bloodline!


    She¡¯s to become one of us, so that she doesn¡¯t spread her legs and breed more devilspawn!¡± ¡°No!


    R¨®is¨ªn is to stay in her quarters unless given expressed permission by the mother superior otherwise!


    Your job isn¡¯t to be her friend!


    It¡¯s to educate her!


    And I won¡¯t hear anything more about this nonsense!¡± There was a brief retort, and then silence.


    Only the sound of footsteps as the two women moved beyond R¨®is¨ªn¡¯s quarters.


    Allowing the young maiden a sigh of relief, as she continued with her prayers.

 Chapter 23 - 23 The Forging of Fè°©fnirsfangr

    ?23: The Forging of F¨¢fnirsfangr 23: The Forging of F¨¢fnirsfangr ¨ªsland and Vestmannaeyjar began to change rapidly under Vetrulfr¡¯s rule.


    At the close of the war, he commanded a host of one thousand.


    But in the reorganization of the realm, this force was not kept whole.


    Instead, he scattered them to the winds; to the lands of every man who had been named Jarl or Thane.


    They were not dismissed, but charged with a holy task: to raise new hosts of their own, build harbors of their own, forge fleets of their own, and till fields of their own to sustain them.


    Each fief was to become a war camp in miniature.


    Every lord, a war-chief in training.


    It was not peacetime Vetrulfr prepared for.


    It was a new age.


    And Ullrsfj?rer stood at its heart.


    Armies were not the only thing being raised.


    Roads, bridges, and stone walls were erected as well.


    New mills and granaries replaced fields cleared with fire and prayer.


    All the wisdom Vetrulfr had earned from a decade in the East, from Constantinople to the Caucasus was brought to bear upon this northern kingdom.


    His vision had become law.


    His will, the pulse of a rising empire.


    Yet even with all of this, his true pride would be the fleet.


    The northern sea demanded mastery.


    So, a new flagship would be needed to herald the coming storm.


    Frostrt?nn had served well in battle.


    But it was a ship made for a Varangian captain, not a High King.


    And so, Vetrulfr summoned his greatest shipwrights to Ullrsfj?rer and laid before them the sketch of a sea-beast reborn. S§×ar?h the n??el Fire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    What he showed them was no mere longship.


    Inspired by the Byzantine dromons he once saw dominating the waters off Nicaea, this vessel would stretch nearly fifty meters¡ªcapable of bearing between one hundred and one hundred twenty-five warriors into battle, fully armored and armed.


    It would be rigged with two central square sails and flanked with smaller triangular lateen sails at prow and stern, allowing it to catch wind from every angle and cut through both sea and river.


    The center would rise with a reinforced deck; fortified for archers and shield-bearers alike.


    Mounted ballistae would guard her flanks.


    And at her bow, carved of blackened bronze, would be a dragon¡¯s head¡ªnot merely ornamented, but functional.


    Within its gaping maw would lie a concealed siphon.


    A fire-spewing throat designed to loose a northern analog of the feared Greek fire.


    Her whispered name already passed among the craftsmen: F¨¢fnirsfangr.


    And despite her size, she would maintain the shallow draft of a longship, capable of riding both sea and river, landing upon shore and striking inland like a serpent in the reeds.


    When the shipwrights laid eyes upon the design, silence fell over the hall.


    ¡°This is no ship,¡± one muttered at last.


    ¡°It¡¯s a floating fortress.


    If we build this as you ask¡­ will it float?¡± Vetrulfr rolled the parchment, his gaze sharp beneath his brow as he thrust the scroll into the master shipwright¡¯s chest.


    ¡°It will float.


    Nj?rer will see to that.


    You need only see that it sails.¡± And with that, he turned on his heel and began to walk.


    But before he had gone ten paces, a voice called to him; soft, almost spectral, and yet close.


    As if it had followed him like his own shadow.


    ¡°You should be kinder to them,¡± the voice said.


    ¡°They labor for your dream, not their own.


    They do not know what you have seen.


    They have not marched the burning shores of Miklagarer or watched fire rain from the walls of cities.


    Can you not offer them even a sliver of grace¡­ to help them understand?¡± Vetrulfr paused, but said nothing yet.


    For in his heart, even he wondered whether grace had a place in the world he was building.


    Brynhildr could see that her son was faltering, and was quick to remind him of the world around him.


    ¡°Gaze upon the city you have built and tell me what you see?¡± Vetrulfr was quick to examine his surroundings, but could not quite understand exactly what his mother was hinting at.


    Even so, his voice was certain, and filled with fortitude just like his character.


    ¡°I see a hold fit to outlast Fimbulvetr and Ragnar?k itself.


    Am I wrong?¡± A long and heavy sigh escaped the ageless seidkona¡¯s lips as she shook her head with disappointment.


    ¡°Oh, my son¡­ You still think like a conqueror, but not yet the High King you now are¡­ These men, a year ago they were farmers, fishermen, smiths, and shipwrights.


    Many of them still are those things¡­¡± The woman¡¯s tone carried on, far beyond its natural reach, inspiring those around her as she paid them no heed.


    ¡°Many of them still are those very things¡­ And yet, you expect them all to raise spear and shield, and march beneath your orders, suffer the wrath of your fist, and kneel before you?


    You grew up alongside warriors like yourself, hard men, built for war.¡± Her voice fell silent for the briefest of moments and brought forth the frost of winter when it resumed.


    ¡°But some simply want to live life, worship the gods, and provide for their families.


    Those men should not be treated like wolves who answer your howls in kind.


    Remember that, or you will not be king for long¡­¡± Brynhildr did not wait for her son¡¯s response.


    She simply walked away, leaving the man to ponder her words in silent introspection.


    ¡ª South Connacht, near modern Kinvara, on the southern coast of Galway Bay, R¨®is¨ªn had found herself in one of the few moments of the day she was permitted to leave her room.


    And it was not for her three square meals.


    No, she was to arrive in the library of the convent, and receive tutoring from one of the prioresses beneath the mother superior.


    The woman was older by at least a decade and a half, and had a face that only God could love.


    Though only in her mid-thirties, her face was already a battlefield of crow¡¯s feet and envy.


    She claimed to be a righteous and holy woman, free from sin, but the look she gave R¨®is¨ªn, who was her exact opposite, was one of sheer resentment.


    R¨®is¨ªn was graceful, young, and filled with vigor.


    It was perhaps with this stark contrast that the Prioress¡¯s tone was far from cordial as she snapped at the young sister.


    ¡°R¨®is¨ªn ingen ¨¦ogan¨¢n mac Br¨ªghde!


    You are late by precisely half a minute!


    Did you intend to keep me waiting until the sun had set?


    I will have to speak to the Mother Superior about your tardiness yet again!¡± R¨®is¨ªn knew better than to argue.


    For whatever reason, the woman had it out for her; holding her accountable to the second.


    She could have fallen ill with boils and still be told her soul lacked discipline.


    And it wasn¡¯t just the prioress.


    R¨®is¨ªn had lost her family young.


    The exact details were unknown to her, only that she had lived in the convent ever since.


    Forced to take the vows when she came of age, even if nearly every sister seemed to despise her.


    With a heavy sigh and a submissive bow of her head, R¨®is¨ªn spoke softly.


    ¡°Apologies¡­ Sister¡­ I will do my best to be on time tomorrow.


    If you don¡¯t mind me asking, where is Sister Eithne?


    I do not see her by your side today¡­¡± The Prioress¡¯s eyes narrowed, suspicion and contempt flaring, as she closed her book sharply and laid it down with purpose.


    ¡°The Mother Superior has seen it fit to remove Sister Eithne from her duties as my personal scribe.


    It would appear her affections for you have grown¡­ concerning.¡± Normally, R¨®is¨ªn would accept mistreatment in silence.


    But Eithne was the only friend she had known in all these years.


    More than a friend¡ªfamily, in every way that mattered.


    Their quiet talks over scripture, their stolen laughter when no one else was watching.


    Those were the only warmth left in her world.


    Her cheeks flushed red; not just with shame, but fury.


    Her hands trembled, and her voice quivered with defiance.


    ¡°This is unfair!


    There is no impropriety in our relationship!


    We are friends, sisters!


    Nothing more!


    Must you find every excuse imaginable to treat me like I¡¯m some kind of monster?


    Why must you go so far to torture me?


    What have I ever done to deserve this¡ª¡± The words were cut short by a stinging slap.


    The Prioress had stood and struck her with full weight behind her palm.


    R¨®is¨ªn staggered, falling to the floor as tears welled in her eyes and streaked down her freckled cheeks.


    She fled back to the only sanctuary she had, the lonely cell where she was confined outside moments like these.


    And as the door slammed behind her, R¨®is¨ªn did not weep quietly.


    She screamed.


    ¡°I hope somebody burns this place to the ground¡­


    and all of you with it!¡± The words, like her sobs, were carried by the sea winds.


    Far beyond the grey tide.


    Unseen, something heard her.

 Chapter 24 - 24 The Cloak of Lies

    ?24: The Cloak of Lies 24: The Cloak of Lies Nearly two months had passed since the Isle of Man, and its more secluded villages were lit ablaze in retaliatory attacks by Christians.


    The ¡°evidence¡± that Cnut had gathered which claimed they had been responsible for providing haven to the wanted Varangians had been dispatched with a host of envoys from London to Rome.


    And after a long trek south, it had arrived in the heart of the Papal authority.


    Compared to the Romans, they were little more than frontier savages; brutes in courtly dress, humbled by cobbled stones older than their kingdom.


    The arrogance they had back home, feeling this exact way to the people of Alba, Wales, and Ireland was now shoved right back in their faces as they walked the ancient streets, built during a better age, by better men than themselves.


    The cobblestone streets led straight to the heart of power.


    Where Pope John XIX sat upon his throne.


    The deadline was fast approaching, and for days now the envoys from Cnut¡¯s court had been stalled repeatedly waiting upon the Pope to agree to their request.


    Christmas day was just around the corner, and while the Christian world would be celebrating it as the ¡°birth of their savior.¡± These two emissaries from London were sweating bullets.


    And finally, today was the day their audience was finally accepted.


    The night of Christmas Eve, Cnut¡¯s delegates knelt before the Pope, and offered the evidence they had found to clear their guilt.


    ¡°Your holiness, Cnut has spent the year searching for the heathens who dared blaspheme against sacred ground in Bobbio.


    And we are proud to admit, after significant efforts on our parts, we found them hiding on the Isle of Man.¡± The envoys, despite grovelling on their knees, pushed the items further, emphasizing one particular piece of ¡°evidence¡± they had collected.


    Their voices cracking as they did so.


    ¡°The sole survivor said that the leader was wearing a wolfskin pelt now?


    Well, as you can see we recovered exactly that!


    And this coat of mail was his armor. Sear?h the N?vel(F)ire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Along with this, we have discovered several pagan artifacts to be handed over to your holiness.


    Please take them!¡± The fact that nobody had yet moved a muscle, and not a single emotion had stern, caused the Envoys to sweat profusely, as they kept their heads bowed, pleading rabidly as they did so.


    ¡°We swear by the father, the son, and the holy spirit that our words are true, and if our tongue is false, then let the Lord¡¯s justice be done to us!¡± A short but dreadful silence persisted, that is until the Pope finally spoke.


    His face was expressionless, and his tone impatient.


    ¡°While I do believe you would not invoke the lord¡¯s name over mere lies¡­ I happen to have a witness here who can confirm whether these items really belonged to the pagans in question.


    Bring the monk forth!¡± The two envoys cast a silent glance at one another, each filled with dread and defeat.


    All the while the monk who had been spared by Vetrulfr to deliver his message was brought in by the Pope¡¯s guards.


    He looked to have been treated well by Rome during this last year, his cheekbones far fuller than when Vetrulfr had attacked his abbey.


    And when he gazed upon the artifacts, specifically the wolfskin cloak, the monk averted his gaze and grimaced, as if the very pelt haunted his dreams.


    However, the Pope¡¯s voice was anything but kind as he demanded confirmation.


    ¡°Is this the cloak of the man who had killed your abbot, and your brothers in Christ?


    Look at it and answer me clearly!¡± The monk forced himself to stomach his wrenching gut and gazed upon the bloodstained cloak.


    And he immediately noticed something was wrong.


    It was a different wolf¡­ Or so he thought at first.


    Uncertainty filled his eyes, but it was too late.


    The Pope had caught his rejection immediately.


    But did not outright call it out.


    ¡°Is something the matter?¡± The monk responded without thinking, at least at first.


    ¡°No!


    I mean¡­ not at all your holiness.


    It¡¯s just that¡­.¡± Clearly, the pope could tell that the Monk had spotted something in error with the items presented as ¡°evidence¡± of Cnut¡¯s claims.


    And was quick to press the man further.


    ¡°Speak now!


    You owe it to your slain brothers, and to Christ himself!¡± The monk found himself forced to choose between sifting through his most horrific memories, or between accepting Cnut¡¯s claims even if something felt wrong about the wolf in question.


    After all, Cnut did not know that it was an arctic wolf that crowned Vetrulfr¡¯s helm.


    Not a grey wolf¡­ because of this, he had a grey wolf found and skinned.


    Its hide turned into a cloak.


    But Arctic wolves were generally smaller than their continental cousins, and their fur was a different shade of hue and texture.


    The monk may not have known this either, but he felt something was off the moment he saw it.


    But this was not the thought he expressed when forced to share them.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, It has been a long time since that fateful day¡­.


    I thought at first the wolf in my memories had a different fur color, but I realize now I was overthinking things.


    The abbey was dark, and a storm was raging.


    The flash of lightning could have easily confused me.


    I am certain now, this is the wolf that the demon wore!¡± In the end, the storm had passed and like so many others in Rome; the monk chose comfort over the truth.


    The envoys could not help but sigh in relief, as their postures sank as low as they reasonably could while they remained kneeling.


    As for the Pope, he knew the Monk was lying.


    He did not know why he would do so, but it didn¡¯t matter.


    He had no way to call the man out on it.


    And thus, he could only sigh and announce an end to the hunt for the wolves that had attacked Christendom.


    ¡°Very well.


    If you say this is the wolf that the Varangian wore, then I have no cause to deny your claim.


    This matter is settled, and within the allotted timeframe.


    King Cnut and his realm have been cleared of any suspicion regarding pagan sympathies and crimes against Christendom.


    You may all rest here, and enjoy the birth of our lord.


    But if you will excuse me, I am afraid I have some matters to personally attend to.¡± John XIX did not believe in justice, only in timing.


    And for now, the time for truth had not yet come.


    Hence, not another word passed between them that night.


    The matter was settled; by blood, by silence, by sin.


    The Pope retired to his quarters immediately afterward, and the envoys went to their own lodgings.


    War had been averted for now¡­ But it had been paid for in the blood of innocents, and with lies that would soon crumble when Vetrulfr struck again.

 Chapter 25 - 25 The Long Winter

    ?25: The Long Winter 25: The Long Winter Winter sealed Vetrulfr¡¯s kingdom off from the world.


    The northern seas were treacherous this time of year; black, jagged things that swallowed fleets whole.


    Only the most seasoned sailors dared attempt the crossing.


    Fewer still had reason to try.


    ¨ªsland and Vestmannaeyjar offered little that could not be had elsewhere; at least, so outsiders believed.


    And so, Vetrulfr ruled through the long dark; alone, but unchallenged.


    He spent his days in worship and statecraft, reshaping his realm in the image of two worlds: the Eastern bureaucracies of Byzantium, and the ancient law of the Germanic tribes.


    A strange marriage of scroll and saga, but one which bore fruit.


    Grain silos in the Westfjords overflowed for the first time in living memory.


    Techniques he brought back from the East.


    Crop rotation, irrigation, ordered distribution, had transformed the harvest.


    The granaries were full; none would starve this winter.


    The excess was rationed and logged, moved with precision to the outlying provinces.


    It was the kind of miracle that didn¡¯t require a priest; just discipline, vision, and an iron will.


    Now, at the turn of the year, Vetrulfr stood at the height of his works.


    A new mountain had risen in the valley of the old gods; not one of earth, but of stone and sovereignty.


    His fortress, carved into the heart of Ullrsfj?rer, was crowned by a mighty hall.


    He passed through two gatehouses to reach it, each reinforced with double portcullises and watchtowers manned by his finest archers.


    This was no timber palisade.


    The walls were stone, mortared and quarried by slave and free hand alike, carved with runes and wolves.


    At the summit stood the Mead Hall of the High King.


    A two-story behemoth of Norse form and Eastern foundation, its great beams locked by joinery unseen outside the lands of the Romans.


    It was a hall of war and wisdom, a place where men drank and dreamed of conquest.


    Inside, the fire pit burned bright.


    Warriors feasted and schemed. S~ea??h the NovelFire.net* website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Slaves brought trays of smoked lamb and kegs of mead.


    At the far end sat the King¡¯s throne; carved of ironwood, and furnished with bronze; wolf-faced, raised beneath the banner of the ochre vegv¨ªsir.


    Vetrulfr took his place and gazed across his court.


    It was not hunger for food that filled these men.


    It was hunger for blood.


    The war had forged them; but peace threatened to dull their edge.


    When spring came, the raiding would begin anew.


    His fleet would double.


    His army would swell.


    The Christians would whisper his name like a curse at sea.


    If only the winter would end sooner.


    If only his father would break the ice and snow.


    ¡ª R¨®is¨ªn rested beneath the covers of her bed.


    Its thick wool was the only warmth she felt on these cold winter nights.


    Her punishment was excessive.


    If being forced to fast for days at a time was not bad enough, the removal of wood from her quarters¡¯ hearth was practically a death sentence.


    She was to endure suffering, so that she might learn ¡°humility.¡± Or so was the mother superior¡¯s reasoning for torturing her like this.


    But the reality was, this was just abuse given justification through divine codex.


    Still, the girl¡¯s faith in God did not waver; only in man.


    She was beginning to understand why Christ had allegedly sacrificed himself to pardon mankind of its sins and offer salvation.


    Because even here, in God¡¯s home, His servants were so failing.


    As she clung to the thick wool, she had stuffed her windows full of whatever spare garments she had lying around, to seal off the cracks which allowed the cold winter air to invade her sanctuary, its icy fingers creeping in like ghosts.


    Her stomach trembled, loudly aching with a grumble.


    ¡°So hungry¡­¡± Just as R¨®is¨ªn was about to faint beneath her sheets from famishment, a slight knock resounded on the door.


    Followed by a familiar whisper.


    ¡°R¨®is¨ªn, come quickly¡­


    I can¡¯t stay to talk, but you best fetch my gift while it¡¯s still warm!¡± Of course, the girl recognized the voice.


    It was her one friend, one family member left in this world.


    Though Eithne may not share her cursed blood, the woman was nonetheless like kin to R¨®is¨ªn, who had lost her own as a young child.


    A newfound sense of vigor rose from the depths of R¨®is¨ªn¡¯s aching body.


    She sprinted from under her covers, unlocked her door, and found nothing but a tray of food from the mess sitting on the floor.


    Atop it was a small letter, sealed with wax.


    Looking both ways to ensure nobody had spotted her, R¨®is¨ªn fetched the tray and its letter as swiftly as a hare, before sealing herself back in her room, locking the doors, and bringing the tray to her bed once more.


    She climbed under its warmth and devoured the food all while reading the letter.


    The letter at first seemed like nonsense and did not even seem like Eithne¡¯s hand, causing the girl much grief as she saw what appeared to be daily meditations written for memorization.


    Feeling confused, and perhaps even a bit spited, R¨®is¨ªn tossed the letter aside.


    It landed on her nightstand right next to her lantern.


    She then shoved her empty meal tray off her bed and lay down on her side.


    Once more, she was just about to fall asleep, hating her very existence, when the parchment began to change its hue from the warmth of the fire.


    And when it did, new letters sprawled across the vellum until finally, R¨®is¨ªn realized there was a hidden message beneath the surface of what she had previously read.


    ¡°To my dear sister R¨®is¨ªn, I must apologize.


    I had not been told the mistreatment they were putting you through until I heard a whisper yesterday morn at breakfast.


    Judging by the rumors I have listened to, if your condition is half what the girls speak among themselves, you will not last the winter without my support.


    As your older sister, it is my duty to care for you the best I can, even if I must become a martyr to do so.


    These letters are the only way we will be able to communicate going forward, so after you have finished reading its contents, burn it.


    And write me your response with whatever you need on a piece of blank parchment.


    Included with your dinner should have been a small cup of vinegar.


    Please tell me you didn¡¯t pour it on your food?


    If you did¡­


    I will need to provide another tomorrow.


    If not, then write your message with the vinegar and leave it on your tray at the witching hour.


    I will fetch it and dispose of it after I have memorized its contents.


    Stay strong sister.


    These tribulations are clearly a work of our Father in heaven, even if I can¡¯t understand why He would continue to put you through them¡­


    I look forward to hearing from you soon.


    -Your friend and kin, Eithne¡± R¨®is¨ªn immediately broke out into tears and clutched the letter to her beating heart.


    Now that she realized she had not been abandoned, there was still purpose to believe, to keep breathing.


    And as long as that purpose existed, she would not fall prey to the ice-cold fingers of death.

 Chapter 26 - 26 The Signal Fire

    ?26: The Signal Fire 26: The Signal Fire Spring came, and with it, the ice that had trapped the ships in harbor broke and melted away, rejuvenating the sea, and the god who ruled its waters and winds.


    Vetrulfr knelt in the heart of Ullrsfj?rer, just below the motte where his great hall loomed.


    Brynhildr, robed in fur, bronze, and wool, painted a Tiwaz rune on her son¡¯s forehead, eyes closed as she channeled the spirits riding the spring wind.


    The paint she used was blood¡ªdrawn from a sacrificial bull offered moments earlier to the god of justice, war, and honor.


    Behind Vetrulfr knelt a wall of shield-brothers, clad in iron brynja, hardened leather lamellar, and bearing thick, laminated wooden shields.


    Iron splinted wrapped their forearms and shinbones alike, providing added protection where the shield would not.


    Each man held his spangenhelm beneath one arm, the blade of his sword resting point-down in the earth, as they circled the seiekona performing the rite.


    ¡°Tyr!


    We grant you this great sacrifice; To bless our warriors with strength, courage, and vigor, As they sail to distant shores to spread your will and burn your enemies.


    Be by their side as they stand firm against the tides of Christendom.


    Sharpen their blades, that they may pierce the hearts of those who take up the spear against them.


    Harden their iron, that their bodies be shielded from wrath.


    And should they fall in battle, Bless their souls on the road to Valh?ll, As worthy sons of ?sir and Vanir alike!¡± When her prayer was done, Vetrulfr rose.


    He placed his iron helm upon his head, the padded lining and linen-backed aventail caressing his skull, then pulled the hood of his arctic wolfskin over its crown.


    Sheathing his blade, he turned to his men.


    ¡°We join our brothers from Reykjav¨ªk, Vestmannaeyjar, H¨¦rae, And the far-scattered jarldoms and thanedoms of the North.


    Each of whom has pledged their swords and ships to this cause.


    Six moons past, they bent the knee.


    Now, they raise the sail.


    Together, we set our prows for the western shores of ¨¦riu, And strike the green coast of Connacht.


    To test our blades, and carve our names into the bones of that land.¡± The warriors roared in reply.


    The winter had been long, but they had tamed their spirits with sweat and steel.


    Sword, spear, seax, and axe; they drilled without end.


    What Vetrulfr had forged into kingship, he had tempered into warriors.


    Six months of nothing but training had produced an army that was, by all accounts, the most elite force in Europe.


    Outfitted by the wealth of Vetrulfr¡¯s hoard, and enriched by the trade and reforms that followed in his wake, each man in his personal host was now equipped on par with a veteran Varangian captain.


    And all of them stood ready for the war to come.


    A war they would begin¡ªnot in defense, but in fire.


    By striking the nearest Christian realm, and lighting the signal fire for what would follow.


    ¡ª R¨®is¨ªn had survived the winter solely through Eithne¡¯s kindness and defiance.


    Their bond had grown so strong that Eithne had already been caught, and punished twice.


    And yet, she still found new ways to smuggle food, water, firewood, and blankets into R¨®is¨ªn¡¯s confinement.


    Bruises marked her flesh beneath the veil of her robes, but she endured.


    Until tonight.


    Tonight, something was different.


    There was a storm raging outside, but it was not the wind that roused R¨®is¨ªn.


    Nor was it lightning that lit the sky.


    A different glow danced across her stone walls, brighter and hotter than any hearth.


    She rose from bed and approached her window.


    What she saw was Revelation: In the distance, the coastal village of Kinvara burned; wreathed in flame, and surrounded by a forest of ships unlike any she¡¯d ever known.


    Black silhouettes against the crimson blaze.


    And then the screaming began.


    Shrieks of pain.


    Cries of terror.


    They echoed from below, from the halls of the priory.


    R¨®is¨ªn stood frozen.


    Barred inside her room.


    Useless.


    The very sisters who had punished her so cruelly were now the ones screaming in torment.


    She could only sink to her bed, hugging her knees to her chest, whispering desperate prayers for deliverance, for salvation, for protection. sea??h th§× N?vel(F)ire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Then came the pounding on her door.


    And a voice.


    Familiar.


    Shaking with dread.


    ¡°No!


    Please!


    God, no!


    Take me!


    Take me, I beg you!


    But leave that door shut!


    Leave her be!


    She has suffered enough!¡± It was Eithne.


    R¨®is¨ªn¡¯s blood ran cold.


    ¡°Eithne!


    Eithne, are you all right?!¡± There was no reply.


    Only the crash of the door as it was torn open from the outside.


    And in the threshold stood a giant.


    He was tall, pale as snow, with eyes the color of the frozen sea.


    He wore iron armor, but what crowned him was unmistakable; a wolf¡¯s pelt, its snout split open and fanged, pulled like a hood over his helm.


    Over his shoulder lay the unconscious body of Eithne.


    She wasn¡¯t bleeding.


    She was breathing.


    But R¨®is¨ªn could tell; she¡¯d been struck down, claimed like spoils.


    A howl built in R¨®is¨ªn¡¯s chest.


    She did not cower and kneel.


    Nor did she cry, and scream in fright like so many others had before her.


    No¡ªR¨®is¨ªn surged to her feet, fury erupting from her like wildfire, lighting her emerald eyes aflame with righteous indignation.


    And then, she did something unthinkable, R¨®is¨ªn walked straight toward the towering invader, pointed a still finger in his face, and screamed with every ounce of strength she could muster: ¡°You will not take her from me!


    She is the only kin I have left!¡± The man stood in silence.


    His expression was indecipherable.


    Yet it carried the cold of winter within it.


    Even so, R¨®is¨ªn did not waver in her defiance.


    And then, to R¨®is¨ªn¡¯s utter disbelief, he answered¡ªin flawless Latin.


    So perfect, she may have thought the man to be from Rome itself had he not just sacked a house of god.


    ¡°Will you take her place?¡±

 Chapter 27: The Wolf and the Flame

    Chapter 27: The Wolf and the Flame


    Vetrulfr had set his fleet upon the coasts of Connacht with a single command: loot everything of value from its river-fed towns and sea-facing villages; silver, gold, furs, silk, livestock, jewels¡­ and of course, women.


    But Vetrulfr himself did not care for such plunder.


    Aboard Frostrt?nn, he and the most elite of his warriors sailed upriver toward the true target of this campaign; a message written in flame to the Christian world.


    The monastic stronghold of Kilmacduagh.


    There, he believed, ancient tomes lay forgotten. Knowledge buried beneath prayers and dust. And as Vetrulfr had learned in the East; knowledge was power. The kind of power that outlasted gold and echoed beyond death.


    And burning yet another holy site? That was just a bonus.


    Frostrt?nn and her eighty warriors slithered up the waterway like a serpent birthing death from its belly. They made landfall in the dead of night, and struck without mercy.


    His orders were clear:


    Take the archives.


    Take one personal item of value.


    Burn everything else.


    And so they did.


    Vetrulfr and his men tore through the monastery like wolves through a rabbit warren. They howled. They gnashed. They slaughtered with the joyless, focused cruelty of men too disciplined to revel in death.


    The monks were unarmed. The nuns, even less so. Their shrieks were swallowed by the halls, drowned beneath the sound of boots and steel.


    Vetrulfr was on his third trip from the scriptorium, a sack of tomes slung over his shoulder, when he noticed something strange:


    He noticed her first by the torchlight; the way her hands trembled as they tried to pry an iron bar from its cradle, frantically working at it with desperation and desperation alone. No warrior¡¯s grip. No leverage. No chance.


    She is not trying to escape, Vetrulfr realized.


    She is trying to protect something.


    He slowed his pace, watching with the silent curiosity of a predator circling prey that made no attempt to flee.


    And then he saw the door.


    Oak¡ªthick as a ship¡¯s keel, iron-reinforced.Far more than was needed for a convent.Built not to keep devils out¡­ but to keep one locked within.


    Something ancient stirred in him.


    What do you hide from the eyes of gods, little lambs?


    The woman did not notice him until he was nearly upon her. When she turned, her scream was choked and broken, yet defiant. She stood in his path like a candle before a storm.


    ¡°No! Please! God, no! Take me! Take me, I beg you! But leave that door shut! Leave her be! She has suffered enough!¡±


    Vetrulfr heard only the tone, not the words. But the sound of begging was something he detested. He struck her down without ceremony.


    She collapsed beneath the lantern¡¯s flickering halo.


    Beneath the lantern light, he saw her more clearly. Youthful. Delicate. Long, dark hair like polished mahogany. Rare hazel eyes. Hefting her limp form over one shoulder, he considered her; if not as a slave, then perhaps warmth in winter. Or at the very least, useful.


    He did not hesitate to pick the sleeping beauty off the ground and toss her over his free shoulder.


    But his thoughts did not linger on her for long. No, the door behind him¡­ It consumed him as he shifted towards it once more.


    You call to me; he thought.Like a siren¡¯s song beneath the waves. I would be a fool not to answer.


    He dropped the sack of tomes. Grasped the bar in one hand. It groaned under its own weight, then clattered to the tiles like the iron bones of a dragon. The clash echoed like judgment through the burning priory.


    One kick. Wood cracked.


    He stepped inside.


    She stood there.Not cloaked. Not armed. Not afraid.


    And yet he stopped as if he had stepped before a god.


    What in Hel¡¯s name¡­ is this?


    She was slight. Her face, delicate as a doll¡¯s, but her eyes¡­


    Eyes like burning emeralds. No fear. No tears. Only fire.


    Her skin was freckled, kissed by sun, wind, and old magic. Her hair, a radiant cascade of flame touched by twilight.


    Not a Christian¡¯s daughter.


    She is born of the land.


    She is¡­ old blood. Divine blood.


    Then she spoke.


    Not in fear.


    Not in Gaelic.


    But in perfect Latin; each word cutting like a blade.


    ¡°You will not take her from me. She is the only kin I have left!¡±


    The wolf within him stirred. Not with hunger.


    With reverence.


    A woman who faces death not with a prayer¡­ but with a curse.


    He found his voice. Cold. Inevitable.


    ¡°Will you take her place?¡±


    She did not pause.Did not break.


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    No hesitation.


    This is not a girl. She is the final spark in a dying hearth. The last ember of gods long buried. Sear?h the novel(F~)ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    He laid the dark-haired girl on the bed behind her. Let her weep her farewell.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry Eithne¡­ This is all I can do¡­ Please forgive me for leaving you here alone¡­¡±


    And when R¨®is¨ªn turned to back to Vetrulfr, she looked not like a lamb led to slaughter; but a lioness chained in silk.


    ¡°Do not burn this place while she sleeps,¡± she said.


    ¡°I¡¯ll follow you. I¡¯ll endure whatever fate you choose.¡±


    ¡°But betray my trust¡­ and I will gut you in your sleep.¡±


    Vetrulfr should have laughed. Should have raised his hand and silenced her tongue with iron.


    Instead, he smiled.


    Wife.


    You will make a fine queen of winter.


    R¨®is¨ªn knew not what her captor was thinking. Nor did she expect her life would be anything but cruel going forward. But this, this was the last kindness she could do for Eithne.


    After all, the only reason she had survived the winter was because Eithne had suffered on her behalf.


    She owed Eithne her life, and thus, she would pay for it in kind. Eithne had begun to rouse from her slumber the moment R¨®is¨ªn was dragged off.


    The last thing she saw was R¨®is¨ªn¡¯s glassy, sorrowful eyes.And the white wolf that carried her away.

 Chapter 28: Ashes Upon the Water

    Chapter 28: Ashes Upon the Water


    Eithne stirred.


    Her breath caught like a thread in her throat as the scent of smoke pried her eyes open. The last thing she remembered was the iron taste of fear; and her sister¡¯s voice.


    R¨®is¨ªn.


    She sat up too fast, the room spinning. The fire had already begun to consume the priory. The sacred walls groaned under the weight of flame and ruin, and death was thick in the air. Its perfume a blend of scorched wood, blood, and holy oil.


    But Eithne did not cry. She did not tremble. She ran.


    Clutching her sleeve over her mouth, she plunged into the burning corridor, the hem of her garment sweeping through soot and ash. Her bare feet splashed through crimson puddles.


    The elderly had been slaughtered where they stood. Those too young or weak to resist had vanished; spirited away like grain stolen from a burning granary.


    The sacred halls of her childhood were now a tomb.


    And yet, she did not falter.


    Driven by a single, blinding thought: Save R¨®is¨ªn.


    She burst through the main doors and collapsed into the mud, sucking air like a drowning child gasping at the surface. The rain greeted her like a cruel baptism. Cold. Cleansing. Indifferent.


    And there, on the riverbank, she saw it.


    The ship.


    A vessel carved from nightmares, a prow etched in the form of a wolf, bound to the ship, clenching a hand in its maw. It¡¯s banners, unique, and fearsome. Invoking something ancient and primal that Eithne did not quite understand, but was terrorized by nonetheless.


    And upon its deck, she saw her.


    R¨®is¨ªn. Cloaked. Silent. Bound in neither rope nor chain, but something far more terrible: fate.


    Eithne screamed. Her voice cracked in the storm, carried like a curse on the wind.


    ¡°R¨®is¨ªn! R¨®is¨ªn! I will pray for you, sister!¡±


    ¡ª


    R¨®is¨ªn sat beneath a heavy tarp. The storm raged around her, yet she felt none of it. Only the dull ache of loss. The priory burned behind them, and with it, the last fragments of a cruel, quiet life she had come to call home.


    Her fists were clenched so tightly her nails had drawn blood.


    And then, faintly, she heard it.


    That voice. Familiar. Desperate.


    ¡°R¨®is¨ªn! R¨®is¨ªn! I will pray for you, sister!¡±


    She shot to her feet, heart pounding. Rushing to the ship¡¯s edge, she saw her; Eithne. Alive. Mud-covered. Screaming her name.


    Tears broke from R¨®is¨ªn¡¯s eyes, spilling freely. Not for herself.


    For joy.


    ¡°Thank God¡­ She lives¡­¡± she whispered.


    A hand touched her shoulder; firm, large, and warm against the cold. Instinctively, she leaned into it.


    Only when the voice followed did she realize who it belonged to.


    ¡°I am a man of my word,¡± Vetrulfr said, his voice calm amid the thunder. ¡°You asked me to spare your sister. And I did. Did you think me such a wretch I would break my oath?¡±


    He paused.


    ¡°Though with her home gone¡­ and the others dead¡­ I do not know how long she will survive. Perhaps it would have been kinder to take her too.¡±


    The hand withdrew.


    R¨®is¨ªn did not move. The rain soaked through her already-drenched garments. But her eyes never left the riverbank, not until Eithne was lost behind the curtain of distance and storm.


    When she finally turned, she sat again near Vetrulfr; not in forgiveness, but for warmth. The tarp did little, and the wolf-skin cloak he had given her clung to her like a memory.


    She flinched when he moved.


    But there was no violence. Only silence. And a thick woolen blanket.


    ¡°Your clothes are wet,¡± he said. ¡°You¡¯ll freeze before we reach land. Strip and wrap yourself. No man will look your way; not while I draw breath.¡±


    She stared at him, stunned. There was no cruelty in his tone. No hunger. Only command softened by care.


    Fool. You think this makes you noble?


    And yet¡­


    She obeyed.


    Wrapped in wool and fur, R¨®is¨ªn sat silent as the oars pushed them away from the world she knew. Her gaze fixed on Vetrulfr as he stared into the distance.


    ¡°So¡­¡± she asked at last. ¡°Am I your slave now?¡±


    Her tone was level. Not defiant. Not pleading. Cold, like the sea beneath them.


    Vetrulfr drank from a wineskin, then handed it to her.


    ¡°No,¡± he said.


    She waited.


    ¡°You will be my wife.¡±


    The words were spoken not like a threat; but a prophecy. She barked a bitter laugh.


    ¡°Your wife? That¡¯s your idea of freedom? What¡¯s the difference?¡±


    He did not rise to the bait.


    ¡°I won¡¯t force you,¡± he said. ¡°You will come to desire it. I hear it in the wind. The gods have spoken; you will choose this yourself.¡±


    R¨®is¨ªn scoffed, taking the mead despite herself. She drank, then wiped her lips on the cloak.


    ¡°Foolish pagans,¡± she muttered. ¡°If it¡¯s truly my choice; then I will never marry a brute like you.¡± S§×ar?h the N?vel(F)ire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    But as she stared into the storm, heart pounding, she could not shake the voice in her head; the whisper that had begun the moment he kicked open that door.


    He is not like the others.


    And you¡­ are not a lamb.


    For the rest of the journey, long as it may be, Vetrulfr spoke no more. He made no demands of her, no commands nor claim. He would not force the girl to speak, or even look upon him.


    Not until she chose to.This was his silent vow.


    As for R¨®is¨ªn, she remained beneath the fur and wool, staring hollow-eyed into the storm as the river widened and gave way to the sea.


    And then¡­ she saw them.


    Ships.


    Dozens of them.


    Sails like thunderclouds. Hulls like the ribs of dead leviathans. Each bore the mark of some beast or god. Wolves. Serpents. Crows. Her breath caught in her throat.


    When the priory fell, she had believed it as a final gasp. One last raid from a dying breed. A culture long since drowned by Christ and time.


    But this¡­ this was no last breath.


    This was the wind before the storm.


    This was the first horn in a war yet to come.


    And in that moment, R¨®is¨ªn understood the truth:


    This was not the end.


    No.


    This was the beginning.


    The beginning of a reckoning.


    And Connacht¡­ would not survive it.

 Chapter 29: The Ashes of Aidhne

    Chapter 29: The Ashes of Aidhne


    The wolves had come in the dead of night, and fled with the dawn. But the fires they lit burned long past noon.


    Even as the sun stood highest in the sky, the smoke still bled upward in thick black ribbons, trailing toward the heavens like accusations.


    Now all that remained was ash; and the silence of the dead.


    Conchobar mac Murchadha stood among the cinders, a king with a sword in hand and no war left to fight. He did not speak. He did not weep. But his knuckles were white around the hilt, and his breath came in slow, shaking waves.


    He had been roused during the witching hour, not by messengers or alarms, but by the smell of smoke, and the faint orange glow flickering against the rafters of his private chamber.


    At first, he had thought it was a dream; or worse, a vision sent by some half-forgotten god. But then the cries echoed up from the valley. His chamber doors had rattled with pounding fists. His men had shouted of flames on the coast.


    He had donned his blade, not his crown. Called his guard, mounted in haste, and ridden for the harbor.


    He had expected a siege. Or at least a battle.


    He found only ruin.


    The town was gone. Nothing left but collapsed timber, melted bronze, and the sickening stench of wet, half-burned flesh.


    The tide had begun to reclaim the wreckage, dragging blackened beams and bloated corpses back out to sea. Seagulls picked at the remains like silent priests at an open grave.


    Worse yet, the outlying villages; the fishing coves and river hamlets, had fared no better. And the priory, once under his personal protection, had been broken like a rotten reed, its bell torn from the steeple and left half-sunk in the shallows.


    Few had survived. Fewer still could speak.


    One man had bitten his own tongue off. Another sat in a stunned heap, hands over his ears, whispering prayers to a god who did not answer.


    It was as if the apocalypse had come to the shores of Aidhne.


    And for the life of him, Conchobar could not understand why. No warning. No ransom. No parley. Just fire, plunder, and disappearance. Whatever had struck had done so with surgical wrath and godless speed.


    A shadow passed through his mind, darker than smoke: They mean to humiliate me.


    His thoughts turned to the other kings. The vultures of Connacht, circling the vacant throne. If they caught wind of this¡­


    His jaw tensed. Fury began to rise like bile in his throat.


    Just then, his guard shoved a woman forward, forcing her to her knees before him.


    She wore the torn, soot-streaked robe of a nun. Her hair was matted with ash and seawater, her lips chapped, her hands trembling. And yet there was something defiant still lingering in the bones of her face.


    He narrowed his eyes. Not one of mine. The priory should have burned with all its daughters.


    His voice came low, sharp, already cracking with the heat of his fury.¡±Your name. Now. Or I¡¯ll have your throat cut and your body cast into the tide.¡±


    She did not flinch.


    ¡°I am¡­ Sister Eithne,¡± she said hoarsely. ¡°I am all that remains.¡±


    Her hazel eyes were bloodshot, too dry to cry further. Her face was drawn in agony, not of pain alone, but of having survived when others had not.


    ¡°All the others¡­ they were taken or slain. The Norse men, those beasts, cut down the sisters like lambs. And the ones they spared¡­ they carried off. For unspeakable reasons.¡±


    Conchobar¡¯s nostrils flared.


    Norsemen. In Aidhne. That could only mean¡ª


    ¡°From Dublin? Preposterous,¡± he snapped. ¡°King Sihtric would not dare. Not without provoking the full wrath of Connacht. He¡¯d burn before he dared such a slight!¡±


    But Sister Eithne shook her head.


    ¡°No. Not from Dublin.¡±


    Her voice lowered to a whisper. Her fingers clutched the edge of her robe as though trying to anchor herself to reality.


    ¡°They were not Christian men. They flew no cross. They bore no mark of the High King.¡±


    She took a breath; one that rattled in her chest like kindling caught fire.


    ¡°They were wolves, my lord. Wolves from the sea.¡±


    Conchobar stood frozen. The words echoed in his skull like a curse spoken in an older tongue.


    Wolves from the sea.


    He had grown up on stories of such things; tales told by old men and mad women, of pale demons in longships, of berserkers who tore through stone walls like parchment, of raids so swift the dead did not even have time to scream.


    But those were myths. Shadows from a darker age. The world now belonged to kings and crosses. Not to ghosts.


    Still¡­ something twisted in his gut. Doubt. Dread. Not of battle¡ªbut of memory returning from the sea.


    Eithne was not finished.


    ¡°Their ships¡­¡± she said, her voice cracking as though her throat bled with the memory. ¡°I saw one, clearer than the rest. Its bow was carved with the shape of a wolf¡ªits maw open wide¡­ and clutched in its jaws was a hand.¡±


    She looked up at him, and there was no madness in her gaze now. Only the chill of someone who had stared into something they should never have seen.


    ¡°It was not severed. The hand¡­ it was offered. Held there. As if in worship. Or perhaps to bind it.¡±


    A silence fell over the courtyard. Even the gulls had gone quiet.


    Then came a voice; not sharp, not commanding, but steady, and strangely calming.


    ¡°My king,¡± said Derbail ingen Fergusa, as she stepped down from the stone threshold of the hall.


    She wore no jewelry; only a pale wool cloak lined with woven blue. Her hair, long and dark as peat-water, was braided simply. Yet there was a quiet majesty in her bearing that no golden circlet could rival.


    She did not look at Conchobar, but at the girl. And in that glance was something far older than pity. Something ancient. Like a sorrow passed down through generations of women; the knowledge of what it means to survive when others do not.


    ¡°She is cold,¡± Derbail said. ¡°And exhausted. And likely more wounded than she can yet feel. You can strike her down if it will ease your pride. But it will not bring your harbor back.¡±


    Conchobar opened his mouth, then closed it. S§×ar?h the n?vel_Fire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    She finally looked at him. Not as a subject to her king. But as a wife to her husband.As the only soul in the world who could still remind him who he once was.


    ¡°You are not a fool, Conchobar. Nor a tyrant. So act like it.¡±


    He exhaled.


    Then, slowly, he lowered his sword.


    ¡°Fetch water. And bread. And blankets,¡± he barked to his guards. ¡°Find any who still draw breath. Bring them to the hall. No one sleeps while our people suffer.¡±


    The men moved quickly.


    Derbail reached out and gently took Eithne¡¯s hand.


    ¡°Come, child,¡± she said. ¡°Let the fire inside you rest for a while. We¡¯ll stoke it again when you¡¯re ready.¡±


    The nun nodded, numb.


    But as Derbail led her up the path toward the hall, Eithne paused at the crest of the hill. Her eyes scanned the coastline one last time.


    The smoldering ruin below, the pale line of the sea beyond it. Somewhere out there, past the gray horizon, a ship sailed with a wolf on its bow and a girl named R¨®is¨ªn aboard.


    She gripped Derbail¡¯s hand tighter.


    ¡°Please be alive,¡± she whispered, so softly only the wind heard her.¡±I¡¯ll find you. I swear it. I¡¯ll find you, or die with you.¡±


    And the sea gave no reply.

 Chapter 30: Return to Ullrsfj?rer

    Chapter 30: Return to Ullrsfj?rer


    Vetrulfr¡¯s fleet returned to their realm with riches beyond many of their wildest dreams, and legends to boast of for the next decade in their mead halls.


    But he did not enter the docks of Ullrsfj?rer like a conqueror. No war horn sounded, no crowds gathered. There was only the hiss of the tide against the piers, and the creak of rope as the longship was fastened to the moorings.


    Vetrulfr stepped down in silence. His boots met the wood of the dock without ceremony. Yet even in silence, there was presence. He turned and offered his hand. S§×ar?h the NovelFire.net* website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    R¨®is¨ªn took it, not because she trusted him; but because there was nothing else to hold onto.


    Her feet touched the ground of a city older than it should have been. Not in age, but in soul. She had expected something savage. Crude. Huts and thatch, smoke and chaos.


    That was what the monks said the Norse built; that is when they weren¡¯t burning Christian towns or abducting girls like her.


    And yet¡­


    Towering timber halls. Roads of cut stone. Runestones carved with silver veins. A watchtower crowned with an iron brazier. A citadel seated atop the motte like a throne above the sea. It was not just imposing.


    It was beautiful.


    She could not help but stare.


    She thought of the ancient walls of Rome, as described by saints and scribes. Marble cities and imperial majesty. Her mind had always turned to the south, to the centers of Christendom, as the measure of all greatness.


    So why¡­ why did this feel more like the city of her childhood dreams than anything else?


    Her lips moved before she could stop them.


    ¡°Did Christians build this?¡±


    Vetrulfr smirked. She hadn¡¯t spoken to him since their conversation on the river. But the city had made her forget herself. That, to him, was victory.


    He gave her head a gentle pat, as one might a confused hound, and pointed toward the golden-roofed mead hall atop the motte.


    ¡°Christians?¡± he said, voice low and wry. ¡°Here in ¨ªsland? They came with their priests less than a century ago. Built nothing. Converted few. No¡­ this is my city. I built it after I claimed this land as mine.¡±


    R¨®is¨ªn rolled her eyes. It was easier than believing him. Easier to snort and dismiss than admit she felt small in a place so grand.


    But before she could scoff aloud, another figure appeared.


    A woman. Tall. Dressed in a grey cloak trimmed with arctic wolf fur. Her hair was pale gold, her face ageless; not with youth, but something stranger. Like a statue carved by gods, meant to look upon for centuries.


    She moved as if to embrace Vetrulfr¡­ but stopped.


    Her eyes fixed on R¨®is¨ªn. No, not on her; but around her. As if something unseen lingered in her shadow.


    And then she smiled.


    ¡°The blood of Brigid is strong in this one,¡± she said, her voice low, as if speaking not just to herself, but to something older listening on the wind. ¡°After all these years¡­ my efforts were not in vain. The First Hearth has a new keeper.¡±


    Vetrulfr¡¯s eyes narrowed. The playful smirk was gone.


    ¡°Are you certain, Mother?¡±


    The woman approached. R¨®is¨ªn flinched.


    She took the girl¡¯s hands, warm fingers rough from years of toil, and rubbed her palms as if feeling for flame beneath the skin.


    ¡°Yes,¡± she said at last. ¡°This one is like you. Her father was the son of Brigid. There is no hiding it from my eyes.¡±


    R¨®is¨ªn recoiled.


    ¡°That¡¯s absurd! My father wasn¡¯t the son of Saint Brigid; no one is! She was a virgin! And she died long before¡ª¡±


    The woman chuckled. Not unkindly.


    ¡°I am not his wife,¡± she said. ¡°That will be your role, daughter of mine.¡±


    R¨®is¨ªn went pale.


    ¡°This is my son. Vetrulfr. And when I say you are the granddaughter of Brigid, I do not mean the saint that the monks polished into holiness. I mean the goddess.


    Brigid of fire and forge. Brigid of the spring and the flame. The one your people worshipped before your priests shackled her in white robes and scripture.¡±


    R¨®is¨ªn¡¯s thoughts spun. Goddess? Virgin saints were goddesses? What was true? What had been stolen?


    Why didn¡¯t they teach me this?


    Before panic could take her fully, Vetrulfr placed a firm hand on her shoulder. His voice was low. Not commanding, but anchoring.


    ¡°None of these matters for now,¡± he said. ¡°Come. The journey was long. You need warmth. Food. A bath. And clothes not soaked in the blood of old lives.¡±


    He glanced at his mother. A look of warning.


    Brynhildr said no more. But as they walked away, she smiled a knowing smile and whispered to the wind:


    ¡°To be young¡­ and in love¡­¡±


    ¡ª


    Steam rolled across the dark stone tiles like morning mist across a fjord. R¨®is¨ªn sat waist-deep in the pool, her skin flushed pink from the heat, her eyes wide as the vaulted ceiling above her.


    She had never seen anything like it.


    Polished volcanic rock, carved with swirling runes and symbols of fire and frost. Pipes of bronze and dark iron hissed softly in the corners, bringing in water heated not by firewood, but the land itself; drawn from deep beneath the crust, where the gods still whispered through stone and steam.


    The bath was not just warm. It was alive. Breathing. Pulsing with purpose.


    Her fingertips traced the smooth rim of the pool, and she marveled; not just at its beauty, but at its impossibility.


    This was Iceland. A land of ice and ash. Of scattered farms, turf huts, and wind-bitten stones. And yet here, nestled in the heart of a mead hall carved into the hill like a pagan cathedral, was something she would have expected in the depths of Rome or Byzantium.


    ¡°This can¡¯t have been here long,¡± she whispered aloud, though no one was near to answer.


    And she was right.


    It hadn¡¯t.


    Only a year ago, this place had been wilderness. A few scattered longhouses. The ruins of a half-built Christian church. Now there was a city. A kingdom.


    She sank deeper into the water until only her eyes and nose remained above the surface. The heat pulled the ache from her bones, the dirt from her skin, the numbness from her soul.


    From the shadows, a voice broke her reverie.


    ¡°It is not ancient. It is earned.¡±


    She turned. Vetrulfr stood at the edge of the chamber, barefoot, his arms folded. His tunic was simple, but there was iron in the posture. He did not enter.


    ¡°When I returned from the East,¡± he said, ¡°I brought more than gold. I brought knowledge. Cisterns. Furnaces. Vaulting arches. I spent a decade beneath Hagia Sophia¡¯s dome and in the halls of Emperors. When I came back, I gathered every smith, mason, and craftsman who would follow me. I promised them a future.¡±


    He stepped forward one pace, into the steam. His boots tapped stone.


    ¡°I broke the island open. Paved roads through lava fields. Quarried rock from the cliffs. Had the baths fed by the hot veins of the fjord. They said it could not be done.¡±


    He paused.


    ¡°They were wrong.¡±


    R¨®is¨ªn¡¯s lips parted, but she had no words. Only silence. Only awe. The heat in her chest was not from the water alone.


    ¡°You did all this in a year?¡± she asked at last.


    His answer came without pride.


    ¡°No,¡± he said. ¡°We did.¡±


    Then, after a breath:


    ¡°But it was my will that bound them. Just as it is my will that brought you here.¡±


    She looked away.


    Not out of fear. But because something inside her was trembling. Shifting.


    He did not try to explain himself further. He turned, cloak trailing mist, and walked toward the exit.


    As he vanished behind a carved wooden screen, she looked up at the vented dome above¡ªthe oculus open to the night.


    The stars were faint in the sky beyond, blurred by steam. But one shone clearly.


    A tear rolled down her cheek into the bathwater.


    How can a pagan city feel more sacred than anything I¡¯ve ever known?


    She closed her eyes.


    And for the first time in her life, she whispered the name:


    ¡°Brigid.¡±

 Chapter 31: Skè°©l

    Chapter 31: Sk¨¢l


    R¨®is¨ªn had spent the night in a foreign land; Captive, but not a slave; welcomed, but not a guest.


    She sat beneath the golden beams of a timber hall, warmed by hearth and song, surrounded by a people whose tongue she could not understand, but whose spirits burned brightly enough to be felt.


    She had expected savagery. Frostbitten cruelty. The bloodied edge of a realm where might made right and kindness froze in men¡¯s chests before it could bloom.


    Instead, she found something older. Something grander.


    Men of war, yes; but also men of craft and care.


    Maidens fierce and maidens fair, their hair braided with silver filigree. Warriors laughing as they played lutes and lyres, their voices raised in praise and poetry.


    Drinking mead from horns; not crude but glorious, etched in bronze, capped in silver, wrapped in runes.


    At the far end of the hall, a contest raged; not of strength, but of words. The winner was awarded an immense horn encrusted with garnets and gold.


    They roared with laughter as it was passed down, and even in a language she did not speak, R¨®is¨ªn could feel the reverence.


    She understood none of it. Latin and Gaelic were her world. Norse was a storm of sound and fire.


    And yet¡­ she was captivated.


    Then¡ª


    ¡°They say he tore the old goei¡¯s throat out with his teeth.¡±


    The words were a blade at her shoulder. Cold. Intimate.


    She stiffened.


    ¡°That he did not slay him like a man, but like a beast. Possessed by the hamr of the wolf whose pelt he wears. They say it happened in the snow, with the gods and their ravens watching.¡±


    The voice was soft. Amused. Ancient.


    She turned.


    Brynhildr stood behind her. Silent as snowfall. Watching her with that unreadable smile.


    ¡°You¡­ you speak Gaelic,¡± R¨®is¨ªn murmured.


    Brynhildr tilted her head.


    ¡°I spoke it before your monks remembered it had a name.¡±


    R¨®is¨ªn swallowed hard.


    ¡°Why didn¡¯t you say so earlier?¡±


    ¡°Because my son needed you to feel alone.¡±


    ¡°And because I wanted to know how long you¡¯d last on your own two feet.¡±


    Brynhildr¡¯s eyes flicked toward the fire-lit figure of Vetrulfr at the high table, laughing with warriors, half-shadowed and half-watching her.


    ¡°They were speaking of him,¡± she said. ¡°How he killed the one who ruled this land before him.¡±


    R¨®is¨ªn¡¯s eyes narrowed.


    ¡°Is it true?¡±


    Brynhildr only smiled wider.


    ¡°Does it matter?¡±


    And then she was gone. Her grey cloak vanished into the swirl of flame and feast.


    The laughter swelled. The music soared.


    R¨®is¨ªn sat in the warmth of the mead hall; but the words felt colder now. Sharper.


    Throat torn out with his teeth.


    Even as she tried to shake the image, it lingered. That man. That beast. That¡­ husband?


    She glanced around the hall. Every horn was in use or passed between hands. The hearth cracked with laughter and shadow. She needed air. She needed solitude. She needed a drink.


    Spotting a horn half-filled and forgotten on a bench, she reached for it without ceremony. The mead was cold, but strong. Honey, herbs, and smoke. She winced and drank again.


    She wandered through the corridors of the mead hall¡¯s upper level, only half-aware of her path.


    Down a curved stone hallway lit by flickering tallow lamps, past heavy timber doors carved with snarling beasts.


    A trail of warmth led her toward the private quarters Vetrulfr had shown her in passing. She assumed he would still be feasting; holding court at the high table with the other warriors.


    Her hand pushed open a door left ajar.


    The room within was dim, but glowing with the low light of a private hearth. A bed too grand for a savage. Soft, fur-lined, draped in wool and Arctic fox. She barely registered the figure within as she stepped through.


    And then¡ª


    ¡°Well, hello, little hare.¡±


    She froze.


    The voice was velvet and iron, soaked in amusement.


    ¡°Come to see me so soon? And here I was expecting you to fight our marriage for another year at least.¡±


    R¨®is¨ªn spun, nearly dropping the horn.


    Vetrulfr reclined half-covered in furs, one leg bent, one arm resting behind his head, the firelight catching the pale scars on his chest like old runes half-buried in snow. His hair was loose, his wolf-cloak draped at the foot of the bed like a sleeping beast.


    He looked like a saga.


    She didn¡¯t have the words. Not in Latin. Not in Gaelic. Certainly not in Norse.


    Only her wide, stunned eyes; and the blush rising like fire from neck to cheek.


    He raised an eyebrow.


    ¡°Didn¡¯t expect me to retire early?¡±


    ¡°Or were you hoping I wouldn¡¯t be here?¡±


    She didn¡¯t answer. She couldn¡¯t. Her tongue was useless and her pride was too bruised to retreat.


    So she drank again. And stayed.


    R¨®is¨ªn lingered in the doorway, eyes drifting from the fire to the bed. Vetrulfr lay reclined beneath the fox-fur duvet, propped on one elbow, his silhouette framed by the glow of the hearth.


    He wore only a woolen shorts, modest but unashamed, like a man long comfortable in his own skin; and the stories that clung to it.


    Her gaze fell to the clothes folded neatly on the chest nearby. A shift. A wrap. Soft, clean linen.


    Still, she hesitated.


    That was when he spoke; casually, without looking up:


    ¡°I don¡¯t bite¡­ if that¡¯s what you¡¯re wondering.¡±


    A pause.


    ¡°At least not outside of battle.¡±


    She didn¡¯t smile; but the line disarmed her enough to speak.


    ¡°At supper,¡± she said quietly, ¡°the men were boasting of how you tore out the throat of the last chieftain who ruled these lands¡­ before you.¡±


    She looked at him then¡ªnot fearful, but searching.


    ¡°Is it true?¡±


    For once, Vetrulfr didn¡¯t answer immediately.


    The fire crackled. Wind brushed against the shutters like breath.


    Then:


    ¡°In the heat of battle,¡± he said at last, voice low, ¡°men see what they need to see.¡±


    He shifted, sitting up slightly, shadows dancing across his bare shoulders.


    ¡°I wear the skin of a wolf. I am possessed by its hamr. Sometimes¡­ men speak of things glimpsed between flashes of lightning they thought they saw.¡±


    ¡°And if they see a beast?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Then perhaps,¡± he said, ¡°it¡¯s because something inside them needed to.¡±


    Vetrulfr said no more.


    He turned from the fire and laid down on the bed, facing the wall, his back to her. One arm tucked beneath his head. The other resting loosely across his stomach.


    No demand. No invitation.


    Just¡­ silence.


    The room settled into crackling calm. Shadows danced across the fur-strewn floor.


    R¨®is¨ªn stood still, the horn still clutched in her hand. Her pulse was still quick. Her pride bruised by her own breathless reactions.


    What had she expected? That he¡¯d pull her in? That he¡¯d make her sleep on the floor?


    Instead, he gave her space, and turned his back.


    I¡¯m a captive, she reminded herself, jaw tensing. Not a wife.


    She stepped carefully inside, set the horn down, and crawled onto the far edge of the bed; closer to the hearth light than to him.


    And yet¡­


    As she laid beneath the weight of the fox-fur duvet, she felt the heat of his body across the space between them. She cursed herself for being aware of it.


    She turned to face the fire.


    And whispered to herself:


    ¡°¡­Just a captive.¡± Sear?h the N?vel(F)ire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

 Chapter 32: The Queen of the North

    Chapter 32: The Queen of the North


    By the time R¨®is¨ªn awoke the next morning, the first thing she felt was regret.


    Then heat. Then her tongue, dry and stuck to the roof of her mouth like parchment. Her skull throbbed like it was being used for target practice by the Einherjar.


    She groaned and rolled over ¡ª straight into empty fur.


    The warmth beside her was gone, save for the lingering scent of sweat and pine.


    Firelight flickered low. The hearth was dying.


    She sat up slowly, head pounding.


    Mead, she realized. Not wine.


    God¡¯s blood, she winced. Norse drink hits different.


    She jolted upright, immediately regretted it, and clutched her forehead as the room spun.


    The memories came in pieces: the horn, the hallway, that voice, that stupid line about biting, and her stupid blush¡ª


    I didn¡¯t even change into the shift¡­


    Still dressed in yesterday¡¯s linen ¡ª and fresh shame ¡ª she half-crawled, half-fell from the bed. Her legs wobbled. Her balance betrayed her. The hearth was cold, the sun too bright, and the air smelled like damp wool, leather, and¡­ man.


    She needed water. Or death. Either would do.


    The hall was mercifully quiet. Down the corridor, she found the low stone arch that led to the private bath ¡ª one of but many luxuries in the king¡¯s lodge she never expected.


    Steam curled from beneath the door. Warm. Humid. Blissful.


    She pushed it open.


    And stopped.


    There he was.


    In the middle of the pool. Naked. Smirking.


    One arm stretched lazily along the stone rim, his hair slicked back, steam rising off his chest like a spirit in offering.


    ¡°Well,¡± Vetrulfr drawled, ¡°if I knew you were so eager to see me like this, I¡¯d have invited you in last night.¡±


    She gawked. Then scowled.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t¡ª I wasn¡¯t¡ª!¡±


    He tilted his head.


    ¡°I believe I¡¯m the one being intruded upon.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re the one indecent!¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s my bath,¡± he said, utterly unbothered. ¡°If anything, you¡¯ve assaulted my privacy.¡±


    She stared at him, red-faced, hungover, and furious.


    He smiled wider.


    ¡°You¡¯re welcome to join. But be warned ¡ª the water¡¯s hot, and so am I.¡±


    She threw a sandal at him. It missed. Of course. But the splash was satisfying.


    And then she scampered off like a pouting rabbit.


    Leaving Vetrulfr behind to smirk, and speak his thoughts aloud:


    ¡°I think she and I are going to get along just fine¡­¡±


    The scent of smoke and salted bread lingered in the air, thick as the mist curling off the northern fjord.


    R¨®is¨ªn stepped into the great hall with careful, measured steps ¡ª clothed now in a fresh woolen dress of undyed cream, simple but finely woven.


    Her red-gold hair was bound into twin braids that framed her face and fell neatly over her shoulders ¡ª a style practical for work, but unmistakably youthful. The kind a maiden might wear before her first warband claimed her as bride or shield-sister.


    Her eyes adjusted slowly to the gloom, where firelight danced through drifting embers and cast shadows like spirits against the beams.


    It was morning in Ullrsfj?rer.


    The warrior-king¡¯s hearth was alive with quiet ritual.


    No drunken songs. No raucous laughter. Only the low murmur of men speaking in their strange, biting tongue ¡ª voices thick with age and smoke, reverent and wary.


    They saw her. All of them.


    Dozens seated along long tables, shoulder to shoulder, their knives carving thick slabs of smoked fish, their horns brimming with goat¡¯s milk or mead. The air was hot with breath and heat and steaming barley. And still, as one body, they looked to her.


    They did not smile.


    They did not leer.


    They watched.


    Eyes like stormlight. Faces weathered by wind and steel. The wolfskins of the north.


    Not one dared whisper.


    Not one dared smirk.


    She walked forward slowly, uncertain where to sit. Her bare feet silent on the stones. Her heart loud in her ears.


    What am I to them? she thought. A trophy? A queen? A test?


    They looked upon her not with lust, but with something stranger. Harder.


    Like she was a sign. A riddle. A thing to be understood before it could be named.


    And beneath it all, she felt it again ¡ª the presence of him.


    Even before she saw him.


    Then¡ª


    A warm breath on her neck. A voice just behind her ear:


    ¡°Foolish girl¡­ after all I¡¯ve told you, do you still not understand? Your place is not among them.¡±


    She froze.


    The voice coiled around her like smoke.


    ¡°It is by my side.¡±


    A hand ¡ª firm, calloused ¡ª slid into hers. Not gently. Not cruelly. Just¡­ without question.


    She turned her head as Vetrulfr stepped beside her.


    Hair still damp from the bath. Beard oiled. Arms bare beneath the mantle of winter wolf-fur that crowned his shoulders. A simple circlet of Damascus steel rested on his brow, carved with motifs both natural and primal, like a relic pulled from the roots of the World Tree.


    Without another word, he led her forward.


    Not to the benches.


    Not to the far end of the hall.


    But to the dais of carved stone and timber, where two thrones waited ¡ª one immense, ancient, draped in pelt and honor.


    The other smaller. Untouched. Waiting.


    He guided her toward it.


    And seated her beside him.


    Not a slave.


    Not a concubine.


    Not a guest.


    But queen.


    The hall remained silent.


    And then, quietly, almost reverently, the men of the north bowed their heads.


    R¨®is¨ªn sat at the edge of the queen¡¯s throne.


    It wasn¡¯t a gilded thing. No jeweled crown above it. No choir or courtier to announce her presence. But it was carved from ancient yew, smooth with age, etched in spirals and beasts she could not name. S§×ar?h the ¦ÇovelFire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    And the space around it bent in deference.


    For the first time, she felt it fully. Not captive. Not even bride.


    Queen.


    And not of a crumbling hillfort back home. Not of some bog-bound clan holding out against the tide.


    But of this.


    A city carved from the bones of winter. Newborn, yet ageless in spirit. Raised not by generations, but by the will of one man ¡ª and the hands of his people.


    Its labor was local. Icelandic. Rough hands, frostbitten resolve. But the vision behind it? That had been forged far away.


    In the heat of Byzantium. In the shadow of Antioch. In the ruins of Dvin and Ctesiphon.


    Though she didn¡¯t know it yet; Vetrulfr had not been a brute in the emperor¡¯s court ¡ª he had been captain of Basil¡¯s Varangian Guard.


    Scholar as much as sword. Friend to the Basileus. Student of his wisest men.


    Wherever he marched, he learned ¡ª the thousand things that turned a stronghold into a kingdom.


    And here, in the north, far from emperors and eagles, he had built it.


    Not a pale imitation of the East, nor a hollow mimicry of Rome ¡ª but a synthesis.


    The bones of the city were Norse: steep-roofed halls, timber beams blackened with soot and adorned with carvings that whispered of gods and beasts.


    But beneath those bones ran Eastern veins ¡ª mortar that would not crack in frost, underfloor vents to heat the bathhouses, gatehouses with layered defenses only Constantinople could teach.


    A pagan kingdom. Ancient not in years ¡ª but in soul.


    A kingdom born of two worlds.


    And it terrified her.

 Chapter 33: The Old Gods Whisper Still

    Chapter 33: The Old Gods Whisper Still


    Silence persisted in the Great Hall. Those gathered enjoyed their meal with respect and deference to their King.


    But R¨®is¨ªn found this unusual. Uncomfortable, even.


    Her mind still reeled with the reality she now inhabited. A queen ¡ª not a nun ¡ª and a pagan queen at that. So many conflicting ideas battled for control of her spirit.


    On one hand, she was raised to despise heathens like Vetrulfr. On the other, her life in the priory had been nothing but cruel.


    Vetrulfr, despite being her captor, was the only kindness she had received in this life ¡ª save for the friendship of Eithne.


    It was too much. Her heart moved before her mind could reason.


    ¡°Pater noster, qui es in caelis¡­ da mihi consilium¡­¡±


    Dear Father in Heaven, please¡­ give me guidance¡­


    The Latin words may have gone unnoticed by the others in the hall, but not by Vetrulfr. His eyes shifted to the girl beside him. Noticed the way her fingers curled into prayer.


    When she grew quiet again, he made a gesture toward her ¡ª small, but deliberate.


    ¡°It might not be any of my business,¡± he said, ¡°but He won¡¯t answer you.¡±


    He said it plainly, without malice.


    ¡°Even when Basil prayed in the Hagia Sophia, there was only silence. There¡¯s a reason your kind kneel before the cross¡­ your god is dead. You should accept that.¡±


    R¨®is¨ªn¡¯s eyes narrowed. Her cheeks puffed in indignation. She shot him a glare ¡ª then looked away.


    ¡°My God is all-powerful and all-knowing! He is the creator of all things! He is all that is good and righteous in this world!¡±


    Vetrulfr had waged a war of words with Basil for years. Compared to that man ¡ª and his Patriarch ¡ª the girl beside him now was like arguing with a child.


    His lips curled into a sneer as he drew the first blade of doubt across her faith.


    ¡°Now¡­ that¡¯s an interesting question, isn¡¯t it? If your god is all-powerful, and all-knowing, and also righteous¡­ why did he create the devil?¡±


    R¨®is¨ªn froze.


    ¡°Why create him, knowing he¡¯d tempt Eve? Why create Eve, knowing she¡¯d fall? Why condemn all of mankind for something he knew would happen from the start?¡±


    He spoke calmly ¡ª like a man laying out facts, not accusations.


    She stared, wide-eyed, as he skewered a slice of sausage with his seax. He bit into it like a beast who had earned the right to eat in silence, grease glossing the blade¡¯s edge.


    ¡°Answer me, girl,¡± he said after swallowing. ¡°You worship perfection. So why does your perfect god make flawed things? Or worse ¡ª punish them for being what he made them to be?¡±


    She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.


    Vetrulfr tilted his head, mock-thoughtful.


    ¡°Unless¡­ he¡¯s not perfect. Or not righteous. Or not all-powerful. It can¡¯t be all three. Any more than I can be called merciful if I flay a man and say it¡¯s his fault for bleeding.¡±


    Her face flushed red. Not with embarrassment ¡ª but with fury. Or maybe shame.


    She gripped her wooden bowl with both hands, as if it were the only anchor she had in a storm of unraveling beliefs.


    ¡°I don¡¯t expect you to understand,¡± she spat. ¡°You mock what you never knew.¡±


    ¡°I knew your God,¡± Vetrulfr said softly. ¡°I served an emperor who burned cities in His name. I saw bishops drown infants in baptismal fonts. I¡¯ve read your scripture ¡ª cover to cover ¡ª in Greek, Latin, Syriac. And still, no answers. Only guilt. Only chains.¡± Sear?h the nov§×lF~ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    He leaned closer. Voice low. Unrelenting.


    ¡°You believe because you were told it would save you. But the world doesn¡¯t care what we believe. Only what we endure.¡±


    Her hands trembled.


    Tears formed at the corners of her eyes.


    Not from cruelty. But from the creeping suspicion that¡­ he might be right.


    And yet¡­


    She did not look away.


    ¡°I would rather kneel before a broken God who forgives,¡± she said, ¡°than stand proud beside one who conquers.¡±


    For a moment, silence returned. Not reverent ¡ª but tense. Heavy with a truth that could not be resolved.


    Then Vetrulfr smiled.


    Not with mockery ¡ª but with something almost like¡­ respect.


    His brow furrowed. Not in anger, but with a strange sorrow.


    ¡°Forgives?¡± he echoed. ¡°What sins have you committed, girl, that need forgiving? You¡¯ve lived locked away in a convent like some ancient spirit bottled in glass.¡±


    He leaned closer, voice lower now. Intimate. Like a knife sliding between ribs.


    ¡°Face it. The torment you received¡­ was not because you were a bad Christian.¡±


    A pause.


    ¡°It was because you were never meant to be one.¡±


    R¨®is¨ªn¡¯s breath caught.


    ¡°It wasn¡¯t the devil that made the nuns beat you. It was fear. Fear of what you are. The old blood in your veins.¡±


    She said nothing. Couldn¡¯t.


    ¡°You think Christ is the god of your people?¡± he scoffed. ¡°He¡¯s a Roman lie. A foreign chain, wrapped in incense and guilt. Pressed on your fathers with sword and fire.¡±


    Then his voice softened ¡ª reverent, almost prayerful.


    ¡°Your true gods are Manann¨¢n mac Lir, the sea-lord cloaked in mist¡­ Airmed, the healer of herbs and wounds¡­ and Grian, the sun-maiden who danced before time.¡±


    He leaned back slightly, as if finishing a rite.


    ¡°And Brigid¡­ flame of the hearth, keeper of wisdom, mother of queens and poets alike.¡±


    His eyes met hers. Steady. Sincere.


    ¡°My mother says her blood flows in you. And I believe her.¡±


    A pause.


    ¡°After all¡­ none know the will of the gods better than her.¡±


    He looked at her now not as a prize. Not as a captive.


    But as something sacred.


    ¡°They haven¡¯t abandoned you,¡± he said. ¡°You¡¯ve just forgotten how to listen.¡±


    R¨®is¨ªn said nothing.


    She did not cry. She did not argue. She did not run.


    She simply sat there, unmoving ¡ª her wooden bowl still clutched in her hands, half-forgotten.


    The Great Hall returned to its quiet rhythm: men speaking in low voices, firewood crackling, spoons scraping against clay.


    But her world had stopped.


    Across from her, Vetrulfr returned to his meal without another word ¡ª as if nothing had been said at all. As if he hadn¡¯t just struck something loose inside her.


    They haven¡¯t abandoned you¡­ you¡¯ve just forgotten how to listen.


    His words lingered longer than the smell of cooked meat or the taste of smoke on her tongue.


    She looked down at her broth ¡ª and for the first time in years, whispered no blessing over it.


    Her eyes traced the timber beams of the hall above her, the iron braziers that swayed gently with the heat. Everything in this place ¡ª every carving, every rune, every hide and horn ¡ª was foreign. Heathen. Barbaric.


    And yet¡­ it felt alive.


    Not dead stone and sermons like the priory. Not the stifling fear of damnation in every action. Not the hollow echoes of hymns sung to ears that never listened.


    Here, there was warmth. Strength. Life.


    A realm not ruled by guilt, but by something older. Something closer to the bones of the world.


    She turned her eyes toward Vetrulfr again. He didn¡¯t notice. Or if he did, he gave no sign.


    She hated that he made sense.


    She hated that, deep down, she didn¡¯t hate him at all.


    And she hated most of all the quiet voice rising within her ¡ª the one that asked, What if you were lied to?

 Chapter 34: A Whisper From the Old World

    Chapter 34: A Whisper From the Old World


    Athenry, Connacht


    Word had reached the ears of its petty king, Mael Sechnaill mac Cathal ¡ª read aloud in the dim hall by Brother Ciar¨¢n, monk, scholar, and the king¡¯s personal court tutor.


    ¡°Our spy in the lands of House U¨ª Fiachrach Aidhne reports that a fleet of Norsemen came from the sea in the dead of night and ravaged the coast.¡±


    There was a pause. Perhaps a silent prayer for the dead. Or the weight of what came next.


    ¡°They looted all the value they could carry. What remained, they burned. R¨ª Aidhne Conchobar mac Murchadha¡¯s strength is shattered. His port is ash. His townships gone. He cannot raise an army to contest your ambitions, my liege.¡±


    The air shifted.


    Men looked toward the throne, expecting satisfaction. Connacht had known no peace in a generation. Petty kings bled one another over claims and cattle, and Mael had spent his life reaching for the title of R¨ª Connacht.


    Yet instead of triumph, his face darkened.


    ¡°And the monastery at Kilmacduagh?¡± he asked.


    His voice was too quiet.


    Brother Ciar¨¢n faltered. The parchment trembled in his hands.


    ¡°Burned, Your Grace. To the foundations.¡±


    Gasps rippled through the court. Fingers crossed hearts and lips. Whispers of salvation rose for the departed.


    But Mael did not cross himself.


    He stood.


    Not in reverence. Not in rage. But in panic.


    His eyes darted with something older than grief. His wife reached for his hand, trembling. S~ea??h the Nov§×l?ire.n(e)t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    ¡°Husband¡­ what is it? I¡¯ve never seen this sorrow in you.¡±


    He tore free as if her touch burned.


    ¡°All of it?¡± he barked. ¡°Everyone? Were there no survivors?¡±


    Brother Ciar¨¢n searched the scroll again, desperately.


    ¡°One,¡± he said. ¡°A sister named Eithne. She claims not all were slain. Some were taken. Hauled to the ships and vanished into the sea.¡±


    Mael¡¯s voice rose with nothing held back.


    ¡°The girl! The U¨ª Bri¨²in one! Was she taken? Or was she among the dead?¡±


    The hall fell silent.


    Even his wife turned away.


    Brother Ciar¨¢n shrank where he stood, clutching the parchment like a shield.


    ¡°We do not know, sire. Names have not yet been reported. We must wait.¡±


    A sound cracked through the hall like thunder ¡ª Mael¡¯s fist slamming into the stone wall beside the throne. Dust rained from the bones of the old hillfort.


    This place had stood since before Christ. Before Rome. A time when kings crowned themselves beneath oak and sky.


    Now it echoed with the fear of a man who knew the past had returned.


    He did not speak again.


    But all present knew the truth: the girl he asked after was not just a noble hostage.


    She was something more.


    And the Norse had taken her.


    To what end ¡ª none could say.


    But Mael¡¯s eyes burned with a single, unspoken fear:


    If she was alive ¡ª and crowned ¡ª


    she could destroy everything he had bled to build.


    Westminster, England ¡ª Throne room of King Cnut


    Rain clung to the arches like whispers from a world that refused to be silent.


    Cnut stood still. Not in calm ¡ª but calculation. His knuckles whitened on the lion-headed armrest of his throne as the letter was read aloud, each word coiling around his throat.


    ¡°A fleet made landfall at Aidhne, my king ¡ª not one ship, but many. Their sails bore a strange ochre mark, painted like a compass or rune¡­ burnt into weathered flax. Earth-brown sails, crude but deliberate. They moved like phantoms ¡ª struck by night, vanished by morning. They left only ruin: towns razed, churches plundered, and Kilmacduagh¡­ reduced to ash.¡±


    Cnut¡¯s eyes turned to the hearth.


    His mind was not in Galway.


    It was in Bobbio.


    ¡°Describe the leader again,¡± he said.


    His voice was cold. Flat.


    The messenger, soaked from the storm, searched for the words.


    ¡°Tall. Wore the pelt of a white wolf ¡ª not grey, my king. Pale as snow. Carried a sword of damascened steel. His shield bore the same mark as his sails.¡±


    Cnut¡¯s jaw clenched.


    ¡°White?¡±


    ¡°Yes, my king. A ghost-pelt. Some whispered he was a spirit of vengeance. But no name was spoken.¡±


    A long pause.


    ¡°And the fleet?¡± he asked. ¡°From where?¡±


    ¡°No heralds. No known banners. Only that symbol.¡±


    ¡°They sailed from the west,¡± added the steward. ¡°¨ªsland, perhaps. Maybe even Gr?nland¡­¡±


    Cnut¡¯s hand left the throne, slow and silent.


    ¡°Impossible,¡± he muttered.


    He remembered the wolf-skin he¡¯d shown to Rome ¡ª damp, coarse, grey. Claimed from a man he never found. A corpse wrapped in lies. But it had worked. The Pope had offered absolution. The sacrifices on Man had bought peace.


    But now?


    ¡°You don¡¯t raise fifty ships from nothing,¡± he said to no one. ¡°A single longship¡­ maybe. But this? This was an army. A kingdom.¡±


    The Archbishop of Canterbury stepped forward.


    ¡°My liege¡­ it may be coincidence. Another Norse clan, or¡ª¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Cnut snapped. ¡°A grey pelt earned the Pope¡¯s blessing. Now a white one returns¡­ with vengeance.¡±


    He turned toward the flames.


    Eyes dark. Hollow.


    ¡°Whoever he is¡­ he survived. And worse ¡ª he¡¯s grown.¡±


    The fire cracked, but the hall grew colder still.


    Cnut¡¯s final words were near-whispers.


    ¡°The dead don¡¯t raise armies. Not without help.¡±


    ¡ª


    Later that night


    The hall had long since emptied, but Cnut had not moved.


    Only the fire remained, casting long shadows across the stone floor ¡ª dancing like ghosts in a battlefield of silence.


    He stared into the flame as if it held answers. As if the wolf-skin might reappear in its flicker, and the man it failed to kill might step through.


    Behind him, footsteps echoed. Light. Hesitant.


    It was ?lfric, his steward ¡ª the only man brave or foolish enough to interrupt his king¡¯s thoughts unbidden.


    ¡°Sire,¡± ?lfric said, carefully. ¡°Your orders¡­?¡±


    Cnut did not look away from the fire. His voice was quiet, yet each word fell with the weight of iron.


    ¡°Send a merchant vessel north. To the Vestmannaeyjar. Fly the banner of trade.¡±


    ?lfric frowned. ¡°¨ªsland?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Let them think we come for fish, wool, or dried cod. Whatever lies they¡¯ll accept. But on that ship¡­ place men I trust.¡±


    He turned now, slowly.


    ¡°Men who speak Norse like brothers. Who can listen without being heard.¡±


    ?lfric bowed. ¡°And if there¡¯s nothing?¡±


    ¡°Then they sail west. To Gr?nland. Let them trace the wind if they must. I want eyes on every fjord and harbor between here and the world¡¯s edge.¡±


    A pause.


    Then, colder:


    ¡°I want to know what was born out there. And why it came back dressed in vengeance.¡±


    ?lfric hesitated before asking:


    ¡°And if the Pope learns of this? That the wolf lives?¡±


    Cnut¡¯s eyes narrowed.


    ¡°Then he learns nothing. We give him sermons, not truth.¡±


    The king returned to the fire, letting its glow flicker against his brow.


    ¡°This is no longer about forgiveness. It¡¯s about survival. Mine¡­ and Christendom¡¯s.¡±

 Chapter 35: Oath-bound

    Chapter 35: Oath-bound


    The wind screamed down from the fjords, carrying with it the chill of sea-ice and the scent of ash from the great hearth at the temple¡¯s center.


    R¨®is¨ªn had never seen so many men gathered in one place without a single cross to anchor them. No incense, no chalice, no altar¡ªonly stone, fire, and blood.


    She stood on the fringes of the crowd, a shadow among shadows, watching as warriors in wolf pelts and antler-helmed goear gathered.


    At the center stood Vetr¨²lfr¡ªbare-armed, crowned not in gold but in Damascus steel. At his side was a man almost as large: Bj?rn, his shoulders draped in a tattered, matted brown bear cloak, weather-worn and blood-stained from campaigns past.


    Drums thundered. Not a march¡ªa heartbeat. Primal, pulsing, alive.


    ¨ªsland¡¯s foremost seiekona stepped forth, wrapped in veils of gray linen, bone charms clinking softly from her wrists. She bore a long iron brand etched with runes, its tip glowing red from the hearth. The crowd fell silent.


    ¡°Tonight,¡± Vetr¨²lfr said, his voice low but unyielding, ¡°we cast off the rage of the past.¡±


    He turned to Bj?rn.


    ¡°You were with me when we were few. You fought beside me when the gods seemed deaf. When the old goear fell to greed and cowardice, you held your oath. I asked of you what I ask of every man who would wear the spirit of the bear.¡±


    ¡°You set forth to Gr?nland with nothing but seax in hand. You hunted the White Bear. Faced its fury with nothing but steel and your name. And you returned¡ªwhere none before you have.¡±


    Bj?rn knelt, slowly undoing the strap of his old cloak. The brown fur sloughed off like shed skin.


    The seiekona approached. In one hand, a shallow bronze bowl of blood and melted snow. In the other, a carved bone stylus.


    Upon Bj?rn¡¯s chest, she painted three runes: ¨²r ¨C for strength. Berkano ¨C for rebirth. Hagalaz ¨C for wrath, tamed.


    Then came the brand.


    Bj?rn did not flinch as the hot iron seared the claw-mark rune into his left shoulder. He gritted his teeth but made no sound. Only when the brand was lifted did the crowd exhale.


    Vetr¨²lfr stepped forward again, holding the new cloak: polar bear fur, white as frost, lined in runes stitched from silver thread. It shimmered not with wealth, but with the solemn promise of purpose.


    He placed it over Bj?rn¡¯s shoulders.


    ¡°Rise, Bj?rn ¨²larkinn¡ªfirst of the New Berserkers, breaker of shields, chosen of the Hunt-God.¡±


    The ¨²lfh¨¦enar howled, pounding their shields in unison. Thunder without storm.


    ¡°Let all who wear the white pelt remember¡ªstrength is never granted. It must be earned.¡±


    R¨®is¨ªn felt the hairs on her neck rise. Not from fear. From something older.


    Vetr¨²lfr turned to the gathered.


    ¡°You were not born in Constantinople,¡± he said. ¡°You did not fight beneath its golden banners. But when I returned to these shores¡ªbefore there were walls, before there was order¡ªyou were the one who stood with me. Not for riches. Not for honor. For faith alone.¡±


    ¡°And so tonight, you are named not ¨²lfh¨¦einn. Not merely berserkr. You are Oath-bound. First of the Old Blood to bear that name.¡±


    ¡°Let it be known: we were forged in fire¡ªbut it was stone that held the heat.¡±


    She looked at him then, not as a barbarian or a conqueror. But as something Rome had once feared. Something her prayers could not name.


    R¨®is¨ªn stood frozen long after the last howl had faded. Her breath steamed in the cold air, forgotten in her throat. She had seen ceremonies before¡ªcrowning masses, the anointing of bishops¡ªbut none of them felt like this.


    This wasn¡¯t pomp. It was truth¡ªraw, unburnished, unmoved by spectacle. No gold thread. No Latin scripture. No jeweled mitre or perfumed relic.


    Just blood, snow, fire, and the will of those who would not kneel.


    And yet, it hadn¡¯t been savage.


    It had been¡­ pure.


    Her fingers tightened around the edge of her cloak. The firelight from the great hearth flickered against the stone walls of the temple, casting dancing shadows of wolves and warriors. S§×ar?h the N?vel(F)ire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Was it possible she had been wrong?


    Not about God¡ªno, surely not¡ªbut about the stories she¡¯d been told. About them.


    She thought she had seen paganism in its dying form: wild, directionless, drunken. But this¡ªthis was resurrected. Sharpened. Honed like the blade Vetr¨²lfr carried at his side.


    Later that night, she found him in his chamber, seated on a low stool near the window. His sword lay across his lap, cleaned but not yet oiled.


    He moved slowly, methodically, inspecting the edge with the kind of care she¡¯d only seen priests give to relics.


    His armor lay on a rack nearby¡ªfreshly oiled iron brynja, newly waxed leather lamellar, splint vambraces and greaves recently repaired from damage sustained in battle.


    There was no gold. No silver. No inlaid gems. Not a single piece of ornamentation.


    ¡°You could be a king, and no one would know it by looking at your sword,¡± she said softly.


    Vetr¨²lfr didn¡¯t look up. He ran a cloth along the blade.


    ¡°That is the point.¡±


    She approached the table where his cloak hung¡ªthick, arctic wolf-skin, its hood still damp from snow. ¡°There¡¯s not even a ring on your finger. Your crown is made of iron. The most wealth you wear is an aging silver pendant.¡±


    He finally looked at her. ¡°I have no need of things that shine. Glory is not gold, R¨®is¨ªn. That was the sickness of Rome, and of every man who believed vanity was proof of God¡¯s favor.¡±


    She swallowed, unsure whether to sit. She chose to remain standing. R¨®is¨ªn narrowed her eyes, wary but curious.


    ¡°You speak as though you¡¯ve walked the whole world, judged it, and cast it aside. Where did you learn such things?¡±


    Vetr¨²lfr tilted his head, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.


    ¡°Did I not once say I served beneath an emperor?¡±


    He took a slow breath, the weight of old memories pressing on his voice.


    ¡°¡±I was captain of the Varangians. Sworn to Basil, son of Romanos. The Emperor they called the Bulgar-slayer. He was no mere sovereign ¡ª he was a brother to me. And he had me taught by the same tutors who shaped his mind, his rule, and his Empire.¡±


    ¡°I read your scriptures¡ªGreek, Latin, Syriac. Every page.¡±


    ¡°I found no wisdom. Only guilt. Only chains.¡±


    He turned, gazing out toward the wind-swept coast lurking outside his window in the bay below.


    ¡°I¡¯ve watched the northern lights dance above the black cliffs of Greenland. I¡¯ve stood beneath the dome of the Hagia Sophia. I¡¯ve knelt on the hill where your Christ bled into the dust. And I¡¯ve seen the bones of Ctesiphon swallowed by sand. I¡¯ve known the blood and breath of this world¡ªeast and west¡ªnot just its prayers.¡±


    ¡°So tell me, little hare¡ªcaged your whole life behind cloistered stone¡ªwhat can you teach me of truth?¡±


    R¨®is¨ªn remained totally silent. She had expected Vetr¨²lfr to be little more than a boasting barbarian. But when he spoke of these things, there was truth in his words, and knowing in his eyes.


    He wasn¡¯t just some savage worshiping wind and shadow. He had seen God in His greatest house¡ªand found no might there to subdue him.


    And that was perhaps the most liberating thought of all. Even so, she had more questions. So many, and not enough time for them all. So she chose the most important first.


    ¡°I don¡¯t understand how you keep them loyal, then,¡± she admitted. ¡°No treasure, no titles¡­ At least not in the sense I¡¯m accustomed to¡­ nothing to bribe or buy them with.¡±


    Vetrulfr sheathed his blade, a slick oil coating sticking to the silk liner wrapped around its wooden core.


    And when he did so, he stood up, towering above the young maiden like a ferocious beast. His tone was cold as the winter he was born from.


    ¡°They are not bought. They are forged. Glory is earned on the battlefield, not with ceremony and pretense. That is the way of my people. That is what our gods demand of us. Whatever rewards you earn are seized with your own hand or not at all.¡±


    He gestured to the blade now sheathed, lying on the arctic fox pelt covers that sealed his bedding.


    ¡°Steel does not boast. It bleeds. It breaks. And if tempered well¡ª¡± he turned it slightly so the firelight caught the runes carved along the fuller, ¡°¡ªit endures.¡±


    R¨®is¨ªn walked slowly around the room, fingertips trailing along the stone wall. ¡°In Ireland, we believed the wild north had nothing but wolves and frost. I see now it has iron.¡±


    ¡°And stone,¡± Vetrulfr replied. ¡°Fire burns bright, but it is stone that holds the heat. That¡¯s why I chose to build here¡ªnot with marble or gold¡ªbut with basalt and ash.¡±


    She looked at him then. His hair unbound, his eyes pale in the low light. Not just a warlord. Not even a prophet.


    Something else. Something older.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know what I believe anymore,¡± she whispered.


    ¡°Good,¡± he said. ¡°That means your gods have finally stopped answering for you. Now you can begin listening. And perhaps even learn a thing or two while you¡¯re at it.¡±

 Chapter 36: Vestmannaeyjar Reborn

    Chapter 36: Vestmannaeyjar Reborn


    The wind was no different. Salt stung the nose, gulls cried like damned souls overhead, and the sea slapped the hull with familiar, frothing contempt.


    But to Asser, known by the Norsemen as Svan ¨®l¨¢fsson, something about Vestmannaeyjar felt wrong. Or rather, too right. Too ordered. Too quiet.


    Once, these islands had been little more than clustered hovels of driftwood and turf, with seal fat burning in crude lanterns and fishermen hawking cod by the handful.


    Now? Now the docks were reborn; squared timbers cut clean, lashed with whale sinew. Too precise. Too strong.


    New stonework gleamed from the seawalls, black basalt mortared with some gray compound that hadn¡¯t cracked despite the freezing surf. A thing unnatural. Durable. Almost Roman.


    There were banners, too. Not Danish. Not Christian. Symbols alien and old. Some magical stave; kin to the Helm of Awe, yet stranger, crueler.


    Ochre thread on earthen brown cloth. Runes stitched in tight, aggressive geometry¡ªtalismanic. Territorial. Like wolves marking stone.


    Such runes woven in patterns had not been seen since the old Danish kings ruled from mead-soaked thrones, half-mad and half-divine.


    He disembarked in silence, boots sinking into volcanic sand. No one stopped him. No one greeted him.


    And yet¡­ they watched.


    From high ridges above the village. From narrow windows set into stone homes. From the shadows between the longships now docked in perfect formation; cleaned, tarred, and armed for war.


    This was no fishing hamlet. It was a garrison. A gateway. A border post to something larger, something older than any Norse colony Asser had ever infiltrated.


    His companion, a Saxon mercenary posing as his slave, muttered, ¡°God¡¯s blood¡­ what happened here?¡±


    Asser didn¡¯t answer. He could only stare.


    There, atop the hill, where once a modest chapel had stood; wooden, meek, trembling before the sea. Now loomed a ring fort. Its walls did not breathe incense or bear the sigh of prayer. Only peat smoke rose. And something deeper. Something red.


    The structure bore the marks of many lands; Celtic curves, Norse angles, Frankish discipline, Roman gravity. It was not made of earth and timber. No. It was forged in stone, dark, volcanic, and enduring.


    A mead hall crouched at its heart, all sharp angles and sloped roofs, like a beast at rest.


    Below it, the outer bailey spread wide, a courtyard of necessity: barracks, granaries, storehouses, and smithies. All housed behind more stone, more order, more force.


    Three gatehouses barred the way. One to the hall. One to the bailey. One to the road. The design, though Asser could not yet grasp its scale, was no anomaly. It was a standard. A mandate. A blueprint of dominion.


    The central residence of every jarl and thegn across the kingdom was to be raised in just such a fashion; stone above walls, blood above frost, power over chaos.


    And so Asser realized: this was not a frontier. It was not even the edge of something new. It was the center of a new world. A world not ruled by kings crowned in gold, but by warlords forged in exile and fire.


    The ships in the harbor? They were only a tenth of those reported from the shores of Aidhne. Perhaps not even that.


    This was no root. This was only a claw print.


    His breath came sharp and cold. He exhaled slowly, trying to still the unease curdling in his gut.


    ¡°We¡¯ll be cautious,¡± he muttered, more to himself than the mercenary at his side. ¡°Stick to our roles. Blend in. A bit of silver might loosen a few tongues.¡±


    The Saxon nodded grimly, but said nothing.


    They passed beneath the shadow of a wooden arch carved with snarling wolves and runic bands. The posts were blackened not by fire, but by soot rubbed into every line to make the carvings visible even in winter fog.


    Asser walked cautiously into the market square. He had walked forums in Gaul and stalls in Hedeby; yet here he felt like prey.


    Every face that turned toward him did so with the same calm suspicion. Not open hostility. Just the polite attention of wolves uncertain whether you were worth chasing.


    He nodded to an older man behind a stall of dried cod and whale jerky.


    ¡°We¡¯ve just come from Dublin,¡± he said in passable Norse, gesturing to his Saxon ¡°thrall.¡± ¡°Good silver for good trade.¡±


    The old man¡¯s eyes didn¡¯t even flinch at the coin pouch. Instead, he pointed with a finger half-bitten off by frost.


    ¡°Then go to the Jarl¡¯s longhouse. Trade without blessing brings curse.¡±


    Another merchant, a woman with tattooed cheeks and salt-white braids, gave a slight smile as she arranged carved bone combs in neat rows.


    ¡°There¡¯s no buying and selling here unless the gods know your name,¡± she said, her voice like dry reeds in the wind. ¡°The old laws returned with the High King. And here¡­ the gods do not forget.¡±


    Asser managed a nod, throat dry. He had been among pagans before. But this was something different. Not raw savagery; not the chaos of dying beliefs in remote fjords. This was structure. Revival. A religion with order, symbols, law.


    He found his gaze drifting upward to a wooden idol standing tall beyond the square; a depiction of Ullr, god of the hunt. Not as a man, but as something half-beast, crowned with antlers and clutching a bow of horn and sinew. A silver wolf¡¯s tooth hung from its neck.


    Is this what they see in him? Asser wondered. A god returned? A son of the frost come to unmake the Cross?


    He tried to shake the thought, but it clung to him like cold.


    The Saxon mercenary leaned in, voice low. ¡°This place feels cursed.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Asser muttered, eyes on the temple¡¯s ring fort walls. ¡°Not cursed. Consecrated. But not by anything we¡¯d kneel to.¡±


    He tightened his grip on his satchel and followed the path to the gates. The Jarl awaited. And with him, answers Asser feared were no longer meant for men like him.


    The market was not yet finished, but it pulsed with a strange energy. Purposeful. Intentional.


    Timber homes rose atop stone foundations. Streets were cobbled, or paved in some older, stranger fashion. He could not tell. His eyes, despite his training, were too caught by what wasn¡¯t there.


    No crosses. No icons. No prayers in Latin.


    At first, he thought that perhaps the signs he had seen were those of a small revival of the old ways. But as he looked around, he began to understand there was not a crucifix in sight. Almost as if Christ had abandoned these lands.


    Only Mj?llnirs hung around necks. And stranger symbols still; wolves, runes, staves. Some etched into bone. Others inked into skin.


    Vestmannaeyjar had apostatized.


    He knew the people here. He knew they had bent the knee to Christ a generation ago. Knew their old bishop by name. Knew the rites they once chanted.


    Now? In one winter, they had cast it all aside. Cross for hammer. Chalice for seax. Mercy for might.


    Asser¡¯s stomach turned. Not from fear. From betrayal. These were not strangers. He had come here yearly on behalf of Cnut¡¯s orders. Subtly aiding in the Christianization of the land. S~ea??h the n??el Fire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    And yet all of it was gone, vanished with the snow and ice. What madness had gripped them?


    He caught sight of a passing girl, not yet of age, and stepped forward hastily.


    ¡°Little one,¡± he said, gently but firm. ¡°Where is the church? The priest?¡±


    She looked at him like he¡¯d grown horns. Her gaze was not frightened. It was judging. Cold.


    ¡°Gone,¡± she said. ¡°As will you be, if you speak like that again.¡±


    He blinked.


    She pointed with her chin toward the ring-fort above.


    ¡°Christians are not welcome. Not unless they come to trade. If you¡¯re here for silver, register with the jarl. Else sleep on your boat and keep your prayers to yourself.¡±


    The words stung. Worse, they rang with authority. Even children here carried the law in their speech.


    Asser fumbled, trying to recover. He pulled a pendant from beneath his tunic¡ªa Mj?llnir of G?tland make, finely cast.


    ¡°Of course,¡± he said, forcing a smile. ¡°I wear the old gods proudly.¡±


    But she did not smile. Her eyes narrowed.


    ¡°You mourn the chapel,¡± she said plainly. ¡°That is enough. You wear our symbols, but not our truths.¡±


    With that, she turned and walked away. Likely to warn the nearest guard.


    The Saxon at his side sighed deeply.


    ¡°Well,¡± he said. ¡°At least the air¡¯s honest. Let¡¯s go find this jarl before the wind takes us, too.¡±


    As they turned to make their way toward the longhouse gate, a young man brushed past Asser¡¯s shoulder. Not large. Not armored. Just a youth, no older than seventeen, with a wolf pelt draped across his back and silver ringlets braided into his hair.


    He didn¡¯t speak. He just stared.


    Asser stared back. Then noticed the bone-handled knife tucked into the boy¡¯s belt. Clean. Honed. Not ceremonial.


    The moment passed. The boy walked on. But the feeling stayed.


    These aren¡¯t villagers anymore. They¡¯re a people reborn. And we are the ghosts.

 Chapter 37: The Law of the Land

    Chapter 37: The Law of the Land


    Asser and his retinue stood before the hearth of the Jarl¡¯s longhouse; the seat of Heimaey, the largest of the Vestmannaeyjar.


    Once a lonely outpost battered by salt and wind, now it thrived as the keystone of trade across the southern seas.


    And it belonged to Gunnarr. Once a mere lieutenant of Vetr¨²lfr, now a Jarl in his own right.


    One of many.


    All across the lands of ¨ªsland and Vestmannaeyjar, the new order had raised loyal men to power; men of valor, cunning, and faith to the High King. Men entrusted with fortifying the realm, raising armies, and projecting strength through fleets worthy of myth.


    And among them, Gunnarr stood the tallest.


    When they arrived, Gunnarr had been poring over ledgers written in a strange new script; a fusion of Elder and Younger Futhark, repurposed into a phonetic system that mimicked the Latin alphabet in structure, but not spirit.


    Asser could not decipher it fully. The letters danced beyond him, but the numbers, those he understood. If only he had the context, the contents of those ledgers might have proven invaluable.


    But he knew too little of the rebirth these lands had undergone. Of the empire that now stirred beneath the frost.


    At last, Gunnarr looked up, brow raised. He gave a sharp command to the slave girl beside him.


    ¡°Bring horns of ale for our guests. And the Latin ledgers.¡±


    The girl obeyed without a word, slipping off like smoke. Gunnarr¡¯s eyes, meanwhile, remained fixed on the Saxon in chains.


    ¡°You,¡± he said, voice low and amused. ¡°You¡¯re no slave. The posture gives you away. So, tell me¡­ how did a warrior like you come to kneel beside this wretch?¡±


    Asser bit back the reply burning on his tongue. The Saxon began to speak, but Asser struck him across the face before he could utter a word.


    ¡°You will speak only when I grant it, cur,¡± he barked, feigning fury. Then, to Gunnarr: ¡°Apologies, Jarl. My thrall is new. He has not yet learned obedience.¡±


    Ale arrived. Gunnarr watched them over the rim of his horn, suspicion gleaming in his eyes. Something stank about these guests; but without proof, he could not act. Not yet.


    ¡°What brings you all this way?¡± he asked, voice casual. ¡°Heimaey holds little of value to warrant such an arduous voyage.¡±


    Asser seized the opening.


    ¡°We¡¯re merchants from G?tland,¡± he said smoothly. ¡°I am Svan ¨®l¨¢fsson. I was told that I must register with the local Jarl before I can trade. This hall¡­ it wasn¡¯t here last spring. Did you build it?¡±


    Gunnarr drank. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then he smiled.


    ¡°Perhaps I did. Perhaps not. But you¡¯ve heard right; my blessing is required.¡±


    A manifest was handed to Asser. He scanned the list. His brow furrowed. These were not the goods he remembered. Not dried fish and crude crafts. No; these were refined wares, quality work.


    And then he saw it.


    ¡°Damascene ingots,¡± he breathed. ¡°Five for sale? You must be joking. Where did these come from?¡±


    The price beside them was staggering; nearly the worth of a blade forged in Damascus itself.


    But Gunnarr only smiled. ¡°We have our ways. If you wish to buy, it will cost you.¡±


    Asser forced calm into his voice.


    ¡°I came for whale oil. I make the voyage every year. The markets here have always been rich in it. I intend to purchase all I can carry back to G?tland.¡±


    Gunnarr¡¯s smile faded. He placed his horn down, leaned forward, and spoke with finality.


    ¡°Whale oil is not for sale.¡±


    Asser blinked. ¡°Surely¡ª¡± S§×ar?h the novel(F~)ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    ¡°It¡¯s been removed from trade. You¡¯ll find no Jarl or Thegn willing to sell it. That is the law.¡±


    The Saxon beside Asser stirred. His voice cracked with disbelief.


    ¡°Why? We¡¯ve never had issue buying before.¡±


    Gunnarr¡¯s voice, though calm, struck like a hammer.


    ¡°Because the High King commands it. If you seek answers, you¡¯ll find them in Ullrsfj?rer. But no Christian sets foot there. Not even merchants.¡±


    A cold silence.


    ¡°Stay one night in our inns, if you must,¡± Gunnarr finished. ¡°But come dawn, I expect your sails raised and your keel gone from our shores.¡±


    Asser said nothing.


    He had traveled far. Risked much. And now stood at the edge of exile; denied before his true work had even begun. No trail to the Varangians. No whispers of Ullr¡¯s chosen. No secrets of Aidhne¡¯s burning.


    He wondered: would Cnut forgive such failure? Or was he already being weighed in the balance?


    ¡ª


    That night, the tavern in Heimaey was alive with voices, smoke, and the low thrum of a harp played not for joy, but memory.


    Asser sat in a dark corner, the Saxon beside him nursing a bruised cheek. Their third companion, silent, observant, watched the room with the eyes of a hawk.


    The inn had changed, like everything else. No Christian iconography. No prayers before meals. The rafters bore carved wolves instead of saints, and runic banners in place of crucifixes. Even the mead had a darker taste; as if brewed under storm light.


    ¡°They don¡¯t even hide it anymore,¡± the Saxon muttered. ¡°This is a kingdom of pagans now.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Asser whispered, watching the fire. ¡°This is something else. They have laws. Codes. Structure. This is not the old chaos. This is faith, reforged.¡±


    A pair of drunk warriors laughed nearby, speaking in hushed tones about ¡°the forge in the fjord¡± and how ¡°the High King walks the old path again. Ships gathering, blades sharpening, and Ullr watching.¡±


    ¡°What path?¡± asked the silent one.


    ¡°Don¡¯t stare,¡± Asser said quickly. ¡°We¡¯re not here to be seen. Just listen.¡±


    A skald took the floor. He did not sing of Odin. Nor Christ. His voice was hoarse, but proud:


    ¡°He came from the East, crowned in snow, His sword a fang, his words like fire. The old gods woke, the sea gave way; The Winter Wolf walks, and his pack never tires.¡±


    The crowd raised horns in eerie silence.


    Asser said nothing. But inside, he understood:


    The High King was not a man.


    He was becoming a myth.


    And this land? No longer a border.


    It was a new beginning.


    A new faith.


    A new war.


    He nursed his ale, mind racing. Tomorrow, they would return to their ship. But tonight, they would learn all they could.


    Even if it meant listening to wolves.

 Chapter 38: Nj?rers Trial

    Chapter 38: Nj?rer¡¯s Trial


    The wind had teeth that morning. It was spring, but still felt like winter. Biting through the stone streets of Ullrsfj?rer it licked at the ramparts of the keep, curling mist around the high mound where the Hall stood.


    R¨®is¨ªn stood beneath the shadow of the great doors, her cloak wrapped tight around her, eyes fixed on the figure descending the long stairs.


    Vetr¨²lfr.


    No guards. No heralds. Just him. His wolf-skin cloak, travel sack, and his sword held tightly to his body by his leather baldric. Its sister blade, hanging horizontally from his waist by its belt.


    He paused only once, halfway down the stairwell.


    ¡°Keep to the hall,¡± he said. ¡°Don¡¯t wander beyond my walls, least of all into the woods. They remember you now.¡±


    She didn¡¯t understand what that meant. Not yet.


    He said not another word. Simply walked by and patted the girl¡¯s head. A simple gesture, but a farewell to one who recognized it. For how long? Only he knew.


    R¨®is¨ªn wanted to scoff. To laugh. To whisper under her breath, ¡°Good riddance, old wolf.¡±


    Instead, she stood there.


    Alone.


    She had gotten too comfortable with his presence, to the point where she never knew what it was like without him by her side.


    And the moment the Mead Hall¡¯s doors shut behind him. R¨®is¨ªn suddenly realized just how alone she really was.


    The hall behind her felt too still. Too wide. The braziers hissed, but there was no weight to their warmth. The great hearth, once the center of all things, crackled to no one.


    And she realized with an ache she didn¡¯t want to admit: the silence wasn¡¯t peace. It was absence.


    This place, this hall, her everything. It was him, and him alone.


    For the entirety of her upbringing R¨®is¨ªn had been cloistered away in the halls of Kilmacduagh priory.


    She remembered the cold incense clinging to sandstone, the damp chill that settled into her bones, the hollow ring of iron bells in the wind. The only warmth and kindness she had ever felt from Sister Eithne.


    But this was different. For the first time in her life, R¨®is¨ªn had felt safe, secure, comfortable. And when Vetr¨²lfr was gone. So too was the solace he brought her.


    The timber walls, blackened with pitch, shimmered in the morning light. The carvings on the beams weren¡¯t decoration.


    They were warnings. Stories. Spirits. The structure itself whispered of a man who did not build palaces, but sanctuaries. Fortresses. Graves.


    Under her feet, the basalt stones of the floor still held the heat from the flues beneath. Heat drawn from the earth¡¯s heart. Not for comfort. For endurance.


    She wandered to the high seat where he often sat. Not on a throne, but a carved chair of dark oak, gilt with bronze, and fettered with the skin of an arctic fox.


    The wolf sigil above it was etched not in gold, but in ash and silver.


    This was not a seat of kings.


    It was a hall of weight. Of memory and myth.


    She ran her hand across the armrest, feeling the grooves where his fingers had curled during war councils, oaths, and moments of bitter stillness.


    R¨®is¨ªn exhaled slowly, her breath clouding before her.


    ¡°You stupid, silent bastard,¡± she muttered.


    She meant to sound angry. She almost did.


    But it trembled at the edges. In the end, she found herself standing in silence, no sound accompanying the tears that fell from her eyes as she realized what her life had been until the moment Vetr¨²lfr freed her.


    In the end, only A silent prayer escaped her lips. Not to Christ, but to whoever was listening. ¡°Please come back safely¡­ Husband.¡±


    ¡ª


    Vetr¨²lfr¡¯s journey was longer than it should have been. Under ideal conditions, he could have reached his destination in a mere three days.


    But, for whatever reason, Nj?rer deemed a trial necessary to pass in order for Vetr¨²lfr to reach his aim.


    The seas were fierce, untamed, violent even. As storm clouds broke across the sky, seemingly manifesting of their own volition.


    The gods did not want Vetr¨²lfr to succeed without a fight. But who was he? He was the son of Ullr. There was no sea that could break his will, no storm that could freeze his boiling blood. S§×arch* The N?vel(F)ire.¦Çet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    Waves rose like J?rmungandr¡¯s coils, slamming against the hull with a hatred only the deep can muster. Thunder cracked like Mj?lnir overhead.


    He was born of snow, and ice, and he would defy the Norn, even if they saw his fate at the bottom of the sea.


    And hence, after finally arriving in Heimaey five days after he had set sail from his home, Vetr¨²lfr and his crew of one hundred Ulfheenar laughed in the face of fate, as they clung to the volcanic shores of Vestmannaeyjar, victorious in their defiance of Hel¡¯s clutches.


    ¡°We have survived brothers! And despite our hardships we arrived in a mere five days, rather than the eight it would have taken lesser men to navigate through such a fearsome storm!¡±


    Gunnarr saw the Frostrt?nn pulling into the harbor long before it made berth. And when he laid eyes on Vetr¨²lfr, soaked and freezing from the salt of the sea and frost of the wind. He could not help but scold the man.


    ¡°You know¡­ The worst thing about your coronation is the fact that I will never be able to smack some sense into you again.¡±


    Vetr¨²lfr still jovial from finally reaching the safety of the shore, posed a challenge to his long-time companion.


    ¡°What is stopping you? I am unarmed and unarmored. I would say it¡¯s the optimal time to take a swing, would you not agree?¡±


    For a second, it looked like Gunnarr was about to take the man up on his offer. That is until he embraced Vetr¨²lfr, rather than try to fight him.


    ¡°You mad bastard! Only the son of Ullr could be so blessed as to survive such a storm! Come, let us go to my hall. You and your men are in need of the hearth and ale to warm your bodies and spirits!¡±


    However, Vetr¨²lfr waved off Gunnarr¡¯s gesture, instead insisting on a different path.


    ¡°I did not come to drink with you, brother. I am here on important business. A man is waiting for me in the inn. I will go there and gain what I seek. Then I will be on my way¡­.¡±


    Gunnarr broke out into laughter, thinking that after such a suicidally reckless run, Vetr¨²lfr was joking. But when he saw the look in the man¡¯s eyes, he could not help but groan, knowing there was no persuading him otherwise.


    ¡°Very well, let¡¯s compromise. You tell me the name and appearance of the man you seek, and I will summon him to my hall. Where you and your companions can at least have your fill before venturing back to the death that awaits you in the sea¡­.¡±


    There was a long pause, a dramatic and poignant silence as Vetr¨²lfr thought through the offer. And in the end he relented, clasping Gunnarr¡¯s shoulder in solidarity as he did so.


    ¡°Your words are as true as your spear. Fine, we will do it your way. Come, show me the progress you have made after I gave you these lands to rule in my name!¡±


    And as they walked together, Vetr¨²lfr murmured under his breath; words Gunnarr did not hear. Words about a land long forgotten, and books he must recover.


    ¡°Old tongues must rise again¡­ or she will never remember who she is.¡±

 Chapter 39: Forgotten Tomes

    Chapter 39: Forgotten Tomes


    Vetr¨²lfr had done as Gunnarr suggested. He and his men retired to the mead hall, weary from the arduous voyage.


    They gathered around the hearth, where warmth from the earth-fed flues dried their soaked tunics and cloaks.


    Vetr¨²lfr sat in quiet repose, his wolf-fur mantle draped over his shoulders. Beneath it, his pale hair clung wet to his skin, glistening in the flickering firelight; white as the arctic pelt he wore.


    The doors creaked open. Gunnarr¡¯s h¨²skarlar ushered in a man; a Gael, thin and weathered, with a satchel clutched to his chest and a crucifix hanging from his neck.


    He saw Vetr¨²lfr at the fire, horn of ale in hand, and relief poured across his face. Reaching into his satchel, he began to speak.


    ¡°Thank the Lord! I have what you requested. Truth be told, I feared you¡¯d never¡ª¡±


    He stopped.


    The silence in the hall was suffocating. Every gaze was turned upon him; cold, hard, and armed. Hands hovered near hilts. The air tightened.


    Gunnarr¡¯s eyes narrowed. Awaiting command.


    Vetr¨²lfr rose.


    The hall¡¯s tension deepened as the Norseman stood, towering over the Gael like a living j?tunn. The Gaelic man looked down in fear.


    ¡°He stopped short of preaching his poison,¡± Vetr¨²lfr said at last, his voice a growl wrapped in calm. ¡°So he will live. But if I hear your god¡¯s name ¡ª any name by which you call him ¡ª spoken in my lands again, there will not be mercy a second time. Do you understand?¡±


    The monk bit his tongue and gave a shallow, rapid nod. Wordlessly, he handed over the satchel.


    Vetr¨²lfr untied the drawstring and slowly withdrew the tomes. His men watched. The Gael winced, as if surrendering them cost him a piece of his soul.


    But when Vetr¨²lfr spoke, it was not in scorn, but in solemn inquiry.


    ¡°Ann¨¢la Uladh¡­ and Leabhar Dhurrow. Are they complete?¡±


    The monk¡¯s brow glistened with sweat. Despite the hearth¡¯s blaze, the air had grown cold.


    ¡°They are copies, lord,¡± he said, bowing his head low. ¡°Faithful and exact. I swear it. Transcribed by hand at Cluain Mhic N¨®is before the raids. Worth what you paid. Worth tenfold.¡±


    Vetr¨²lfr turned the vellum pages. Ancient words in Latin stared back. Chronicles of kings, saints, omens, and war. From Palladius to Patrick, from druids to crosses. History warped and rewritten by men in robes.


    He set that tome aside and opened the second; a gospel, illuminated in gold and ochre. It was beautiful. And false.


    Christian saints wore the names of elder gods. Brigid, Lugh, Cernunnos; all renamed, repainted, made tame.


    He shut the book.


    ¡°A lie painted well is still a lie,¡± he murmured.


    He handed the satchel to Gormr, who was now h¨²skarlar, with the intent of safe keeping the treasure so that the storm would not tarnish it.


    Another chest was brought forward; silver coin stacked within.


    The monk¡¯s eyes widened. Greed flashed.


    Then¡­ pain.


    He gasped.


    Vetr¨²lfr¡¯s seax was buried to the hilt in his chest. The monk looked down in disbelief, blood spreading across his robes.


    ¡°I know you stole these from the monastery you call home, Cenn¨¦tig mac Ma¨ªl Sechnaill,¡± Vetr¨²lfr said, voice low as thunder. ¡°I do not reward thieves. Nor traitors. Pray that you are wrong about what waits for sinners like you.¡±


    He pulled the blade free and wiped it clean against the dead man¡¯s tunic.


    Gunnarr, unflinching, stared down at the corpse. He sipped from his horn.


    Vetr¨²lfr turned to him with the grin of a trickster god.


    ¡°My apologies, brother. I vow, next time I visit, I¡¯ll try not to leave blood on your floor.¡±


    He raised his voice, fierce and alive.


    ¡°Men! Prepare to set sail! Ullrsfj?rer awaits ¡ª and Nj?rer demands a rematch! Let us show the gods what we are made of!¡±


    A howling chant answered. They departed as swiftly as they had come.


    Gunnarr drank deep and said nothing. The corpse lay cooling, but in his hall, it was just another tale beginning.


    ¡ª


    Brynhildr found R¨®is¨ªn huddled beneath the furs of Vetr¨²lfr¡¯s bed. Over the past ten days, she had not slept well, nor had her appetite been particularly healthy.


    At first, the ageless seiekona believed it was illness, and under this assumption had done everything he could to help R¨®is¨ªn remain strong, and filled with vigor.


    But it was after the 8th day had come, did Brynhildr realize this was not a sickness of the body, but one of the mind. Intruding upon the girl¡¯s attempt to sleep away her melancholy, Brynhildr forcefully sat down on top of the arctic fox pelt covers, next to where R¨®is¨ªn lie beneath them.


    ¡°I should apologize¡­ I didn¡¯t quite think you had grown so attached to my son so quickly. But it would appear your troubled upbringing hastened things. I¡¯m terribly sorry for overlooking this fact, and also for the life those wretched nuns forced upon you.¡±


    R¨®is¨ªn, perhaps frustrated with herself, her crisis of faith, and her desire just to see Vetr¨²lfr¡¯s face again, immediately sprung forth from her covers and lashed out at her unwanted visitor with a flushed cheeks.


    ¡°And what would you know of my upbringing? You act like you know everything! But I see through your lies!¡±


    Brynhildr¡¯s expression wasn¡¯t cold, or even offended. Rather a smirk formed on her lips, as she grabbed R¨®is¨ªn¡¯s dainty chin and stared silently deep into her eyes.


    Nor words were exchanged between them, but the fire in R¨®is¨ªn¡¯s heart instantly faded, her clenched fists unfurled, and in the end whatever fury she held within her collapsed into nothing but serenity. S~ea??h the nov§×lF~ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    There was a bewildered look on the girl¡¯s face, as she averted her gaze, deliberately looking away from the seiekona¡¯s seemingly all knowing eyes. Her voice, a low hiss between her teeth.


    ¡°How?¡±


    Bryinhildr stood up, her rune etched cloak, embellished with the fur of a reindeer twirled as she did so. Her face showed no hint of lies, or trickery. And her eyes? R¨®is¨ªn hid from still.


    ¡°I know many things little hare¡­ The gods whisper truths to those who listen. Even Skuld has said enough. Past¡­ Present¡­. And perhaps even future. Your upbringing is no secret to me, nor is your lineage. It¡¯s how I knew the moment I saw you.¡±


    There was a flicker in Brynhildr¡¯s blue eyes, like lightning, it was subtle, but irresistible as her voice trembled like the accompanying thunder.


    ¡°Like my son, your blood is sacred, but unlike him¡­ It flows through royal veins. Rest well¡­ He will be returning soon, and if he saw the sullen state you are in, it would only wound his heart, especially since he left for your sake.¡±


    Sacred blood sings in your veins, little hare. My son bears the strength of Ullr¡¯s name¡­ but you ¡ª you carry the last ember of Brigid¡¯s flame. And fire, once royal, does not die quietly.

 Chapter 40: The Union of Fire and Frost

    Chapter 40: The Union of Fire and Frost


    The journey back to Ullrsfj?rer from Vestmannaeyjar was far less harrowing than the voyage out. The seas challenged Vetr¨²lfr and his crew, but not in the way they had before.


    This time, the waves did not seek to devour, but to test. Nj?rer himself seemed to watch from the wind and the tide, not as a tormentor, but as a silent judge nodding his approval.


    The voyage became a ritual; a victory lap for those who had braved the coils of the J?rmungandr and lived to boast of it.


    And when the prow of Frostrt?nn pierced the fog of his harbor, drums thundered across the fjord like war calls echoing through time. They heralded not just the return of a chieftain, but the arrival of a chosen son of the gods.


    ¡ª


    R¨®is¨ªn had spent the last several days adrift in thought, wandering the vast mead hall Vetr¨²lfr called home.


    Since Brynhildr¡¯s quiet assurance that the wolf would return soon, she¡¯d found herself more at ease. The anxiety that had clung to her began to loosen, replaced not by peace, but by curiosity.


    She had spent so long surviving that she had forgotten how to simply exist.


    It was on the third floor; an unusual addition to any Norse hall. That she found something truly remarkable: a library. Shelves of books, scrolls, and manuscripts filled the chamber like a treasure hoard.


    She ran her fingers across the bindings, some familiar, other alien, and paused only when she recognized a title once locked away at Kilmacduagh.


    Her breath caught.


    So that was why he had come.


    Not for gold. Not for slaves. Not even for vengeance.


    He came for knowledge.


    She withdrew a tome she once read in secret, a book she had nearly memorized before it vanished with the others. And here it was again, nestled among dozens of others she thought destroyed. Her fingers trembled as they clutched it.


    ¡°Fitting that I would find you here in my collection¡­ It is almost fate.¡±


    The voice struck her like lightning. She turned, wide-eyed, to see the man she¡¯d secretly prayed for.


    Without thinking, R¨®is¨ªn sprinted across the room, launching into Vetr¨²lfr¡¯s arms as if pulled by some sacred tether. He caught her effortlessly, his expression unreadable for a moment¡ªand then softened by the trace of a smile.


    ¡°Old wolf! You¡¯re back!¡±


    Vetr¨²lfr raised an eyebrow, voice tinged with playful injury. ¡°Old? Is that how I appear to you, little hare?¡±


    Realizing the closeness between them, her body pressed against his chest, held aloft by his arms, she blushed furiously. But she did not retreat. Her head rested against him as if it belonged there.


    He came back. He always comes back. Maybe he truly is what they said he was¡­ a son of winter, bound by nothing but his word.


    Before reason could restrain her, R¨®is¨ªn kissed him. Sear?h the N?velFire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    It was brief, clumsy, and trembling.


    When she pulled away, her voice was quieter than a prayer, but louder than thunder in Vetr¨²lfr¡¯s chest.


    ¡°Welcome back, husband.¡±


    Even the old wolf faltered. A flush touched his weathered cheeks. He set her down gently, as though she might vanish if he released her too fast.


    He grunted, digging into his satchel with one hand. ¡°It seems moot now, but while I was away, I fetched you a gift.¡±


    He thrust a sack into her arms before she could apologize or explain herself.


    Inside were two leather-bound tomes, their pages dense with Latin script and ornate illustrations. R¨®is¨ªn gasped.


    These are forbidden.


    She had never been allowed to read such texts before. Even Eithne, kind as she was, warned her that such books were ¡°not for girls like her.¡±


    These texts spoke of an Ireland before Rome, before Christ¡ªwhen goddesses walked among mortals, and Brigid¡¯s flame was kept alive by her blood.


    My blood.


    Tears welled in her eyes. She had been lied to. Caged, cloaked in piety, denied her inheritance. And yet the truth had returned to her in the hands of a barbarian.


    No, not a barbarian.


    Her wolf.


    She shut the books, hands trembling, and pressed them back into his chest.


    ¡°Do you not like them?¡± he asked, confused.


    Instead of answering, she wrapped her arms tightly around his waist, burying her face in his furs.


    ¡°Thank you,¡± she whispered.


    His hand found her hair, brushing it with surprising gentleness. ¡°Anything for you, little hare.¡±


    A pause. Then his tone shifted, teasing.


    ¡°Now¡­ I heard you call me husband. Does that mean it¡¯s time to carve our wedding rune into the hall pillars?¡±


    R¨®is¨ªn said nothing. She only held him tighter.


    And that, for Vetr¨²lfr, was answer enough.


    ¡ª


    The hearth of Ullrsfj?rer roared like a hungry beast. Pillars of carved ashwood loomed overhead, wrapped in garlands of evergreen and woven wool.


    Torches hissed against the walls of the longhouse, casting flickers across ancestral shields, fur-draped benches, and gods carved in shadow.


    Vetr¨²lfr stood beneath the rafters with the poise of a man touched by winter itself. Draped over his shoulders was the white pelt of the arctic wolf he had slain during the rite of his blood-winter¡ªhis fimbulvetri.


    Its snout rested over his shoulder like a ghostly sentinel, its eyes stitched shut with silver thread.


    His bare chest bore scars like runes, each a story carved in flesh. No crown adorned his brow. He wore only a twisted iron ring upon his finger, blackened by age and said to have come from his mother¡¯s forge.


    And beside the sacred hearth stood Brynhildr.


    Tall, veiled in black, and robed in midnight wool, she moved with the stillness of old magic. Some called her seiekona.


    Others whispered that she was no mortal woman at all, but a goddess in exile. The locals spoke of her as Ullr¡¯s chosen; some as his wife. But here, tonight, she was mother, officiant, and fate-weaver.


    Then R¨®is¨ªn entered.


    The hall fell into silence.


    She wore a gown of handspun linen dyed forest-green, fastened with brooches of hammered bronze. Her crimson hair had been unbound; flowing down her back like a wildfire given form.


    Around her wrists were thin bands of gold, ancient and foreign, taken from the tombs of her ancestors in Connacht. Brynhildr had placed them there herself.


    When she reached the hearth, Vetr¨²lfr stepped forward, and without a word, took her hands in his.


    Brynhildr began the rite; not in Latin, nor in the tongue of priests, but in Old Norse, spoken with the cadence of a forgotten storm.


    She bound their hands with sinew dyed in bloodroot and ash, whispering prayers to the old gods.


    Then, reaching into the coals of the hearth, she pulled forth a blade; his blade, quenched in R¨®is¨ªn¡¯s home soil and hammered beneath northern stars.


    ¡°Steel forged in fire and blood,¡± she intoned, ¡°so shall this union be.¡±


    Vetr¨²lfr spoke first:


    ¡°You came into my life not as plunder, but as proof ¡ª that fire survives even in frost. I vow to guard your soul with my fury, and your name with my sword.¡±


    R¨®is¨ªn did not tremble. Her voice cut the hush like a harp string:


    ¡°I vow to stand beside the wolf, not in fear, but in purpose. To carry the truth of my blood, even when the world would bury it.¡±


    Brynhildr placed her hands atop theirs. A soft glow pulsed from beneath her palms; whether it was firelight or something more, no one could say. Only that the wind outside had stilled, and the gods were listening.


    Then she spoke the final words:


    ¡°So be it. Bound in bone, in flame, and in name. Let none tear it asunder.¡±


    The crowd roared.


    R¨®is¨ªn threw her arms around Vetr¨²lfr¡¯s neck, and he lifted her without effort, their lips meeting before the gods and kin alike. Not as lord and captive. Not as wolf and hare.


    But as fire and frost wed at last.

 Chapter 41: The Wolf and the Hare

    Chapter 41: The Wolf and the Hare


    It was a warm spring morning, and the last vestiges of frost had begun to retreat from Iceland¡¯s green fjords and black volcanic ridges.


    The glaciers loomed still in the distance, but summer whispered her promise across the land.


    Before he stirred, R¨®is¨ªn had already lain awake.


    This warmth¡­ it¡¯s not just the hearth. It¡¯s breath and bone. It¡¯s the quiet sound of safety.


    For years, sleep had been lonely; a thing endured, not embraced. Even in dreams, she had wandered through halls that felt like tombs.


    But here, beside the wolf, there was rhythm. His breath. His heartbeat. The heavy silence of contentment.


    She had never dared to imagine something like this. And now she feared waking might end it.


    Vetr¨²lfr rose from his bed, the morning light casting pale gold upon the timber walls of his hall. He yawned, stretched like a waking beast, and reached out instinctively across the furs.


    For a fleeting moment, he forgot he no longer slept alone. His calloused hand stretched wide, and in doing so, lightly tapped the soft face beside him.


    A startled gasp, then a muffled giggle stirred the hush of dawn.


    ¡°You hit me!¡± R¨®is¨ªn mumbled, blinking sleep from her eyes with theatrical shock.


    Vetr¨²lfr chuckled as he rolled to his side, fingers curling around her face where his hand had landed. He rubbed the spot with mock concern.


    ¡°Struck by me, and yet no wound? Curious. Tell me, little hare¡­ did you cut my hair in the night?¡±


    The jesting reference to Samson caused R¨®is¨ªn¡¯s eyes to widen first in surprise; and then narrow in playful indignation.


    He knows scripture? Of course he does¡­ He always knows more than he lets on.


    She pouted and seized the hand that teased her, and gave it a playful bite, like a petulant kitten testing the patience of its master.


    Vetr¨²lfr didn¡¯t flinch. Instead, he let her bite linger a moment before whispering into her ear:


    ¡°If you wanted my attention, you only had to ask.¡±


    She flushed, but clung tighter to him.


    For the first time in years, she was safe.


    ¡ª


    In the year since Basil had departed this world, Constantinople had basked in a false sun. The outer trappings of empire still gleamed, but inside the great walls, rot had begun to take root.


    Basil had made the mistake all great rulers fear most: he died without an heir of his own blood, leaving his brother, Constantine VIII, to ascend the throne.


    A man of indulgence, not of statecraft. A man who preferred banquets to briefings, and flattery to foresight.


    Within the marble halls of the Imperial Palace, the Varangian Guard endured¡ªoutwardly loyal, inwardly wary.


    Among them was a Rus warrior named Rurik, whose graying beard and sharp eyes marked him as a veteran of many campaigns.


    In a dark alcove behind a mosaic of the Archangel Michael, Rurik whispered to his companions in their northern tongue.


    ¡°Another letter from the west. King Cnut of London seeks word of one of our own.¡± He held up the vellum like it were some cursed talisman. ¡°Reports of a man clad in the pelt of a white wolf. Leading no fewer than eighty brothers. Raiding abbeys. Gathering an army on the western coasts. They think it¡¯s him.¡±


    The silence that followed was heavy with memory.


    ¡°A man who could raise warriors, train them, arm them, and lead them to glory in less than a year?¡± one muttered. ¡°There is only one name worthy of such a tale.¡±


    And like a prayer, or a warning, they said it together:


    ¡°Vetr¨²lfr.¡±


    ¡°What are you dogs muttering about in that heathen snarl?¡±


    The voice cut through the reverie like a blade. Constantine VIII, clad in silk and arrogance, stepped into the alcove, eyes narrowing.


    Rurik quickly passed the letter back into unseen hands, vanishing it with the ease of men who had hidden worse.


    ¡°We speak of summer,¡± Rurik said evenly. ¡°And of how your city is blessed. No snow. No biting winds. A fine change from the lands of our birth.¡±


    Constantine preened, puffing himself up as though the compliment were a royal proclamation.


    ¡°Yes, yes. The Mediterranean is generous. Unlike the wretched cold of your godless frontiers. You¡¯re fortunate to serve here. Fortunate to serve me.¡±


    He smiled that thin-lipped smile of men who mistake compliance for loyalty.


    ¡°But I warn you, speak too often in that savage tongue, and others may wonder what secrets you keep. We would not want¡­ misunderstandings.¡±


    One of the Varangians shifted. A hand drifted toward his seax. Another stopped him with the smallest of gestures.


    Constantine missed it entirely.


    ¡°Carry on, then. Enjoy the breeze. It will remind you why you chose civilization over savagery.¡±


    He paused.


    ¡°What was that one¡¯s name? Basil¡¯s pet wolf? The one with the cloak?¡±


    Rurik¡¯s voice was ice.


    ¡°Vetr¨²lfr ¨²lfarson.¡±


    ¡°Yes. That was it! Well, I¡¯m glad he¡¯s gone. One less animal in my court.¡±


    When the Emperor vanished down the corridor, Rurik exhaled through his nose like a bull restraining a charge. He turned to the man still clutching the letter.


    ¡°Burn it. And any others like it. Let the west chase ghosts if they wish. The White Wolf has earned his silence.¡±


    The vellum touched flame.


    And turned to ash.


    ¡ª


    Back in Ullrsfj?rer, Vetr¨²lfr sat on the edge of the bed, brushing R¨®is¨ªn¡¯s hair back behind her ear as she leaned against his shoulder.


    It would be easy to forget what he was. Easy to let the quiet deceive him.


    How dangerous it is to grow used to peace.


    But as her arms wrapped around him, and her breath slowed with his, Vetr¨²lfr allowed himself a rare indulgence: to pretend, just for a while, that perhaps, in this cold and cruel world, a storm could find stillness.


    And a wolf could learn to rest. Sear?h the ¦Çov§×lFire .net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    However, storms gathered on the horizon. And though Rurik and his men had bought him time.


    It would not be long before the kingdom he had built was revealed to the Christian world.

 Chapter 42: Treason in Westminster

    Chapter 42: Treason in Westminster


    It was a warm spring morning in London. Frost had long fled the Thames, and Cnut¡¯s court gathered under the vaulted shadows of Westminster¡¯s halls.


    At the center knelt Asser, his cloak damp from the sea spray that had followed him all the way from the far north.


    Nearly two weeks had passed since he left the island of Heimaey; two weeks of silence, of restless sleep, of questioning what he had truly seen.


    He had not confirmed with absolute certainty that the fleet hailed from the far north. But all signs pointed to a transformation.


    One so vast and complete that it defied reason. Someone had changed the nature of ¨ªsland itself. Whether it was the long-lost Varangians or some greater power, Asser dared not say for certain.


    And yet, he withheld nothing.


    ¡°I made landfall at Heimaey,¡± he began, voice level, though strained by the weight of what he would recount. ¡°A place I have visited in years past, disguised as a merchant. The lone fishing village and the old church that once stood upon its rock¡­ were gone.¡±


    The murmur of uneasy voices rose behind him. Among them, the sharp whisper of fear.


    Cnut leaned forward on his throne, his voice as cold as northern steel.


    ¡°Gone? Replaced by what, Asser? Speak plainly.¡±


    Asser¡¯s gaze faltered for a heartbeat. Then he spoke.


    ¡°It was not desolation that greeted me, sire. It was a fortress. Built of stone; Roman stone. A castra, by all rights, complete with inner walls and a harbor deep enough to conceal ships from the horizon.¡±


    A stunned hush fell across the chamber; until the court¡¯s marshal, Einarr, struck the pillar beside him with a resounding crack.


    ¡°Madness,¡± the Dane growled. ¡°Even if we summoned all the masons of the realm, we could not build such a stronghold in a single year. And certainly not a rabble of half-starved fishermen and goat herders.¡±


    But Cnut raised a hand, silencing the protest.


    ¡°Asser has never lied to me.¡±


    The messenger bowed in gratitude, though unease lingered in his bones. ¡°It was not only the walls, my king. The men guarding them¡­ were not common folk. They bore arms and armor greater than any levy could afford; warriors of skill, formation, and discipline I have seen only in your own Huscarls. Even the knights of Normandy would seem crude in comparison.¡±


    His words cut through the silence like a blade. And then he added, with a note of dread:


    ¡°They wore the hammer of Thor upon their chests. Not the cross. And the people, even the children, looked upon me with hatred when they realized I was Christian. It is as if the north had never been converted at all. Or worse¡­ as if it has rejected the Cross entirely.¡±


    The bishop at court turned pale. A wave of cold certainty settled over the room.


    The Christianization of ¨ªsland had been a symbolic victory; a distant outpost brought into the fold of Christendom. And now, it had become a beacon of apostasy. A fortress of the gods of old, watching over the sea like Heimdallr¡¯s own post.


    Cnut said nothing for a moment. Then, slowly, he turned to Einarr.


    ¡°If we were to summon the full might of our fleet, every ship we could spare, how many men could we land upon Heimaey?¡±


    Einarr hesitated. His fingers tapped a rhythm against the hilt of his axe.


    ¡°Two hundred ships, perhaps three. Ten thousand men, with provisions to hold them a season.¡± He met the king¡¯s eyes. ¡°It would be enough to try. But if Asser speaks true¡­ it may not be enough to succeed.¡±


    The steward interjected, his voice indignant.


    ¡°Ten thousand men is enough to conquer any isle! Especially from a rabble of heathens! We owe it to the Church to restore order!¡±


    Einarr¡¯s eyes flared with contempt.


    ¡°You would throw away ten thousand lives to defend pride and prayer? If their warriors are truly more dangerous than Norman knights, and if they are dug in behind Roman walls, then Heimaey would bleed us dry. Even if we took it, we would have no strength left to face ¨®l¨¢fr in Norweg; or worse, the Emperor in Aachen, should he move against us.¡±


    And there it was. The full weight of reality.


    Cnut knew it well. His eyes narrowed, not with fear, but with the cold recognition of a man who sees the chessboard turn against him.


    ¡°They¡¯ve built a watchtower in the sea,¡± he murmured. ¡°One that looks not toward trade, but toward ¨¦riu. That is where their ambitions lie. Let them test their strength there.¡±


    He stood. His voice became iron.


    ¡°Fortify the coast. Triple our watchers in Dublin and the Irish Sea. If the White Wolf turns his gaze upon us, we shall meet him with fire. But until then¡­ we wait.¡±


    No one challenged the decree. No one spoke.


    But all knew now the name of the storm that was rising in the far north. A ghost returned from Constantinople.


    A wolf draped in snow.


    ¡ª


    The great hall of Westminster had emptied, its echoing stones still bearing the weight of unspoken dread. Torches hissed in their sconces. Thunder rumbled low beyond the Thames.


    But in the bishop¡¯s study, tucked within the southern transept, no candles were lit. Only a single oil lamp flickered; its flame wavering like the faith in the old man¡¯s heart.


    Bishop Leofwine¡¯s hands trembled as he dipped the quill in ink. His parchment lay half-filled already. The words were slow to come, not from doubt; but from the enormity of the truth.


    ¡°To His Holiness, Pope John XIX, servant of Christ and Shepherd of the Faithful¡­¡±


    He paused. Eyes rimmed with red scanned the hallway once more before he continued.


    ¡°¡­I bring grave tidings from the northern sea. The island of ¨ªsland, long thought tamed by Christ¡¯s light, has been reclaimed by darkness. The cross has been cast down, and the hammer raised in its place. The people speak the tongue of demons and look upon the servants of God with disdain. Worse yet, there is order to this apostasy. Discipline. Fortifications. Steel. It is not a mere pagan village that grows in the north, but a kingdom.¡±


    He clenched the parchment¡¯s edge, smearing a drop of ink.


    ¡°The fortress I speak of lies upon Heimaey, in the Vestmannaeyjar isles. Its men wear not the robes of monks, but mail and wolfskin. They are not led by druids or hedge-priests, but by warriors trained in Constantinople, the so-called ¡®Varangians¡¯ long thought scattered or slain.¡±


    The pen lingered.


    ¡°His Majesty, King Cnut¡­ does not wish this known. He has, I fear, lied to His Holiness in past correspondence; claiming the murderers of Bobbio Abbey were caught and hanged, and that the heretics who harbored them were purged. I know now this is false.¡±


    He looked toward the empty cross above his desk, its shape swallowed by shadow.


    ¡°Should this fire spread, it will consume not only the north; but the fragile light that still flickers in these isles. I beg the Holy Father to intervene. For if Christendom does not act swiftly, the wolf shall devour the lamb.¡± S~ea??h the n??el Fire.n§×t website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    He sealed the letter with wax and the sigil of the bishopric, then handed it to a trusted friar with eyes like stone.


    ¡°Ride with haste to the coast. The ship to Rouen sails by dawn. No detours. No delay.¡±


    The friar nodded once and disappeared into the dark.


    Leofwine remained, the quiet stillness around him nearly deafening. And in his mind echoed the unseen face of the one who now haunted Europe¡¯s dreams.

 Chapter 43: Ynys Rè´¸s

    Chapter 43: Ynys R¨®s


    Spring turned to summer, and summer began to fade before long as well. Over these months, Vetr¨²lfr chose to rule his kingdom rather than focus on raiding the coasts. sea??h th§× N?vel?ire.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.


    If there was one thing he had learned in Byzantium, it was that people had short memories. If an attack were to occur once or twice a year, people learned to grow accustomed to it.


    And before long, it became a normality; a seasonal event to prepare for.


    But do it every day, and now that is an invasion that demands to be taken seriously, with all the might the victims could muster.


    Besides, there were more soldiers to train. More fortifications to build. More armor and weapons to forge. More fields to sew.


    Crops flourished under the agricultural reforms that Vetr¨²lfr had introduced, and granaries were constructed across the realm.


    Any excess was given freely to other Jarldoms, Thanedoms, and villages that bore his sigil.


    While Vetr¨²lfr saw to these changes, R¨®is¨ªn studied the path of a druidess.


    She spent her days reading the tomes Vetr¨²lfr acquired on her behalf with silver, doing her best to pursue the way of her ancestors, to master her sacred blood.


    Eventually, the day came when Vetr¨²lfr approached his wife in his personal library. Her face was buried in a book, her belly plump with his child. She did not hear him enter, too enraptured with the vellum text beneath her tracing fingers.


    The warmth of his breath whispered in her ear, and she shuddered in surprise.


    ¡°You should pack your things,¡± he murmured. ¡°We¡¯re going on a short voyage. There is something you have yet to learn¡­ something that is very important for our future.¡±


    Having calmed her heart after realizing it was the man she had married, R¨®is¨ªn sighed deeply.


    ¡°Don¡¯t scare me like that! It¡¯s bad for the baby. Wherever you wish me to go, I will follow¡­ You simply need to ask next time.¡±


    Vetr¨²lfr chuckled as he swept her into his arms.


    ¡°Perhaps I¡¯ll just carry you like this instead.¡±


    In the end, the two of them found themselves aboard the Frostrt?nn, heading once more toward the shores of Vestmannaeyjar.


    Their journey took several days, but when they arrived, it was not at the main settlement of Heimaey. No, they landed on a smaller island: Ellieaey.


    Even from the sea, Ellieaey seemed unlike any other isle. Shrouded in mist, its cliffs rose like broken altars from the waves, and gulls circled overhead as if bound to unseen rites.


    A grove shimmered faintly beyond the fort¡¯s rising stone, and for a moment R¨®is¨ªn felt as though she were staring not into the future; but into the past returned.


    Under Vetr¨²lfr¡¯s order, since the day he had claimed R¨®is¨ªn as his own, a secret project had been underway.


    Here on Ellieaey, a fortress was being built around the island¡¯s heart, its labor performed by a mix of Norse freemen and Gaelic thralls taken during the raid on South Galway¡¯s coasts.


    But these thralls did not look the part.


    A sacred grove had been planted and carefully tended. Its saplings, birch, rowan, alder, hawthorn, young and growing in soil ferried from ¨¦riu, blessed with chant and flame.


    Standing stones encircled the grove, carved anew with ogham and rune, a fusion of tongues not seen since before the fall of the druids.


    The caretakers wore emerald cloaks, stitched with Celtic knotwork and plaid, their shoulders crowned with the furs of red deer. They spoke softly in Gaelic, whispering prayers and songs of old. They looked not like prisoners; but pilgrims.


    R¨®is¨ªn turned to her husband, suspicion furrowing her brow.


    ¡°These people¡­ I recognize some of them from the priory. Are they not your thralls?¡±


    Vetr¨²lfr smirked and pointed to the guards above, standing vigil on the cliffs; but facing outward, toward the sea, not inward.


    ¡°Not at all. These men and women are your followers. This island was consecrated with the blood of your kin centureis ago. And here, you will build a new Ynys M?n. A new druidic college. A new center of worship for the gods of your people.¡±


    Then she noticed the guards.


    They did not wear the ochre-brown shields of Vetr¨²lfr¡¯s army, but bore emerald triskelions. Their helms were crowned with stag-hide, their cloaks fastened by brooches carved in spiral and knot. Their swords, of damascene steel, had hilts shaped like the heirlooms of petty kings from ¨¦riu.


    Norse, they were by blood and warcraft. But here, they were the sacred guardians of druids.


    She stared at her husband in disbelief. Her hand gestured silently to herself.


    Vetr¨²lfr nodded, smiling.


    ¡°Yes. This is your island. And that of your people. Here, you will revive your faith and culture. Here our two peoples will unite. This island, which shall henceforth be known as Ynys R¨®s, will be the refuge of Celts who no longer wish to suffer beneath the yoke of the Church. And you will be its Arch-Druidess.¡±


    It wasn¡¯t much. Not yet.


    But the moment her foot touched the sacred soil, R¨®is¨ªn felt it. Something ancient stirred beneath the moss and wind. The land welcomed her.


    Arch-Druidess.


    The word felt impossibly heavy, yet utterly right.


    Not because she claimed it.


    Because the island spoke it first.


    R¨®is¨ªn knelt upon the dark soil of the sacred grove, her fingertips brushing the moss that clung to the roots of the Irish saplings.


    She closed her eyes, heart heavy and full. In the Old Tongue. Scarcely spoken aloud since her grandmother¡¯s day; she whispered a vow not taught, but remembered:


    ¡°By oak, ash, and thorn¡­ by bloodshed and blood reborn¡­ I vow to guard this isle and kindle anew the sacred fire of my people. May the gods of land and sea hear me, and mark me as their own.¡±


    A breeze stirred the leaves above. And for the briefest moment, the whisper of wind sounded like a chorus of ancient voices, murmuring approval.


    Vetr¨²lfr said nothing as she spoke. He merely watched. Not as a king, nor conqueror, nor husband. But as a man witnessing prophecy made flesh.


    He had built many strongholds, commanded fleets, and slain mighty men¡­ yet none of it felt as lasting as what now bloomed on this windswept isle.


    Let Rome build its cathedrals, he thought. Let kings in the south fight over thrones of stone and gold. This¡­ this is a flame worth guarding.


    One of the druids-in-training, a flax-haired girl no older than fifteen, approached R¨®is¨ªn shyly and presented a bundle: a robe of emerald linen, a torque of twisted bronze, and a staff of carved yew topped with a raven feather.


    ¡°We knew you would come,¡± the girl said. ¡°The visions spoke of you¡­ and of the child you carry.¡±


    R¨®is¨ªn¡¯s breath caught. The wind rose. The saplings bent but did not break. She took the robe, and with Vetr¨²lfr¡¯s help, draped it over her shoulders.


    Vetr¨²lfr placed a laurel wreath placed on the girl¡¯s fiery head, and with it the Arch-Druidess had been crowned on the island of Ynys R¨®s.