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.
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.
“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.
It’s a message.” One of his captains leaned in.
“A warning?” “No,” another said grimly.
“A declaration.” Armodr nodded.
“Fenrir… but with Týr’s hand in its maw?
That’s no oath-bound beast.
Not prophecy, but rebellion.” He turned toward the window.
The sea beyond churned dark and wild.
But something deeper stirred beneath.
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 Œgishjalmr?” Yet Armodr shook his head before correcting the man with a harrowed look in his eyes.
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 Týr’s ruin.” A younger Jomsman spoke up, uncertain.
“You think it’s a god?” Armodr shook his head.
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.
Ísland, maybe farther.
Grœnland if he dreams in frost.
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.” — 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 Visit NovelHub for more amazing novels and chapters.
“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.
— 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.
And the Althing, caught flat-footed, could do little but argue.
Ívarr, the young goði of Reykjavík, was overwhelmed.
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.
“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!
If we leave the coasts unguarded, we’ll all starve before winter.
One to the Westfjords, one to the southern shores!” Ívarr 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.
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 Reykjavík.
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 Ísland.
But this was no petty squabble between clans, no village feud over goats or land.
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 Ívarr truly understand why Alfarr had warned him so incessantly.
Vetrulfr was not a savage.
A revenant from a time older and more brutal than the soft peace of Reykjavík 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 Ísland, it seemed as if Ragnarök had come at last.