Chapter 140: The Northmen’s Revenge
The fog clung low to the Northumbrian hills, a pale shroud that muffled sound and blurred the world into ghostly silhouettes.
Hooves crunched over frost-bitten grass, each step measured, deliberate. Vetrúlfr rode at the head, his arctic wolf-skin cloak draped over polished mail, helm crest catching what little light filtered through the mist.
To his right, Gunnarr gripped a long ash lance; to his left, Armodr of the Jomsvikings carried a round shield blackened with pitch, with a raven painted upon it.
Behind them stretched a column of horsemen, three hundred strong, each rider a veteran of past Varangian campaigns, each mount hauled across the sea in knarrs modified for the task.
The very idea of it would have seemed madness to most: horses on the whale-road. Yet here they were, snorting in the cold, their breath mingling with the fog as if the earth itself exhaled in fear.
The scouts of Cnut’s northern watch were not expecting riders.
The few who survived later swore the shapes emerged like wraiths from the mist, first the distant thud of hooves, then the glint of steel, then the wall of lances lowering in unison.
Vetrúlfr’s voice cut the cold air.
“Shields forward! Keep the line tight!”
The formation narrowed, hooves picking up speed. By the time the Saxons saw them, it was already too late.
A dozen enemy riders, lightly armed and complacent, had halted in confusion, one raising a horn to his lips before a Norse lance punched through his chest. The sound never came.
Impact crashed through the field. Roundshields slammed into shoulders, spears shattered on mail, and Saxon horses screamed as their riders were flung to the ground.
Vetrúlfr’s sword sang from its scabbard, cutting down a man scrambling to his feet.
Gunnarr wheeled his horse in a tight arc, lancing another through the ribs before snapping the shaft free.
The survivors tried to scatter, but the Norse cavalry split into hunting packs, just as they had been drilled.
Two, sometimes three riders broke off to run down each fleeing Saxon. Hooves churned the earth into muck, blood soaking into the frozen soil.
Armodr caught a scout trying to make for a wooded ridge. His horse leapt a ditch, closing the distance in moments.
The Jomsviking’s axe rose and fell, and the man crumpled without a sound.
Within minutes, it was done. The Saxons lay broken, their corpses already cooling in the frost.
Vetrúlfr reined in, surveying the field. His mount’s breath came heavy, nostrils flaring, but the white wolf only smiled.
“They will tell stories of this,” he said. “That the sea itself birthed horse and rider. And they will fear what comes next.”
Gunnarr grinned through the mist. “The trap is baited, my king.”
“Aye,” Vetrúlfr replied, turning his horse toward the shadowed horizon. “Now let them ride north into the jaws we’ve set for them.”
With that, the host vanished once more into the fog, leaving only the dead and the echo of hooves on the cold earth.
The great hall of London’s palace was thick with the stink of wet wool, smoke, and the tension of a kingdom on edge.
Cnut stood over a long oaken table, its surface strewn with wax tablets and hastily inked parchments.
His housecarls waited in silence while a breathless courier knelt before the king.
“My lord,” the man rasped, “the scouts from the north… they are gone. All of them. The few that escaped say it was no common raid. They came on horseback, heavy riders… spears, shields, armor. From the sea, my king.”
Cnut’s brow furrowed. “Horses… from Iceland?” He shook his head in disbelief. “No. From Byzantium. From the East. This is no accident. This is years of thought made flesh.”
He turned away, stepping to the arched window that looked out over the city. Below, London’s streets seethed with movement.
Men hauling timbers to the wharves, boys carrying sheaves of arrows to the towers, priests shouting blessings over hastily armed farmers.
The bells of St. Paul’s rang without pause, summoning every able body to the levy.
“Double the watch at every gate,” Cnut ordered without turning. “Every road north must be barred. Muster the fyrd from Kent to York. And send word to the earls, if they’ve breath in their bodies, they march at once.”
One of the Housecarls, a man named Alfred stepped forward. “My king, if they have cavalry, true cavalry, our men must not meet them in the open field. Let them come to the walls. Bleed them at the gates.”
Cnut’s jaw tightened. “Aye… but walls alone will not stop wolves that learned war in the Emperor’s service. He knows our habits. He knows where we watch, and where we do not.”
Alfred’s voice was a growl in response. “Then make him watch the wrong place. Give him a feast of bait, and when he swallows, close the jaws.”
Cnut’s eyes hardened. “We will trap him. We will make the north seem ripe for his taking, and when his riders are fat with plunder, we will fall on them from both flanks.”
Outside, the winter sun slipped behind low clouds, casting the Thames in cold silver. Cnut glanced once more at the city, feeling the pulse of it, fear and resolve in equal measure.
“Let the wolf bare his fangs,” he said. “We will break them.”
Though Cnut said this, his voice faltered just enough for his housecarl’s to understand that even their King did not have faith in his own words.
They could only sigh and shake their heads.
March north? Or hold the line in their holds? The enemy kept surprising them.
First ten thousand battle-hardened warriors came to England’s shores armed like ancient Roman legionaries. Now they had Cataphracts too?
It was truly the end of times.
Or so the men of Christendom thought.
But to the men of the North, Ragnarok had yet to even begin.
This was merely a prelude. Ordained by the son of Ullr, the Northmen would finally have their revenge.