17: The Battle of the Hallowed Hill 17: The Battle of the Hallowed Hill Autumn storms gathered, ravaging the coastlines of Ísland, 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 Vegvísir; 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.
– 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 Reykjavík at once!” A horde of 300 men began their march across the southern coasts of Ísland, north and westbound.
— In the North, Ívarr 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.
Ívarr 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.
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, Ívarr 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?
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—but 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 Vegvísir.
And as Ívarr 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 Ívarr was about to break into tears and prayer, a hand grabbed him and hoisted him to his feet.
Now!” It was Alfarr, the former goði of Ullrsfjörðr.
Ironically, he seemed to be the only man still thinking clearly, calling the retreat on Ívarr’s behalf.
All is lo—” 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 Ulfheðnar ran past, pursuing the fleeing survivors.
Ívarr 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.
Ívarr, miraculously, among them.
They would not stop their retreat until they had reached the safety of Reykjavík’s palisade.
But even then, that would not provide them sanctuary for long.