The square stank of blood and smoke.
When it was done, the silence that followed was worse than the chanting that had come before.
The crowd of Anglo-Saxons pressed against the ruined walls of London stood frozen, their faces pale and wet with tears.
Some clutched wooden crosses to their breasts; others sank to their knees in the mud, whispering prayers through trembling lips.
Mothers covered their children’s eyes, but the little ones had already seen too much.
The priests wept openly, their voices hoarse from chanting prayers that had gone unanswered.
Rome’s emissaries knelt still in their bonds, their eyes hollow with disbelief, unable to reconcile what they had witnessed:
The anointed king of England, carved open like a beast beneath the sky, while the old gods were invoked in place of Christ.
The silence broke only with the cawing of ravens wheeling overhead, their black wings dipping low over the scaffold.
The torches guttered, and the platform’s timbers creaked beneath the weight of what had been done.
At the foot of the scaffold stood Vetrúlfr, wolfskin heavy on his shoulders, blood flecked across his arms.
His eyes gleamed like ice in the firelight as he turned to Gunnarr, who lingered nearby, pale but steady.
"Do you feel it, Gunnarr?" Vetrúlfr’s voice was low, reverent, almost gentle. He spread his arms as though to embrace the night. "How the world is healing. How the gods stir again after centuries of silence."
He gestured to the platform, to the broken king who hung upon it.
"But this is only the beginning. The gods demand more blood, and we will give it to them. Every Christian king in the lands that once belonged to our people will face this choice: kneel to the old ways, or end like Cnut here."
The wolf’s grin returned, sharp as a blade. His voice rose, carrying over the square where captives wept and warriors howled.
"This is not the end of an era. It is the dawn of a new age."
Gunnarr said nothing at first. His hands were clenched at his sides, his jaw working as though grinding stone. At last he spoke, his voice low.
"I feel it, lord... but I also see the fear in their eyes."
He nodded toward the Saxons, the priests, the emissaries of Rome.
"This will not be forgotten. Not in a year, not in a hundred. You have struck not just a king, but Christ Himself. The wrath it will call down... Even wolves may be drowned if the tide rises too high."
Vetrúlfr turned, his smirk widening. "Let the tide rise, Gunnarr. Wolves do not fear the sea. What matters is that the song of our gods has been heard again. Fear is the seed of power, and we have sown it well." Nᴇw novel chapters are publɪshed on novel·fire.net
He stepped closer, his voice lowering, cold as the wind off the fjords. "And do not think I have been idle. You fear a united Christendom? Good. They will come. With every banner, every ship, every priest and knight they can muster, they will sail against us."
He raised a hand northward, his tone swelling like thunder.
"But Christ will break upon the rocks of Færeyjar. And if his fleets pull off a miracle there, then his apostles and saints will starve upon the gales of Vestmannaeyjar, where frost and fire gnaw even iron. And should they endure still, then his vicar and cardinals will be devoured by wolves in the fjords of Ísland."
His smirk grew crueler as he gazed off into the distant. Towards the north, the true north where his realm lay in wait for his return.
" For five years I have raided for more than plunder. I have bought time, time to conquer, to fortify, to forge a realm no Cross can breach. Even if they mustered every man and boy capable of bearing arms, they could not take from us what the gods have granted. Not without ensuring the death of their entire world in the process."
His grin spread, sharp as the bite of winter.
"Let them come, Gunnarr. The sea is ours. The North is ours. And the gods are ours. They will bleed themselves dry against our stones and ice, and when their strength is gone, the age of wolves will begin."
The older jarl bowed his head, uneasy but silent.
Awe and dread warred in his eyes, and he no longer pressed the point.
The horns roared from the wharf, and the host began to move toward the waiting ships.
On the riverbank, the Jomsvikings stood in grim ranks, their dragon-prows gleaming in the firelight.
At their head, Ármóðr clasped Vetrúlfr’s forearm, his scarred face hard as iron.
"We return to Jomsborg now," he said. "But mark me, brother, whenever you next strike at Christendom, we are but a letter away. Skal, High King of the Great North."
"Skal," Vetrúlfr answered, their grip tightening like chains.
The sea was black glass beneath the moon, broken only by the white churn of the oars.
The dragon-prow of Ármóðr’s vessel cut through the waves, the Jomsvikings chanting low as the coastline of England slipped into shadow behind them.
At the stern, Ármóðr leaned against the rail, his eyes fixed northward.
One of his officers, younger, his beard still more red than gray, came to his side. He kept his voice low, wary of the men listening.
"Captain... what if Aachen stirs? What if the emperor calls all Christendom to war? Can Jomsborg stand if the wrath of Rome falls upon her?"
Ármóðr did not answer at once. He let the waves lap against the hull, the sound of the sea filling the silence. Then he smirked, a cruel edge to it.
"If Jomsborg falls," he said, "she will be built anew within the realm of our brothers. Stone and timber can be raised again, but the will of the gods cannot be broken."
He turned, his scarred face catching the torchlight, eyes alight with conviction.
"Can’t you feel it? The time has finally come for the gods to reclaim what was once theirs. And now the Christians..."
"...now they have learned to fear what they denied, what they mocked, what they forgot. The wolf is loose, and there is no cage in Christendom strong enough to bind him."
The younger man swallowed hard, but said no more.
The oars beat on, steady as a war-drum, carrying them back across the dark sea toward Jomsborg, and toward the new age promised by blood.