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 Vetrúlfr, now a Jarl in his own right.
All across the lands of Ísland 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 Gǫtland,” he said smoothly. “I am Svan Óláfsson. 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.
“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 Gǫtland.”
Gunnarr’s smile faded. He placed his horn down, leaned forward, and spoke with finality.
“Whale oil is not for sale.”
Asser blinked. “Surely—”
“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 Ullrsfjörðr. But no Christian sets foot there. Not even merchants.”
“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.”
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?
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.
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.