Chapter 49: Whispers in the Wind
Vetrúlfr stepped foot into his hall, and found his wife waiting for him, a horn of mead in her hand, and a smile upon her bow-shaped lips.
She handed off the drink and kissed her husband with a gentle embrace. All the while he returned the gesture, not daring to drink the honey wine until after he had let her go.
In that moment, she leaned in close and whispered in his ears.
“I’m glad you’re back,” she whispered, a voice brushing the lobe of his ear. “I feared for you every day you were gone. Your mother… she had to sit with me each night. I feared I’d never see you again.”
He drew her to his chest, a protective hand cradling her head.
“You worry too much. It’s not good for the child.”
She chuckled softly into his tunic, and he continued, tone low and reassuring.
“It’ll take more than a few sheep-herding zealots to kill me. The sons of the East tried, and failed. Fishermen and broken crosses won’t be the end of me. I promised you, didn’t I? I’ll always return to your side.”
Her fears did not vanish, not truly. Something gnawed at her — an omen in her womb, a shadow in her dreams. But she pushed the dread aside, and took his hand.
“Come,” she said, “the hearth is warm. The food is hot.”
The feast in Ullrsfjörðr shook the walls with song and laughter. Another conquest. Another realm reclaimed. Færeyjar was under the banner of the Wolf.
This far north, Vetrúlfr and his host of oathsworn were a legion among peasant levies.
And yet, Vetrúlfr sat quietly on his throne, cloaked in thought. He had fifty ships. Two thousand men. A mighty force for the age.
But he knew well the might of kings. Now that Connacht had seen his face, the Christian world would not remain idle.
But Vetrúlfr knew, now that the Petty Kings of Connacht had discovered him, it was only a matter of time before the rest of the Christian world did as well.
He had 50 ships, capable of ferrying 2,000 men into battle. A large army by the standards of the era, and one most elite. But if he wanted to truly defend his domain, he needed more.
As the King was lost in his thoughts of the future, and the fate which the nornir had in store for him. He did not even notice that one of his closest advisors slipped away into the night without the slightest trace.
Brynhildr vanished. No note. No trail. Only a single token left behind in her chambers: the carved fang of a polar bear, inscribed with Greenlandic runes.
Vetrúlfr would not notice its presence until the dawn of the next day. And when he did, he would stare at it in silence for a long while.
“Greenland,” he muttered. “Always wandering, that one…”
He made no mention of her absence. His mother, as ever, moved with the wind. When she wished to be found, she would be.
In the stone hall of Athenry, Domnall knelt before King Máel Sechnaill mac Cathail, retelling what he had seen: a city carved from fjord and stone, defended by walls thicker than a horse’s length, with granaries bursting and warriors as disciplined as Roman legionnaires.
The court murmured in disbelief. Then, with a roar, Mael hurled his goblet across the hall. Wine and spit struck Domnall’s brow.
“You take me for a fool? A city to rival Rome? Built by savages? And the man—he rejects my summons? Calls me a coward?”
Domnall remained bowed, silent. He was no longer in a land where honor shielded men from kings. This was Christendom. The throne spoke, and one obeyed.
Only when the king’s scribe raised his voice did the court pause.
“Sire… we still do not know his name. Nor if the girl, the Úí Bruinn maiden, dwells within his hold. Let us first confirm she lives.”
Mael steadied himself, lowering to his seat, though the fire in his eyes did not dim.
“Well? Speak then! Did you find her? Did you learn his name?”
Domnall hesitated. In truth, he had neither seen the girl nor been welcomed within the gates of the King’s hall. Only a single breath had passed between them; a moment, and then rejection.
“No, your highness. I wandered the city. I did not find the girl you spoke of. I do not know if she is there. And I did not learn the name of the one they call the High King of the North. If you wish to know it… you must go to him. And bleed, as his gods demand.”
A hush fell. One could hear the crackle of firewood and the shuffle of sandaled feet.
And then, to the astonishment of all, Mael did not rage. He did not drink. He did not curse.
Instead, he rose slowly, with the solemn air of one seized by divine vision.
“Then so be it,” he said. “Brother Ciarán, prepare my ship. We sail for Ullrsfjörðr.”
And thus did the shadow of the cross draw nearer to the wolf’s den, unaware that within the snow-cloaked peaks and smoke-smeared sky, the old gods watched.
Far to the east, under storm-grey skies, the fires of Jomsborg burned low.
Ármóðr, commander of the Jomsvikings and sworn ally of Vetrúlfr, stood atop the ramparts. Below, warriors sparred in silence. Smoke from forges twisted into the sky.
“Word from Norge?” he asked, not turning.
His second-in-command grunted.
“Óláfr remains stubborn. Claims our allegiance to Ísland threatens his claim to sainthood.”
“He watches. Silent. Too silent. Spies in Hedeby whisper of letters sent to Conrad in Aachen. Of oaths made behind closed doors.”
Ármóðr squinted at the northern sea.
“Then war will come soon. Too soon. We must hold the Sound. And pray the White Wolf returns eastward before we are hemmed in by both cross and crown.”
The younger man hesitated.
“And if he does not?”
Ármóðr’s knuckles whitened on the hilt of his sword.
“Then we will fight alone. And die as the gods demand.”