Chapter 58: The Day the North Returned
The winds of the western sea howled with a chorus of dead kings as the coast of Connacht came into view.
Pale sunlight broke through scattered cloud banks like spears of divine judgment, illuminating the grim procession that cut across the waves.
Fifty longships, their sails as brown as the earth of the land surged forward atop the heaving tide. Each prow bore a dragon, or a serpent, or a snarling wolf with eyes of iron and carved jaws foaming with salt.
At their head, like a herald of doom, surged Fáfnirsfangr; the personal drakkar of Vetrúlfr, its figurehead baring teeth gilded with gold and rune-etched ivory.
The sea seemed to part before it. The tide obeyed.
Vetrúlfr stood at the prow, his fur cloak rippling like a banner of frost, eyes fixed on the green hills rising beyond the rocky shore.
He had not spoken in hours. The wind curled through his beard, whispering in forgotten tongues. Beneath his boots, the deck creaked with anticipation, as if even the wood itself wished for blood.
Behind him, two thousand warriors stood in silence. Not the raucous, howling mob of raiders the Gaelic kings had faced in centuries past; but a standing army, forged by fire and discipline.
Their helms gleamed with finely oiled steel. Their shields bore painted sigils: the Vegvísir in ochre upon earthen-brown backings.
Eastern lamellar and northern brynja glinted beneath their cloaks. Axes and swords, each forged of Damascus steel, rested easily in their bare fists.
No war drums. No horns. Only the silence of death approaching.
The coast of Athenry was not undefended. King Maél Sechnaill mac Cathail had summoned every Bannerman he could.
After offending Vetrúlfr in his home, and leaving with a broken nose. Maél had ensured that measures were in place to detect the northern host before it arrived.
His host had gathered over a thousand strong; kingsmen, levy spearmen, a scattering of horsemen in boiled leather and iron caps.
They lined the grassy ridge overlooking the rocky inlet, nervously watching as earthen sails closed the distance.
Even from that distance, the Gaelic war bands could see the difference. The ships were too many.
The men aboard them too ordered. And their leader, a pale specter cloaked in wolf-skin and iron, stood like a statue carved from ice.
“Is that him?” asked one of Mael’s captains, his voice cracking. “The son of the old gods?”
Mael said nothing. He gripped his sword hilt tightly, as if by force of will alone he could drive back the tide.
The ships slid into the cove like blades into flesh, forming a crescent of death. Warriors disembarked with mechanical precision. They formed lines without orders shouted.
Shields locked, weapons drawn. Behind them, thralls carried crates of supplies and siege tools. There was no chanting. No prayers. Only the cold efficiency of wolves gathering for the kill.
Vetrúlfr was the last to disembark. When his boots struck Connacht’s soil, the sky darkened briefly, as if acknowledging something unspoken.
He strode forward, a great round shield slung across his back, and a blade of unknown age and origin hanging from his hip.
A Gaelic druidess from the isle of Ynys Rós stood beside him. She was to act as his translator and yet her presence was like a shadow over the field. Men crossed themselves or spat to ward her off. Even the horses grew restless.
Mael rode out under a banner of truce. His household guard flanked him, though their faces were pale. They stopped a dozen paces from the vanguard of the Norse host.
“Funny, I thought the intention was clear, that the moment you assaulted me in your home, my invitation for you to come and kneel before me was rescinded!” the king declared, raising his voice against the wind. “This is my land. My kingdom. Any who comes here with sword and army must face the wrath of God!”
Vetrúlfr stepped forward, the wind catching his cloak. His pale eyes shimmered like moonlight on fresh snow.
“You think your god will avenge you after I have flayed your flesh from your bones? Perhaps I should test this theory of yours!”
Vetrúlfr’s voice grew louder, as if echoing the thunder of Thor’s hammer crashing against anvil.
“Let us not forget, you came to my hall with deceit and poison. You sought to steal from me what is mine by blood and oath. Now I come to take from you what is yours by fire and fang.”
Mael sneered, though his grip tightened on his reins. “You think to threaten me with pagan witchery? The Lord is my shield.”
Vetrúlfr nodded slowly. “Then He shall make a fine corpse beside you.”
Silence followed. Mael turned and rode back up the hill, his banner snapping behind him. The parley was over.
Vetrúlfr returned to his host. The moment his feet touched the center of their shield wall, the war-horns blew. A sound like the howling of giants echoed across the green fields of Connacht.
The north had come for war.
What followed was not a battle in the old sense. There was no glorious clash of champions, no singing skalds. Only slaughter.
The Gaelic levy broke before the first shield wall even closed. Their javelins struck iron and lamellar, glancing off without mark.
Then came the charge: a wall of wolves, moving as one. Spears shattered. Horses screamed. Men died with their faces in the mud.
Vetrúlfr moved among them like a wraith. His blade carved red lines through flesh and bone. His shield shattered skulls like ripe fruit. None could stand before him. He did not speak. He did not roar. He simply killed.
The druidess had safely stood atop a low ridge, watching with dead eyes. Her staff burned with runes. The wind shifted when she raised her hand, and the rain began. But it was not water that fell from the heavens.
The battle lasted less than an hour. When it was done, the field was quiet save for the moaning of the dying. Mael’s host lay broken.
Those not slain had thrown down their arms. The king himself had fled back toward Athenry, pursued by a small vanguard.
Vetrúlfr stood on the ridge where the druidess had waited. He looked over the field with no joy. No triumph.
“Burn the dead,” he said. “Let the crows go hungry.”
The druidess nodded. Her staff struck the earth, and with it the fires began. Whether lit by torch and hand, or something more mysterious, only those present knew the truth.
And as the smoke rose over Connacht, so too did the memory of that day.
The Christians would remember it by another name.
The Day the North Returned.