Chapter 66: Carrion on the Hill
Vetrúlfr wiped the blood from his ancient steel against the corpse of a fallen Gaelic levy.
The man had died with a spear in hand, recklessly charging alone even as his brothers broke and backed against the wall, dropping swords in terror.
He had died a warrior, and so Vetrúlfr closed his eyes, returning his blade to its sheath.
He knelt, pressing rough fingers over the dead man’s eyelids, whispering something in the old tongue of the Gaels; words taught to him by his wife, a solemn prayer to gods not his own, asking they grant the fallen an afterlife worthy of his courage.
Ármóðr watched with thinly veiled disdain.”You pray for dead Christians now?”
Vetrúlfr didn’t snap from his chant. He only rose with the last syllable, turning a fierce glare on his ally.
“I ask the gods for a worthy fate of every man who dies bravely, regardless of his faith. It is not men who chose Christ. Nor did they choose to bear iron against us. The fault lies with their petty kings and craven nobles who chase Rome’s favor rather than wear their crowns by right of their own strength.”
No more was spoken. Vetrúlfr passed by, his furs brushing Ármóðr’s arm.
Yet Ármóðr lingered a moment, staring down at the slain Gael with something like remorse, ashamed of the contempt he’d just felt for a man whose only crime was birth under another god.
When Vetrúlfr began his descent from the walls into the heart of Dún Ailline, Ármóðr followed. The stench of rot and blood choked the streets, a miasma of pestilence and death; yet neither of them flinched.
Ármóðr’s voice broke the silence.”What now? Dún Ailline is ours. We still have barrels of Surtr’s flame untouched. Should we burn this fortress to ash and cinder?”
Vetrúlfr shook his head, eyes fixed on the horizon. His words carried the chill of the wind.
“No. Here we hold. By now Connacht’s kings have seen our torch on their coasts. The burning of Athenry will force them to gather. Half our fleet will sail the rivers, plundering every village foolish enough to lie on their banks. Meanwhile, we wait. And here, at Dún Ailline, we break them.”
Ármóðr gazed over the ramparts and finally saw the deeper design.Their old siege camp was gone, dismantled.
The shattered town below was being repurposed, every timber and stone feeding new lines of defense. Thralls, survivors of the village, men who surrendered; now labored under whips to raise palisades and dig fresh ditches.
Fertile women were already chained aboard the longships, bound for the fjords, along with gold and silver torn from hidden cellars.
Realization dawned, and Ármóðr could not keep the awe, or horror,from his voice.
“You intend to draw the kings of Connacht here. Let your wolves bleed their villages dry, then slaughter their hosts at your gates… and take from this land the very seed to breed your next generation of warriors.”
Vetrúlfr turned with a smile sharp as a dagger’s edge. His eyes glittered with the hunger of a wolf and the greed of a dragon.
“My lands hold too few souls to survive the storms that are coming. Only by breeding a new generation will our people live. Here, we’ll take what we need to do just that.”
He clapped Ármóðr’s shoulder, voice lowering to a growl.
“Now stop wasting your breath. Even a king digs trenches on my battlefield.”
The banners of Connacht rippled sullenly in the breeze outside Cruachain, their bright colors dulled by damp air and days of drizzle.
Inside the long timber hall, the hearth burned low, unable to drive off the chill that gnawed at men’s bones and tempers alike.
King Conchobar mac Murchadha stood hunched over a table cluttered with rough maps and scraps of hastily scrawled dispatches.
His emerald cloak looked darker in the gloom, almost funereal.
A scout, filthy with mud to his knees and blood crusted on one sleeve, knelt breathless before him.
“They’ve taken Dún Ailline, my lord,” he rasped. “The Norse hold it; not as raiders, but as conquerors. They’ve dismantled their old camp and built new lines round the fort. Palisades, pits, timber from the very houses they burnt.”
A mutter ran through the assembled petty kings. Even Cathal mac Ruaidrí, who sat scowling like a boar denied its feed, shifted uneasily.
Conchobar’s jaw worked. “How many stand with them?”
“Hard to say, lord. Their ships still prowl the rivers; they strike isolated steadings even now. But at Dún Ailline… a thousand at least, maybe more. Jomsvikings by the banners. And others; wolves from Ísland or Insi Orc, hard men who take orders from one they call the White Wolf.”
At that name, a palpable shiver crawled through the hall. Flann mac Taidg crossed himself, while Donnchadh mac Maelruanaid muttered a half-prayer under his breath.
Sister Eithne stood near the doorway, her veil like a dark wing. Her eyes were narrowed, measuring.
“And they do not march inland?” she asked softly.
“No, sister,” said the scout. “They build. As if they mean to winter there.”
A heavy silence settled. Then Cathal grunted. “Then let them rot in their stolen fort. If they fancy themselves kings of our soil, let the rains starve them. We block the roads, we send no carts and watch them eat rats and their own dead when the barley runs out.”
A low ripple of agreement came from some of the lesser lords.
But Donnchadh frowned. “Or they simply strip more villages to feed themselves. What stops them sending small bands to seize cattle, grain, women to bleed us without ever breaking their lines at Dún Ailline?”
Aedán Sechlainn, gaunt and hollow-eyed, tapped the table with two long fingers. “Then better to strike. Gather every levy and crash upon them before their hold grows stronger.”
Cathal’s face darkened. “And see our men cut to pieces by bastards who fight like a wall of iron? No. We’ve no taste for slaughter.”
Flann sneered, unable to hold his tongue. “Is that what your wars with the sons of Cearnach taught you, Conchobar? That caution brings victory?”
The hall tensed, hands drifting toward blades. But Conchobar only exhaled through his nose, slow and cold, before fixing Flann with a stare that seemed to peel skin from muscle.
“Better to see the Norse break themselves on hunger and fear. Yet we cannot wait so long that they tear Connacht to pieces around us. They raid even now; each farm they burn feeds them, each woman they take births sons who’ll return to our shores with axes in twenty years.”
He looked to Sister Eithne. “Well? What counsel does God’s servant give?”
Eithne’s voice was almost gentle. “You fear battle because it costs too dear. Yet what cost is it to let wolves nest in your fields? You will pay, either in blood now, or twice in tears later when they come again with grandchildren born of stolen brides. Better to bleed with swords in hand.”
A heavy quiet followed. Even Cathal looked away.
At last, Conchobar nodded, though his face was tight as oiled hide.
“Send riders. Summon every levy fit to hold a spear. I would rather test the White Wolf’s shieldwall on our terms, while he is still overproud and freshly landed. And if Christ’s mercy favors us, we’ll hang his head on Dún Ailline’s gate before the next harvest.”
But as the kings muttered their reluctant assent, each man’s mind churned with darker reckonings: that even if they triumphed over these Norse devils, the sharpest blades might yet turn on one another before the year’s end.
Outside the hall, crows wheeled over the burial mounds, black heralds on gray sky. As if eager for what was to come.