Valkyries Calling

Winter came early to Rome that year.

A cold wind crawled down from the Alps, stirring the olive trees of the Papal estates into murmurs and bending the black-robed silhouettes of cardinals moving through the courtyards of the Lateran Palace.

Pope John XIX stood beside a high-arched window, hands clasped behind his back, staring out across the grey dome of the Lateran Palace, its stones slick with evening drizzle.

The air inside his chamber smelled of wax, vellum, and old incense, but outside, it smelled of rain and iron. A smell that reminded him unpleasantly of northern steel.

He frowned.

There had been no smoke on the horizon this year. No charred monasteries in Connacht.

No shattered harbors along the Norman coast. No reports of earthen-sailed ships prowling the trade routes. For the first time in four summers, the North was silent.

Too silent.

John turned toward the great oaken table behind him, cluttered with letters and scrolls.

Wax seals from France, Burgundy, Hungary, even Andalusia, all asking the same question in veiled, anxious script:

"Where has the White Wolf gone?"

And now another letter had come, this one from Constantinople, from the Basileus himself, or more precisely, from one of his bishops speaking in the Emperor's name.

The Varangian Guard, it said, had fractured. Nearly a third of them, men trained in the East, forged by war under Basil the Bulgar-Slayer himself, had deserted.

They had not turned traitor. They had not raised their swords against Rome or Constantinople.

No, they had simply… vanished.

"Northward," the letter read. "They followed the one they called their true captain. The White Wolf. The son of ice and war."

Pope John exhaled sharply and returned to his seat, the red velvet of his robes gathering at his feet like blood pooling at the altar.

Across the table sat Cardinal Theodoric of Mainz, his pale German face drawn and grim beneath his tonsure.

"So they follow him even now," John muttered. "Even without battle. Even without glory."

"He is not a man, Holy Father," Theodoric replied. "To them, he is something more. A living saga. A myth made flesh."

John tapped his fingers once on the table.

"A myth that burns churches and slaughters monks."

Theodoric gave no reply.

John's voice lowered. "Tell me again. There have been no confirmed sighting in two years?"

"None with certainty. A few drunken tales from whalers in the far north. They say he has crossed the ocean and is building an empire in some unknown distant land. Others say he's simply fattening himself in his hold."

John said scoffed and rolled his eyes. "Neither of those is true... There is no great land west of the ocean, nor is a man like that reveling in his spoils... He is planning something, I just don't know what...."

"But if he no longer raids…" Theodoric offered cautiously, "Perhaps he is content with what he has taken. A frozen throne among heathens. A kingdom of ghosts and snow."

John leaned forward slowly. "No, Cardinal. That man is not content. That is what makes him dangerous."

A moment passed in quiet thought before the Pope's voice hardened.

"We called him a beast, and he made himself a legend. We called him a raider, and he became a king. And now? Now we are fools enough to believe he is simply… gone?"

Outside, the rain began to turn to sleet, peppering the windows like bones on stone.

Theodoric swallowed. "What would you have us do, Your Holiness?"

Pope John XIX looked toward the crucifix on the far wall. The wood was dark, carved centuries ago by a monk who had once lived in fear of Ostrogothic raids.

"There is no war to wage yet," John admitted. "But we must prepare for the one that will come. For what empire in history ever grew in silence? No, he is building something."

He pointed to the table, to the map of the world spread wide before them. His finger pressed into the northern edge of the parchment, where little ink had ever dared stain.

"Something old. Something cold. And something that will one day march south again."

"And when he does?" Theodoric asked.

The Pope's gaze did not waver.

"Then God help us all."

---

The sails of the great fleet cut through the winter sea like spearheads of white fire.

From the cliffs above Ullrsfjǫrðr, the people saw them before they heard them.

Nearly a hundred ships rolling in with the tide beneath a gray northern sky, their prows carved like beasts of old, their banners snapping with the breath of the gods.

And at their head was Fáfnirsfangr, the longship of the White Wolf himself.

The horns of Ullrsfjǫrðr called out, echoing between fjord and mountain.

Below the rising walls of the capital,now two layers strong, ringed in Roman stone and timbered might, thousands poured from halls and homes to line the docks, to sing, to chant, to weep.

Vetrúlfr stood at the prow, his cloak billowing, eyes fixed on the land that bore his name.

Behind him stood Nokomis, clad in dark hide and adorned with silver trinkets gifted by Norse and Skraeling alike.

She stood tall, but still foreign, her gaze searching the mountains as if unsure whether to bow or brace.

They docked to cheers and drums.

Brynhildr stood waiting at the edge of the pier, veiled in frost-pale linen, hair braided with iron and bone.

Her gaze cut through the clamor like a sword through silk. No horn heralded her. She needed none.

Vetrúlfr stepped ashore and knelt.

"Mother," he said, bowing his head.

But Brynhildr only touched his brow with her palm and said, "I see you have returned a conqueror once more. Vinland's shores bend to your rule. The gods are pleased."

Nokomis blinked. "How do you know—?"

Brynhildr smiled faintly. "I listen when the wind speaks. It told me the Saqqaq and Dorset are no longer a concern."

A short silence followed. Nokomis lowered her head, not in submission, but acknowledgment.

The ageless seiðkona knew more than she should. It had always been this way, since their first meeting all those years ago.

Then a voice, warm and familiar:

"You made it back, my wolf."

Róisín pushed through the gathering crowd, her frame still graceful despite the fullness of her belly.

Her hands found his chest first, then his face. She kissed him hard, her fingers pressing into the hardened lines of his jaw.

"I would've cursed you," she whispered. "Had you missed it."

He placed a hand on her stomach, felt the stirrings within, and kissed her brow. "I wouldn't have dared."

Behind them, Eithne appeared with a fur-lined cloak and an exasperated sigh. "He still smells like salt and blood," she muttered. "And now he'll track it all over the floor."

Nokomis arched a brow. "Aren't you the Christian nun?"

"I was," Eithne replied, tugging the cloak tighter around Róisín. "Now I just clean up after pagans and their gods."

Vetrúlfr laughed, not loudly, but true. The sound echoed across the docks and into the fjord.

Men knelt. Women wept. Children shouted his name like a prayer.

The White Wolf had returned, and with him, the North breathed easy again.

---

They stood beneath the stone arch of Ullrsfjǫrðr's second gate, the outermost ring of the capital, like revenants returned from purgatory.

A hundred strong. Maybe more.

Their armor bore the stains of sea spray and rust; their cloaks were threadbare from long travel.

Some had lost fingers to frost. Others bore scars that Constantinople never gave them. Their eyes were older than their years, their postures weary but proud.

They were Varangians.

And they had come north to swear their swords to a man many of them had once called fool, exile… traitor.

Vetrúlfr stepped forward alone.

The court had assembled on the battlements above to witness what none could have foretold four winters ago: that those who had once guarded the Eastern Empire would now kneel before a king of the farthest north.

The two sides stared at each other across the threshold of the gate.

The leader stepped forward. His beard was gray; his helm was marked with the crest of Basil II. His voice when he spoke was thick with shame and storm-churned reverence.

"We were wrong."

The wind quieted.

"You told us Basil's death would break the spine of the empire. That his kin would whore it to rot, and the priests would sell what glory remained for Roman gold. We did not believe you."

He fell to one knee.

"But now… Constantinople is hollow. Rome is blind. The eagle rots while the wolf grows fangs."

Others followed. Steel rang on stone as swords were lowered and helms removed.

One by one, the last of the Eastern Guard knelt before him.

"We could not forget your name," another said. "Nor the way the people wept when you left. They called you mad. A beast. A pagan. But they remembered you in the streets...Vetrúlfr, the White Wolf. Shield of Basil. Bane of Bulgars."

"You are none of those things now," said the old commander. "You are more."

Vetrúlfr stood above them like an obsidian carving. His eyes did not soften, but neither did they burn.

Instead, he extended his hand and offered them his voice, grim and thunderous:

"Swear to me now."

They did.

By blade. By blood. By the old gods and the frozen earth.

And when their oaths were done, Vetrúlfr nodded once, then raised his voice to the watching crowds.

"Let it be known," he declared, "that those who once guarded an empire of ash now serve the fire that will forge a new one."

He turned back to the kneeling men.

"You left behind marble and gold. I offer only stone, salt, and steel. But mark my words: your names will not be forgotten in some distant priest's scroll. They will be sung on the wind, etched in runes, and carried west with our banners."

A pause. A smile.

"And when we cross the seas again, it will not be for plunder alone. It will be for dominion. Stand with me, and I promise you spoils no emperor could ever give."

The Varangians rose as one.

And for the first time since Basil's pyre had burned to ash, they stood behind a true king.