Valkyries Calling

The great hall of Ullrsfjǫrðr was packed with guests from ever corner of Vetrúlfr's empire. Men who had sailed west with him, and returned.

Jarls and thegns. Hard men, seasoned and frost-scarred. Some had once been raiders. Others were kings in all but name. Each bore a torque of iron or silver, the mark of his station.

Vetrúlfr sat at the head, not on a throne, but a stone bench carved in the likeness of Ullr, bow in hand, eyes cast far.

"Speak," the king said.

The Jarl of Svalbard stood first, slamming his fist against his chest.

"The second pier is finished. The portcullis is fitted. Roman brick and Norse timber, it stands against wind and wave alike. Come spring, we'll have a smithy working full bellows. Already our boys are drilling with bows on the ridgelines."

"And your walls?" Vetrúlfr asked.

"Stone, as you taught. Four meters tall. Twin gates, east and west. No christian army nor storm can breach it now."

"Good." He nodded..."

The old Jarl of Færeyjar leaned forward, his sea-gray hair bound in a wolf-hide clasp.

"We now have six granaries. Heated by hypocaust. Roman engineering works in frost as well as heat, it seems. And the aqueducts, your design, they bring mountain meltwater down into the heart of the village. We lose no more babes to tainted snow."

Murmurs of approval rippled through the circle.

Gunnarr of the Vestmannaeyjar grunted.

"We've laid the first causeway to connect the isles. Hard work, but the basalt holds. Two more winters and we'll walk to each hall, even in snow."

Another jarl, this one recently appointed in Vinland, added cautiously,

"The ground is fertile. Richer than Greenland. But wild. Full of beasts and ghosts. Still, the roads we've laid with stone dust and packed clay hold through the rains. We've planted our first apple grove. Just as you commanded."

"Not commanded," Vetrúlfr corrected. "Taught. A kingdom of wolves and war alone is not one that will last. We must plant for our sons' sons."

At this, the map was turned, revealing the full breadth of the known world.

From Vinland in the west, to the lands of the Rus' in the east. From the stone roads of Francia to the gold-ringed cities of Miklagarðr.

Bjǫrn looked across the map, scoffing.

"Cnut builds churches now. Fattens priests. His empire is wide... but soft."

"And Normandy?" Gunnarr asked.

"Steel in their bellies," muttered Gormr. "They drill day and night, from what the merchants say. Shields and crossbows. But their horses break in snow. Their men freeze in rain."

Vetrúlfr said nothing at first, then spoke low:

"They have numbers. They have wealth. But they do not remember."

The men looked to him.

"They do not remember how to build roads from ash. How to feed a family on boiled roots and snowmelt. They do not remember the weight of silence before the hunt. Or the trust placed in a man when you share fire with him at night."

He gestured to the map.

"They have gold. We have memory. They have kings. We have purpose."

He looked to each of them, one by one.

"And if that is not enough… then we will take from them what is."

---

The hearth at the center of the longhall roared with fire, but the chill in the air never truly left. The timber walls still wept cold moisture from their joints.

The banners of Denmark, England, and now Norway hung behind Cnut's gilded throne, though the cloth of Norway was newly stitched, its red thread not yet darkened by smoke or blood.

King Cnut sat reclined, his fingers heavy with rings, eyes fixed on the flickering firelight.

Beside him, his son Harold bore a sword at his belt, yet did not touch its hilt.

A priest read psalms under his breath at the edge of the dais, and behind him, Frankish scribes and Saxon stewards murmured over tax ledgers and trade decrees.

"They call it consolidation," Cnut muttered, voice low. "But it is nothing more than pinning wolves by the ear. Norway bows because I hold the leash, not because she loves me."

A Norse noble from Trondheim, wearing his Christian cross high on his chest, knelt. "Your Grace has brought peace to this land. A peace it has never known. Even Olaf is dead now."

"Olaf died at Jomsborg, his passing is not my victory to claim..." Cnut said, "but his ghost walks in every peasant who mutters prayers behind their breath. Norway is not a kingdom, it is a forest that resists the plow."

Harold leaned forward. "And yet they kneel. What will we do with them?"

"Fortify," Cnut replied. "Finish the ring-forts along the fjords. Post priests in every longhouse that once held blood altars. Replace the old stones with cathedrals. Brick by brick, we grind the past to dust."

He gestured for a map.

A steward unfurled it across the hall's long table: a wide cloth stitched with the outlines of England, Denmark, Norway… and beyond, the nebulous North, marked only with jagged coastlines and the ominous rumors of pagan rule.

"This," Cnut said, pointing to Iceland and the Westfjords, "is where the rot begins. The old gods do not sleep as soundly as the bishops would have us believe."

A Danish earl cleared his throat. "There are rumors… from Greenland. And beyond. The Wolves of Ísland have settled there. Not raided but built new holds and new harbors. Their Empire expands by the year."

Cnut's lips curled faintly. "The White Wolf. So the monks call him."

Another noble scoffed. "He is powerful for a raider, but our scouts report his fleet is a tenth of our own. He doesn't have the men or ships to be a threat to anyone other than the Petty Kings of Ériu.

"Perhaps," Cnut said, folding the map. "But Basil the Bulgar-Slayer knew how to turn savagery into order. And this one seems to have learned more than raiding. In time his numbers will swell, and what then? Do we still act as if they are mere raiders, and not an Empire worthy of our attention?"

Harold narrowed his eyes. "Do we march on them?"

"No," said Cnut. "Not yet. We are not Rome. We cannot afford to bleed men into the sea for pride."

He rose from his chair, placing a heavy hand on Harold's shoulder.

"But we will watch. We will prepare. And if this ghost-king seeks to raise a kingdom of frost and ash… then we will meet it with fire and iron. To do this, we will need to double our efforts. This year they did not return with fire and fury. Which means they went elsewhere. And if they went elsewhere, there is no telling what they found to strengthen their Kingdom."

He turned to his priests and stewards.

"Send riders to Francia. To the Emperor. To Normandy. Let them know that the Christian North still stands united. That we are not afraid of wolves."

The priest nodded, murmuring blessings.

But outside, the wind howled like a beast.

And in the flickering torchlight, even Cnut's throne seemed to shudder beneath the banners of stitched-together kingdoms.

---

The chill of the Norman winter clung even within the thick stone walls of the great hall. Wind hissed through the cracks in the arrow slits.

A fire roared in the hearth, but Duke Robert of Normandy stood apart from it, his eyes scanning the latest dispatch laid across the long oak table.

The parchment was creased and smudged with salt, brought in haste from a Breton merchant ship just arrived in Bayeux.

Robert's voice was calm, but laced with steel.

"Between fifty and a hundred ships. Flying the same banner they left with. The White Wolf's fleet returns from the west. Fully manned, laden deep, moving in column."

He looked up at Marshal Gautier de Mortain, who stood by the hearth, arms crossed, helm hanging loosely from one hand.

"And?" Gautier asked, his tone measured, almost bemused. "So the Norse found new fishing grounds. Or a few rocks to plant flags on. They've a taste for dramatics, that lot."

Robert's gaze didn't waver. "They were gone for nearly a year."

"So they sailed in circles and came back with stories. Men tell tall tales to feel important." Gautier gave a shrug. "Let the bards write songs about wolves and ghosts. I'll take steel and stone."

The duke walked toward the hearth, lifting the parchment.

"There are too many reports, Gautier. From Irish monks. Breton sailors. Even a Frankish envoy from Aquitaine. They all describe the same banner. The wolf's head. The same formations. The same unnatural silence."

Gautier scoffed lightly. "Your Grace, with respect… You're chasing a myth. They call him the White Wolf because they can't agree on what he really is. Some say he's a king. Others, a revenant. One Irish priest claimed he walked on waves."

Robert's eyes narrowed. "And still, none claim he was defeated."

The marshal fell quiet at that.

The duke stepped closer, lowering his voice.

"If a Norse warlord disappeared across the sea and returned with a fleet stronger than before… that is not a legend. That is a problem. You don't ignore men like that. You watch them. You prepare."

Gautier hesitated. "You truly believe he conquered something out there?"

Robert nodded. "I do. And if he did… whatever he brought back is not for feasting. It is for war."

A log cracked in the fire.

"So what would you have us do?" Gautier asked, more soberly now.

Robert turned back to the table, resting both hands upon it.

"Send word to our coastward counts. Double watch on the harbors. Quietly. I want no panic, no sermons. Just eyes. If he comes south… I want Normandy ready. Let the others scoff at shadows. We'll greet the wolves with steel."

Gautier said nothing for a moment, then gave a sharp gaze.

"Your Grace... With all due respect we have doubled the watch already, twice in fact. Must we really keep doing so becuase of rumors you have heard from whalers, fishermen, and merchants?"

Robert simply glared silently at his Marshal. And that was response enough. With a heavy sigh Gautier bowed with respect before departing.

"As you command, your grace...."