Valkyries Calling

The hearth fire snapped and spat in the longhouse, its warmth doing little to drive the frost from the air.

Cnut sat hunched over a broad oak table strewn with maps and half-finished letters, his crown pushed back upon his brow as if it weighed too much to wear properly.

A messenger from the south knelt before him, breath still ragged from the ride.

"Your Grace… word from the continent. The Pope's call has reached Paris and Rouen, but France sends only a token force, and Normandy none at all."

Cnut's jaw tightened. "Damn them both. They'll let the wolves run until they smell their own blood on the wind."

The Earl of Wessex leaned in, voice low. "We can't hold the rivers and the roads without more men. Even now, Vetrulfr's riders are in Kent, his ships on the Thames. The levies tire before they even see him."

Cnut slammed his fist on the table, rattling inkpots and sending a pawn from the map skittering. "Then we must bring our own from across the sea."

He turned to his scribe. "Write to my jarls in Jutland and Zealand. I want every oath-bound warrior on a ship before the next full moon. Send word to Norway as well; tell them the Dane's crown calls for their swords."

An older huscarl frowned. "The winter seas will claim many, lord. The storms—"

Cnut cut him off. "Better they drown on the way than see England lost from the safety of their hearths."

He stood, looming over the table, eyes fixed on the little iron wolf token that marked Vetrulfr's last sighted raid.

"The man thinks himself a ghost… but ghosts can be trapped. We will meet him on the road, in the field, and break his spine beneath our boots."

Outside, the wind howled against the wooden walls, as if carrying the distant laughter of the wolves themselves.

---

The icy spray of the River Ouse clung to the timbers of the long pier, its surface black under a sky the color of slate.

From the mist came the creak of oarlocks, the deep groan of hulls, and the sharp call of ship-masters barking orders in Danish and Norse.

The first of the reinforcements had arrived.

Broad-bellied knarrs heavy with barrels and crates slid alongside the docks, their decks crowded with warriors in iron mail, faces raw from the North Sea wind.

They were not the haggard, hollow-eyed levies of England's winter campaigns, these were freshmen, their spears straight, their shields painted in bright colors still unmarred by war.

On the shore, Cnut watched with folded arms as cargo was unloaded in a practiced rhythm.

Grain sacks and smoked fish, casks of ale, bundles of arrows, spare sword blades wrapped in oiled cloth.

The scent of pitch and tar mixed with the cold river air, promising ships enough to move an army swiftly once the ice receded from the coasts.

The Earl of Wessex stepped to his side. "Men from Jutland, Zealand, and Viken, lord. They've brought food enough to feed York for three months, and arms enough for twice their number. Apparently, trade with Kiev has been good to them."

Cnut gave a short nod. "Good. England breathes again, for now." His gaze drifted northward, toward the unseen line of Alba's border, where word said the wolf-prow ships had been sighted before vanishing upriver.

A Norwegian captain approached and bowed. "Our men are rested, king, but eager. Tell us where the enemy hides, and we will bring you his head."

Cnut's mouth tightened. "He hides where he wishes me to find him… which is why I will not. Not yet. We will march north, but on our terms."

The drums of the unloading crews echoed across the frozen riverfront, but in Cnut's mind, he could almost hear the howl of wolves carried on the northern wind.

---

The hearthfire in King Duncan's hall burned high, casting long shadows along the timber walls.

His thanes sat close to the warmth, hands on sword hilts, eyes fixed warily on the strangers who had just entered.

They came in like the storm itself, mailed riders with pagan banners, their boots heavy with road dust and frost.

At their head strode Vetrulfr Úllarson, his cloak of white wolf hide trailing behind him like a living shadow.

He gave no bow. Instead, at a sharp signal, his men stepped forward bearing rough hemp sacks, their weight sagging and dark with wet.

They stopped before the dais and upended them.

The heads tumbled out across the flagstones. Ten of them. English earls from the border towns.

Their hair matted with frozen blood, their faces twisted in the last expressions of fear and disbelief.

The hall erupted into a low growl of voices, the thegn murmuring, crossing themselves. Duncan's eyes narrowed.

Vetrulfr stepped forward into the firelight, his voice cutting through the chamber like a drawn sword.

"Your enemies," he said, gesturing to the grisly trophies, "are my enemies… and they now lie dead."

He paced slowly before the dais, his boots ringing on the stone.

"For centuries, the men of the North have endured the wrath and arrogance of the Anglo-Saxons. They raid your borders. They claim your lands. They spill the blood of your kinsmen and then speak of it as their right."

He turned sharply, his pale eyes locking with Duncan's.

"I have come to make them bleed for their folly. Not in skirmishes on the edge of your glens. Not in petty reprisals that fade before the snows melt. I will take their wealth, their grain, their gold… and leave their halls in ash. And I give you the chance to share in that vengeance."

One of Duncan's thanes rose, bristling. "And if we refuse? If Alba keeps to her own hills?"

Vetrulfr smiled faintly, the kind of smile that made even hardened warriors feel the weight of winter settle in their bones.

"Then you will remain here, in your small hills you call mountains… and watch from afar, knowing the English still breathe. They will recover. They will march north again. Perhaps not this winter, but soon. And they will not come for me, for I will be gone. They will come for you."

Silence hung in the hall. The fire cracked.

Vetrulfr stepped closer to the dais, voice lowering but carrying with dangerous clarity.

"I offer coin for your coffers, and blood for your swords. March with me, and the English will fear to ever cross your border again. Deny me, and you deny yourself the one moment in a generation when their fate can be sealed."

He turned his back deliberately, walking toward the great doors.

"I will have my answer before the snow thaws."

The wolf banners followed him into the night, leaving the heads lying where they had fallen, a silent, undeniable argument.