Valkyries Calling

The chill of early dawn seeped through the stones of Winchester's royal chapel.

King Cnut sat alone beneath a high arched window, the morning light casting a pale hue over the frost-laced floor.

Candles sputtered in their sconces. Incense clung to the air, the scent of myrrh and the fading echoes of last night's prayers. But no holy presence answered him now.

Only silence.

Before him on the table lay a half-finished letter. The ink froze in the quill's tip.

He stared at it.

His fingers trembled slightly as he dipped the quill again and wrote:

To His Holiness, Pope John XIX, Shepherd of the True Church, Servant of Servants of God,From Cnut, by the grace of God, King of England, Denmark, and Norway, Defender of Christendom in the North—

He paused.

A hollow, bitter smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

Defender of Christendom.

It felt like a lie.

He continued:

It is with deep sorrow and humility that I write to you from the halls of a realm gripped by war, one not of ambition or conquest, but of necessity, as savage raiders descend upon our shores with fire and sword.

These northern wolves, led by a man named Vetrúlfr Úllarson, have sown chaos from the Irish Sea to the Scottish marches… and now, through the reckless bloodlust of a few misguided souls, Scotland itself may be drawn into this storm.

Cnut swallowed hard, his hand clenching around the parchment.

By the time this letter reaches the Holy See, I fear the die shall have already been cast. Thus, I beg not for swords, but for wisdom.

I entreat Your Holiness to intercede where arms have failed, to extend the hand of the Church as peacemaker, before this war becomes the ruin of every northern Christian throne.

The candle beside him flickered violently as a draft rolled through the chamber.

Outside, the crows were already circling the trees.

The man we face is not some pagan beast or half-mad chieftain; he is a tactician, a ghost from the east, a blade honed by Roman wars and Greek intrigue. We chase shadows, and every step we take seems already written in the script of our defeat.

I do not ask Your Holiness for miracles, only for time. If your voice could slow the blades for even a moment… perhaps we may yet find terms before Christendom devours itself.

He signed the letter with a heavy flourish, his name blotting slightly where the ink bled into the parchment.

Then, without ceremony, he sealed it with his royal sigil.

"Get this to Rome," he told the chamberlain. "Ride hard and don't stop for any man, or for death."

The chamberlain nodded, bowed, and fled the room.

Cnut remained seated, staring into the cold light pouring through the window.

He didn't pray.

There was no point.

Not anymore.

---

The parchment bore the weight of a kingdom's last hope.

Sealed with crimson wax and marked by the royal sigil of England, the scroll was tucked deep within the fur-lined satchel of a rider cloaked in oilskin and leather.

He spurred his horse from Winchester's frost-bitten gates, galloping into a land too tired to dream of spring.

Southward he rode.

Through Sussex, where wind-scoured coasts whispered of raiders offshore. Through Kent, where the ghost fires of Vetrúlfr's longships still danced on distant beaches.

Every village he passed bore the same weary shape, doors bolted shut, windows dark, churches stripped of silver. Even priests now traveled with knives.

The rider never stopped longer than to swap horses. But the roads were no longer safe.

In the Weald, a shattered Saxon patrol mistook him for a Norse scout. Only the glint of his papal ring, a small cross pressed into his signet, saved him from an arrow through the ribs.

By the time he reached the coast at Hastings, his face was a blur of windburn and fatigue.

He bribed his way onto a merchant cog bound for Calais, a wine ship half-rotting, half-armed, its captain nervously scanning the horizon for sails marked with the white wolf of winter.

The Channel crossing was cruel. Storms lashed them for three days, driving the ship far off course.

When they made landfall near Boulogne, the rider kissed the mud as if it were sacred. He mounted a new steed and pressed on.

France was not at war. Not officially.

But it felt like it.

The villages were anxious. Whispers followed him. Word of the northern wolves had spread even here.

Peasants offered him no food, only frightened stares. Lords demanded bribes for passage.

One refused outright and had to be bypassed by slipping through frozen vineyards at midnight, the hooves of his horse wrapped in cloth to muffle the sound.

As he reached the Seine Valley, a new fear took hold.

Norman banners.

Duke Robert's men had begun reinforcing the roads and hills with wooden watchtowers and fresh motte-and-bailey forts.

Every bridge bore their seal. When the rider approached Rouen, he was halted at spearpoint.

"Who are you to come from England?" one knight asked. "Fleeing like the rest?"

"I come bearing the King's voice," the rider replied, "and it must reach Rome."

They let him pass... reluctantly.

Beyond Rouen, the terrain softened. The Loire Valley was wet and warm, early with buds of spring. Yet even here, patrols marched in pairs.

Refugees from the north, Norman farmers and Saxon sailors alike, clogged the southern roads, speaking of ghosts and bloodied rivers.

By the time the rider passed Lyon and crested the mountains toward Italy, he had gone through six horses, three pairs of boots, and most of his flesh was raw beneath the travel cloak.

But still, he pressed on.

Finally, after weeks of frost, storm, and steel, the towers of Rome appeared like a dream against the horizon. The bells of St. Peter's tolled faintly in the wind, signaling Mass.

He dismounted at the Curia gate, collapsing into the arms of two papal guards.

"I bring word from King Cnut," he gasped.

And then he fainted.

---

The fire crackled in the great stone hearth of Scone, casting long shadows against the ancient tapestries of Alba's royal hall.

Around the long oaken table, the thanes and lords of the realm had gathered, cloaks wet from winter sleet, blades still strapped to their belts, brows furrowed with anticipation.

At the head sat King Duncan I, tall and wiry, with fire behind his pale blue eyes. He rose slowly, placing both hands on the table, and surveyed the faces of his war council.

"Word has reached me," he began, his voice echoing through the vaulted chamber, "that the men of Cnut, in their foolish pride, have mistaken my crofters and cattlemen for wolves in northern hide. They put torches to our fields, and bloodied our kin in error."

A murmur of outrage stirred among the nobles.

"They crossed our border," Duncan continued, "and in so doing, crossed the line between war and peace."

He reached beneath the table and unfurled a blood-stained banner, torn from a Saxon standard left behind in retreat. The symbol of Wessex, sullied by mud and northern blood.

"We offered them our patience. We granted the Norse safe passage, aye, but kept our swords sheathed. Yet England... England has declared its contempt for our land and our honor."

Duncan turned then, slowly pacing the length of the table.

"I had my doubts," he admitted, "about these northern raiders, about this 'White Wolf' they say commands them like a king of old sagas. I thought them brutes, beasts, ghosts to frighten babes."

He paused, lifting a goblet of mead.

"But in mere weeks, they've done what no Viking horde has done in a generation. They've razed England's border towns. Broken their river patrols. Sacked grain silos with precision. Crushed levy hosts in hours. And all with neither siege nor standing army."

He raised the goblet high.

"My lords... I see now we are not watching the dying embers of the old ways. We are watching the birth of something new. These raiders are not fools, they are tacticians. Coordinated, cunning, relentless."

He let the goblet fall to the table with a thud.

"And now, their enemies are our enemies."

A roar of agreement shook the walls.

Thane Muirchertach of Moray pounded the table. "The Highlands stand with you, my king! Let us answer fire with fire!"

"Raise the banners!" cried Lord Ruadhán of Lothian. "Summon every man fit to hold a spear!"

Duncan turned to his marshal. "Send word to the Isle of Skye, to Galloway, to the Hebrides. Every clan loyal to the crown is to muster. No more hilltop watchfires... we march to war!"

"And the lowlands, Your Grace?" asked a cautious bishop, standing near the back.

Duncan's eyes hardened.

"Even the lamb must grow fangs when the wolves come knocking."

A final pause settled in the chamber before Duncan strode to the war map, placing a dagger clean through York.

"This is where the world will remember Alba stood."