Months had passed since Vetrulfr and his war-band of Varangians returned to Ísland, claiming Ullrsfjörðr as their personal enclave and investing the vast hoard they had gained from over a decade of service to the late Emperor Basil II into its reconstruction.
While many aspects of the stronghold's reforging remained underway, others had been completed as planned, with results that met, or exceeded, expectations. Months of relentless training had forged the men of the village into hardened warriors.
Wind, rain, sun or snow, these men would be in the field training every morning before a large communal breakfast. From there, they would begin their day's worth of labor for the sake of Ullrsfjörðr and the people within it.
But lately, a thick fog had permeated the land. Seemingly having come out of nowhere, it was blinding beyond the point of debilitation. Yet, even so, the warriors marched into its depths, guided only by those Varangians who led them.
And every day by noon they returned to Ullrsfjörðr without incident or injury to begin their weapons and tactics training.
While swordplay required further mastery, the spear proved far easier to wield, and disciplined formations had been drilled into them through constant practice and live resistance exercises.
Armor and weapons were crafted with care in the village's smithies, enhanced by the blessings of runecrafters and Seiðkona alike. Thor's hammers and iron arm rings adorned their bodies as they gathered outside the village walls to begin their daily ruck.
Vetrulfr did not join the new recruits that day, not due to illness or fatigue, but because a rider had arrived in the night bearing a message. A formal summons from Iceland's Althing, declaring that he was to stand trial to determine whether his claim to Ullrsfjörðr and the title of Goði was legitimate; or if, as Alfarr had accused, he was a heathen usurper.
Standing in the great hall that had been erected since his return, Vetrulfr crumpled the parchment and cast it into the hearth. The letter was, unsurprisingly, written in Latin, the language of monks and missionaries, not warriors. A tongue meant for laws, not oaths. Vetrulfr read it anyway. And then, just as quickly, he fed it to the flames.
To him, the very tongue which the message had been inscribed with was an open challenge to him. One he would not tolerate. The flames consumed the words without a second glance from him.
Brynhildr, ever perceptive, stirred the morning porridge as she addressed her son, her tone sharp and knowing.
"So, the Althing summons you at last. No doubt at the behest of that petty coward who sacrificed his own son to save his hide. It seems the Christians would rather settle disputes with ink and words than with steel. How will you answer, my son?"
Vetrulfr did not respond immediately. He sat at the long table, and an exotic young woman approached, handing him a horn of mead. He had seen her often in recent months, but never spoken to her.
She was his mother's slave, but her appearance was unlike any he had encountered before. Her features were foreign, her skin a shade unfamiliar, and her tattoos mysterious and indecipherable.
He had traveled as far east as the ruins of Ctesiphon, yet never encountered a woman like her. His curiosity was piqued, not out of desire, but by the enigma she represented.
"I must say," he muttered, gazing into the horn, "I have never seen such a woman. Where did you find her?"
The girl shied away, misinterpreting his gaze for lust, and withdrew. Brynhildr calmed her in a language Vetrulfr couldn't place before answering his question.
"She is a Skræling from the forests of Vinland. While you journeyed east in exile, I traveled far west, beyond the edge of civilization. There I found her, a young orphan amidst the ashes of her tribe, butchered in some war among her own people. She was half-dead, but I took pity on her and nursed her back to health. She recovered, joined my service, and has remained with me ever since."
She turned to Vetrulfr with a warning in her voice.
"She believes you desire her. So let me make one thing abundantly clear: she is like a daughter to me. Whatever thoughts you may have... purge them."
Vetrulfr raised a brow but said nothing, returning his gaze to the table.
"I intend to answer the summons," he said flatly.
Brynhildr nearly dropped the clay pot in her hand, startled by the declaration.
"You can't be serious. You intend to go alone?"
There was weight in her voice; urgency. But Vetrulfr was quick to clarify.
"Of course not. What do you take me for, mother? A fool? The Althing expects me to kneel before their soft gods and their brittle laws. I recognize no authority but the clenched fist and the steel that bends me. The Althing has neither."
Brynhildr smirked. "So then..."
He grinned. "I will answer their summons, but I will do so with an army at my back. Send word to every corner of Ísland. Summon every Goði still loyal to the old ways. Let these Christians learn that true power lies not in ink and parchment, but in warriors and their blades."
Brynhildr nodded with approval, setting their meal before them.
"Of course, my son. I'll have the letters drafted and dispatched once we've eaten. But come let us turn from war and politics, and enjoy breakfast while we still can."
Vetrulfr took the first bite of porridge, with the weight of destiny already pressing on his shoulders.
---
The scene in Reykjavík was in stark contrast to that of Ullrsfjörðr. Warriors did not gather with spear and shield in hand. Nor did the fires of industry burn with the forgotten wrath of Brokkr.
No, the Christians of Ísland's largest city rather gave thanks to an invisible god, for the products of labor he did not perform, nor guide. The scribes among them wrote in foreign characters originating from a dead empire.
And those of some status gathered in the Great Hall to speak with the local Goði regarding the upcoming Althing.
Ivarr rested on his seat of power, as those men of influence came to him, expressing their concerns about the fog that had recently formed across the Westjords, like an impenetrable curtain that prevented contact with those who resided beyond its veil.
"I have not received word from my cousin in the Westfjords for over two weeks now. Every messenger I have sent beyond the fog has yet to return to me. I am beginning to fear that this is an act of sinister witchcraft by the locals!
Something must be done about this! Without trade from my cousin's village, I fear our town will be low on food for the winter!"
Ivarr naturally had no response to this. Fog was not uncommon in Ísland, especially in the regions close to the shorelines. Not to mention during the transitionary seasonal period from spring to summer.
But for it to last so long, and never break. It was indeed unusual. Even so, he was but a mortal man. There was nothing he could do but pray that this darkness broke soon. And because of this, he could not help but respond in kind to the Goði who made such unreasonable demands of him.
"What would you have me do? Strike the earth like Moses and part the seas? I am no prophet, merely a man. I have no power over the mists, nor the storm! I can only pray that this fog disperses soon, the same as you! Go back to your village and be patient. There is no witchcraft at work here! Merely the changing of seasons!"
Despite Ivarr's words, there were those among his court, especially the Goði affected most by this change in weather, who did not believe him. And instead clutched their crucifixes in fear over ill omens gathering in the westfjords.