Church bells echoed across Reykjavík's streets as the last civilians flooded behind its timber palisades, believing wooden walls could protect them from the storm to come.
But they were deceived.
Ívarr had seen the truth with his own eyes. This was not war; it was annihilation. The host that approached was not of mortal men, but of monsters born from fire and frost, carved from nightmare.
He rested against the palisade where he had sat for hours since his broken army limped back to the city. Blood crusted his torn cloak, and soot blackened his hands. His sword was lost, his shield shattered. Only the terror remained.
A captain of the city watch, flushed and panicked, shouted at him, "Where are all the men? Why have so few returned?! The enemy is upon us, and Reykjavík is nearly undefended!"
Ívarr gave no answer for a long while. He gazed upward at the serene sky; a cruel contrast to the hell that approached—and scoffed.
"Gone," he muttered. "Dead. And soon, so will we be. Hell marches on Reykjavík."
The captain started to protest, but a shout from the tower above silenced him.
"INCOMING!"
A flaming stone the size of a hog's belly crashed into the watchtower, exploding the structure in a blast of pitch and timber. Screams followed, then silence. Another stone followed, slamming into the wall and sending splinters flying. A third tore up the gate's support beams.
The pitch-laced rocks had been polished smooth, blackened with soot, and lit with torches as they were hurled through the sky. They screamed as they flew, and burst into flame on impact. Sending sheets of fire crawling over thatch rooftops and wooden scaffolds.
A panic swept through the defenders as the flames spread faster than they could be extinguished.
Outside the walls, a chant rose in dreadful unity:
"Drepið fyrir Óðin!" "Drepið fyrir Óðin!" "Drepið fyrir Óðin!"
Their cries grew louder than the bells, until even the churches went silent, drowned out by the thunderous chorus of war gods.
Gunnar had rejoined Vetrulfr not long after he annihilated the Althing's southern levy. He brought two hundred swords. The remaining hundred had sailed the eight longships around the coast to encircle Reykjavík's harbor, blocking all escape.
The siege camp was already built, trenches dug and palisades of sharpened stakes erected in the night. Several mangonels, primitive but sturdy, loomed over the forward lines.
Vetrulfr stood behind a raised shield wall with his archers, losing arrows in a steady rhythm. His pale hair blew like a war banner in the wind, eyes fixed on the city burning beyond.
Without turning, he called out, "You're late, brother. The fire already rises."
Gunnar stepped beside him, crouching under the protection of the raised shields as another volley of arrows was loosed.
"I must apologize, Jarl," he said, watching smoke rise over rooftops. "When you said pitch-soaked stones would suffice, I thought you to be a fool. But I haven't seen fire like this since our days in the East."
Vetrulfr chuckled darkly. "Stone for stone, no fire burns better than timber and faith."
He slung his bow, then turned his back to the burning skyline.
"Let it burn. By dawn, the walls will fall, and the gods will take back what was stolen."
Behind them, the boar-warriors manned the siege engines with tireless rhythm. Cranking, loading, and releasing. Their arms were corded with muscle, their faces smeared with soot and sweat. They chanted with every release, as if in prayer.
Inside the city, chaos reigned. The fires spread through the merchant quarter, engulfing homes and warehouses alike. Families huddled in churches. Priests rang bells and screamed prayers over the roar of collapsing buildings.
Ívarr watched it all, hollow-eyed. He did not weep, for tears would not come.
Dawn broke, casting gold over a blackened skyline. Reykjavík's palisade was cratered and cracked, its gate partially collapsed. The defenders had spent the night burying the dead and shoveling water into the flames—but much of the city still smoldered.
From the north, horns sounded.
Vetrulfr emerged from his tent, armored from head to toe, shield in one hand, sword in the other. His eyes glowed with the morning sun as he raised his blade.
"To Valhǫll!"
The camp erupted with the clash of shields and the roar of warriors. The charge began.
Through the shattered palisade they ran; Vetrulfr at the head, flanked by Gunnar and Gorm. Behind them came the wall of iron: veterans of a dozen campaigns, shields locked, swords bared.
The garrison that stood to meet them numbered barely a hundred. Most were exhausted, wounded, or barely trained.
But they held.
They held because they had to. Their families were behind them. Their homes. Their god.
They formed a tight shield wall, trembling but determined.
Vetrulfr crashed into the line like a battering ram. His shield struck a defender's with such force it shattered the rim and sent the man sprawling. His sword came down like a falling axe, cleaving through helm and skull.
Gorm followed, driving his short blade beneath a shield and into a man's ribs. Gunnar parried a thrust and countered with a crushing overhead strike that snapped a spear in two.
The Norse line pushed forward, grinding like a wave against sand. The defenders faltered, then collapsed inward.
Blood slicked the ground. Screams rose and fell in the smoke. Men were gutted, trampled, hacked down without mercy. The raiders moved as one; shields overlapping, swords striking with rhythmic brutality.
The few defenders who remained huddled near the church square, forming a last desperate knot of resistance. Ívarr stood among them, sword drawn but untouched by the battle.
Then, the shield wall of the Northmen halted. Their blades remained ready, but they did not strike.
A voice boomed from behind the wall.
"You have fought well to survive. Now lay down your arms, dust your heads with ash, and beg the gods for forgiveness. Hand over your goði to me, and I swear by Odin himself that you will be given the chance to earn your penance."
The defenders looked to one another, uncertainty spreading like rot.
The captain of the watch dropped his spear.
He tore the crucifix from his neck and flung it into the dirt. Then he knelt, pressing his forehead to the ash-covered ground.
One by one, the others followed. Helmets cast aside. They wept and begged. They cried out in broken tongues, pleading to gods they had once forsaken.
Only Ívarr remained standing.
"Have you all lost your minds?! The Devil forces his way into your homes and demands you abandon Christ! And you do so willingly?"
He spat.
"The apostles were martyred for our Savior, and you throw your faith away at the first sign of fear? Cowards! All of you!"
Vetrulfr's shield wall parted, revealing the albino giant cloaked in arctic wolf skin.
"You speak of martyrs, yet hide behind your men. Where is your faith?"
He raised his sword.
"Bring him to me. This victory demands a sacrifice. The gods are owed."
Confused, Ívarr searched their faces. "What… what are you talking about?"
But the warriors only grinned.
He did not yet understand what they meant.
But soon, he would.
For Vetrulfr had invoked an ancient rite.
The Blood Eagle.