Valkyries Calling
Chapter 105: She Who Returns Bearing Iron

Chapter 105: She Who Returns Bearing Iron

Vinland – Northwestern Coast, Early Summer

The longship beached at dawn.

Its hull, dark with sea-wear and crusted brine, scraped across the wet stone of the cove like a blade drawn from a sheath.

Gull cries broke the morning silence, sharp, panicked, before vanishing into the mist that clung low to the water like a funeral shroud.

Nokomis stepped ashore first.

She moved with caution, her fur-lined boots pressing into black sand that once held the footprints of her childhood.

Behind her, six Norsemen followed; grim men bearing axes and hornwood bows, their expressions flat and unreadable.

Blood-bound to protect her, they were used to danger.

But even they slowed as they stepped onto this shore.

The silence here wasn’t peace. It was tension.

They had expected to be seen.

Instead, they were being watched.

Nokomis knelt and placed her palm to the earth. Cold. Damp. Familiar.

But now she smelled it clearly; smoke, faint and bitter. Not from a hearth. From burned hides and green pine.

War smoke.

She rose, drawing the carved seax at her belt. Not to fight; but to signal.

Too late.

The first arrow hissed out of the trees and embedded in the sand inches from her foot. A warning; but only just.

Then came the second. This one aimed for her thigh.

Her shieldman moved faster than thought, catching it mid-flight with the rim of his shield.

Voices shouted from the treeline. Not names; orders.

The Norse formed a crescent around her. No weapons raised, not yet. But eyes were sharp. Fingers twitched near bowstrings.

A figure broke from the treeline. Painted in war colors, lean from famine. A hunting spear in one hand, the other extended to halt his kin behind him.

His face froze as he saw her.

“…Nokomis?”

She said nothing.

“You are dead,” he said, disbelief and accusation bleeding into his voice. “Or gone. What returns now wears your face, but smells of iron and ash.”

“You think I forgot who I am?” Her voice was cold. Measured. “I crossed the sea to the edge of the world and bled in its snows. I return as one who endured.”

More shadows emerged from the woods; dozens. Faces painted in charcoal and ochre.

Some bore spears. Others had blades carved from stone, or rust-bitten Norse steel from old raids. All were hungry. All were afraid.

The man who had spoken, Kitchi, once her friend, moved closer, nostrils flaring.

“You come with them.”

“They are mine,” she answered. “Sworn to protect. They do not raid. They do not take. They follow.”

He spat. “They are still from the lands beyond the sea.”

“So am I, in part. As you see.”

He looked past her to the men on the shore; silent, unmoving, waiting. Then to her bow, shaped in a style that seemed alien to them. It was not like the longbows used by the Norsemen who settled Vinland.

It was made of horn, wood, and sinew. Fashioned in a recurve style. Compact, yet powerful. Truly something unknown to the tribes of this land.

“You left a child,” he said at last. “You return a stranger.”

“No,” she said. “I return with a warning. The Dorset are not finished. What you’ve seen? That was only the front wave. A king from the lands beyond the great sea has taken their lands. These are just the first of many. Others will come here next. Starved. Desperate. United by hate.”

Silence.

Only the sea spoke now, lapping at the stones behind them.

Finally, Kitchi stepped back.

“Lower your weapons!” he barked. “She’s one of ours. For now.”

“But is she still with us?” came another voice.

Nokomis answered before he could.

“I am. That’s why I carry steel.”

Then she added quietly:

“And why I returned alone.”

—

The path inland twisted through thick cedar and spruce, a tunnel of shadow and memory. Nokomis led the way in silence, eyes flicking to each bend, each sound.

The Norsemen followed in a loose stagger, spears in hand, bows slung high. They spoke no words, but their postures betrayed unease.

They weren’t welcome here.

And they knew it.

The deeper they went, the more signs of desperation revealed themselves: game snares left untended, berry bushes picked clean, traps sprung with nothing but fur caught in their teeth.

The trail grew muddy; trampled by too many feet and too few boots.

Then came the scent, acrid and faintly metallic. Old blood.

They crested the final ridge and saw the village.

Once a sprawling riverside camp, it had shrunk. The longhouses of birch bark and timber sagged from rot and snow-weight.

Smoke curled thinly from half-extinguished hearths. No children played between the huts. They were inside, hidden.

What warriors remained looked on from doorways and shadows. Faces gaunt. Eyes sunken.

Some wore armor patched with driftwood and sealhide, others carried scavenged Norse helms; battered, dented, but still used.

A few bore injuries not yet healed: cracked ribs, frostbitten fingers, arrows that had been yanked and left to scar crooked.

A people still alive.

But only just.

Nokomis slowed, her breath catching as the weight of it all struck her; what she had missed. What she had been spared from witnessing.

She had not been here to fight for them.

Her jaw tightened.

Yet even now, she knew: if she had stayed, she’d be dead. Or worse. What strength she carried now had been forged in ice and fire, in steel and suffering far from these shores.

Still, it didn’t dull the ache.

One of the elders, a woman with milky eyes and smoke-stained braids, stepped forward.

She made no sound, only studied Nokomis with a long, unreadable gaze before turning away again, disappearing into one of the longhouses without a word.

It was not rejection.

But it was not welcome, either.

Nokomis exhaled.

She knelt in the dirt at the village’s center; a place once used for council, now silent save for the wind.

Her Norse companions stood near the outer circle of huts. Watchful. Outnumbered.

Even with their skill, she knew it wouldn’t take much for tensions to boil over. A spear thrown. A word misunderstood.

They were her guardians. But they were few.

Too few.

Her hands trembled; not from fear, but from anger. Helplessness.

She bowed her head, closing her eyes, and let the wind move over her like a river’s breath.

Somewhere beyond the sea, he stood, watching waves crash against stone.

The White Wolf.

Son of Winter.

The one marked by the sea.

Please, she prayed, though no word left her lips.

If I call, let him come.

Let him come with fire and storm, with ships like fangs and steel like thunder. Not to conquer… but to protect. To hold what remains.

Because if he does not… then I will die here. And so will they.

The wind shifted; brisk, salt-heavy.

Nokomis opened her eyes.

No voice came.

But somewhere deep in her bones, something stirred.

She would wait.

And if the spirits willed it, so would he.