Valkyries Calling
Chapter 106: The Long Summer

Chapter 106: The Long Summer

Dublin – Early morning, the start of summer.

The scent of iron and salt lingered on the wind as dawn broke over Dublin’s harbor, casting long shadows from the ramparts of Dubh Linn’s stone keep.

Gulls circled above like anxious spirits, their cries sharp, discordant, as if echoing the mood of the city itself.

Within the hall of kings, King Sitriuc mac Amlaíb sat upon his Ashwood throne, not in majesty, but in armor.

His chain shirt gleamed faintly beneath his heavy wool cloak. His hands rested on the hilt of a Danish longsword gifted to his father by the Norsemen of old.

He did not grip it for show. He gripped it because his dreams had shown him fire upon the sea.

“He will come,” Sitriuc muttered, eyes narrowed toward the open doors and the misted harbor beyond. “Like a storm without herald. Like Ragnarok itself.”

Around him, his council sat tense. Bishops murmured prayers behind their lips.

Mercenary captains sharpened knives beside carved bowls of salted pork and hard cheese. No one ate. No one spoke.

A map lay unfurled on the table, pinned by daggers. Arrows marked the coastlines.

Conacht…

Burned to ash.

First South Galway, then the Riverlands, and every coastline where men dwelled.

Sitriuc tapped a finger on the ringed emblem of Dublin. The next target, surely.

“He took Connacht,” he said. “Tore it from the inside. Broke their clans. Slaughtered their kings.”

“He is not a man,” said Father Murchadh, his knuckles white around his staff. “He is a thing; a demon clothed in ice and bone.”

“No.” Sitriuc’s voice was low, level. “He is a man. That is what makes him worse. A man with purpose.”

They had heard the stories. The White Wolf of the North. The Son of Winter. The pagan giant who walked with wolves and wielded steel like scripture. Who took no pleasure in slaughter; but brought it all the same.

A year ago, they had scoffed.

Now, they drilled daily.

Sitriuc rose, the firelight catching the silver in his beard. “Raise the black wall banners. Triple the watch along the southern road. Reinforce the river chain.”

“My lord,” asked one of his captains, “shall we call for aid from Meath? Or Munster?”

The king’s gaze turned cold. “If we call, they will smell blood. Not help. Not them. Not now.”

He looked once more to the sea. Mist clung to the waves like an omen.

“Vetrúlfr is coming,” he said quietly. “But not for silver.”

He turned back to his men, voice like steel drawn from frost:

“He comes for fire and memory. So we give him neither. We give him nothing but death.”

—

Within the great hall of Ullrsfjǫrðr

The hall echoed with voices and the scent of pine tar, smoke, and oiled steel.

Above the firepit, flamelight flickered across a carved beam where Ullr himself was etched in the old style; bow in one hand, skis in the other, gaze cast ever outward as if watching the horizon with divine suspicion.

Below him sat the men of Iceland.

Jarls and thegns from the fjords and fell valleys, some gray-bearded and scarred, others youthful but already tempered by the raids of the past decade.

There was Gunnar, his axe always within arm’s reach. Gormr whose men carried thick shields like Eastern cataphracts.

And Bjǫrn grinned while whispering bets about which jarl would die first in the coming war.

They sat before a great table a map etched into its surface with iron nails hammered into target ports.

At the table’s head sat Vetrúlfr.

He wore his crown forged from Damascus steel. His white hair was bound back in iron rings. His eyes, cold and unreadable, stared at the map of Albion.

“Two thousand five hundred,” Gunnar said, folding his arms. “Hard men. Fed well. Drilled daily. With shields and mail forged of northern steel.”

“And the ships?” Vetrúlfr asked.

Gormr grunted. “More than enough to ferry them. All caulked. All ready.”

Bjorn leaned in. “We strike Dublin before Midsummer. Sitriuc still thinks us shadows. Let him die thinking we are myths.”

The fire popped, and for a moment, there was only the crackle of flame and the creak of old timber.

Then came the sound of footsteps; swift, urgent.

The doors were thrown open, and the wind followed her.

Brynhildr.

Her hair was unbound, wild as seafoam, her cloak tossed across one shoulder. In her hand was a rolled parchment, sealed in wax marked with her sigil.

Vetrúlfr rose slightly. “Mother?”

She strode forward, her voice sharp as flint.

“Nokomis has called.”

The words hit the hall like a dropped sword. The jarls quieted, brows furrowing.

Brynhildr slapped the scroll down on the table. “This came by raven from Greenland. She crossed the sea to Vinland. Four times they have attacked her. Dorset war parties, driven from the ice, now raid her people by night.”

Gunnar scoffed. “Dorset? What care we for shadows on the ice while Dublin stands fat and ripe?”

Brynhildr turned to him, fire rising in her eyes. “Would you break the will of the gods to plunder a Christian port? He swore an oath.”

She turned to Vetrúlfr now. There was no softness in her this time. No sister’s fondness. Only a seiðkona’s fury.

“You swore it,” she said. “You promised her. Before me. Before the gods. Before the landvættir themselves.”

Vetrúlfr stood still, face unreadable. The firelight danced in his eyes, war warring with memory.

“She is not asking for conquest,” Brynhildr said. Her voice broke, but only slightly. “She is asking to live.”

A long silence stretched.

Then Vetrúlfr placed both hands on the table, fingers splayed wide over the sea routes painted in ash and whale-oil.

“I am the son of Ullr,” he said.

“But I am also a man. I do not break my word.”

He looked to the jarls. Some bristled. Others nodded.

“The sea calls us to Dublin,” he said.

But the gods call me West. You may strike for Dublin and spill Christian blood till the seas run red… but my oath leads elsewhere. I will not command men to chase the wind of my word. But I will answer her call.”

The room was silent as the Jarls, and Thegns debated among themselves.

Vetrúlfr said nothing more. He simply turned and walked from the hall, wolf-pelt cloak trailing behind him like the shadow of fate. Whether the jarls followed or not… the sea already knew his answer.