Valkyries Calling
Chapter 116: Norman Steel and Northern Stone

Chapter 116: Norman Steel and Northern Stone

The clang of hammers rang through the mist-veiled yard of Falaise.

Men shouted. Shields clattered. Crossbow strings thrummed like taut sinew.

Robert stood at the edge of the inner bailey, hands clasped behind his back, eyes sharp beneath a fur-lined mantle.

A drizzle clung to his shoulders, but he paid it no mind. The rain of Normandy was an old friend.

Beside him walked Gautier, Marshal of the realm; grizzled, scarred, and grim as an old oak split by lightning.

The marshal’s mail chimed softly as he moved, boots crunching on the damp gravel.

"Levies from Avranches and the Pays de Caux arrived last week," Gautier murmured. "Another two hundred yesterday from Bayeux. Still green. But they listen."

Robert nodded absently, watching a boy barely into manhood fumble a crossbow reload while a veteran barked in his ear.

Another volley cracked out a moment later; half striking true, the rest buried in mud.

"They’ll learn. Or they’ll die."

"You sound more like your uncle every day," Gautier said, not unkindly.

Robert didn’t respond. His eyes had already drifted north.

Toward the sea.

Toward the horizon.

Toward the threat.

"The latest reports?" he asked.

Gautier exhaled through his nose. "Boastful. Bordering on the fantastical. Fishermen from Brittany claim to have seen dozens of ships. Thick as teeth. Each longship carrying forty, maybe fifty men. The bolder tongues speak of thousands."

"How many?"

"Some say five thousand. Most agree on at least half that."

Robert gave a short nod. "Two thousand five hundred trained killers is still a force that could burn half of Christendom if led by a cunning hand."

Gautier grunted in agreement. "If they’re knights in the Norse fashion, disciplined, armored, hardened by blood and ice; then yes. It would be as if Ragnar Lothbrok rose from the dead, reborn with fire and iron."

They came to a halt near the list fields, where two knights were sparring with blunted blades. One overreached and took a shoulder check that dropped him to the mud.

Robert didn’t flinch. "We must treat the highest estimate as fact. To do less would be to gamble Normandy’s fate on the hope that the reports are exaggerated."

"A sound mind, my lord," Gautier said approvingly. "Your brother would have mocked these rumors. Then gone hunting. Or bedded a Flemish widow while Rouen burned behind him."

Robert allowed himself the thinnest of smiles. "Then it’s good that Richard is now a mon, wouldn’t you say?"

The marshal turned toward the training ground once more, arms crossed. Choosing not to answer directly. "You’re doing well, Robert. Not just raising steel; but tempering it."

A trio of new crossbowmen fired again; this time in unison. The bolt struck the padded target cleanly.

Robert narrowed his eyes.

"If the wolves of the north come to my shores, Gautier... we’ll meet them with steel in hand. Let them find Normandy no longer their hunting ground; but a forest of spears waiting to bleed them dry."

Gautier chuckled. "Let’s hope they like the taste of iron."

Behind them, the bells of the chapel rang once. Not for prayer. For formation.

Another round of training. Another step closer to war.

And still, the wind from the north carried the scent of salt. Of smoke. Of something old stirring beneath the waves.

Something with teeth.

---

The wind howled across the black cliffs of Svalbard, but it no longer ruled here.

Where once only snow and ruin held dominion, a fortress now rose; cut from basalt and frostbitten granite, crowned in timber rafters and iron nails.

It had begun as a timber outpost, a crude thing lashed together by Varangian hands. But that was nearly two winters ago.

Now, it was stone.

The motte stood high on the coastal rise, layered with sheer walls reinforced by masonry from Greenland and volcanic stone ferried up from Iceland. The palisades were no longer merely logs, but reinforced embankments faced with fitted blocks and braced by Roman arches in the inner ring.

A bailey below housed the outer village: smithies and stables, goat pens and salt houses, a great longhall for the garrison, and barracks dug into the rock itself.

Bridges of carved oak and rope gave way to stone causeways. Aqueducts—angled carefully across the glacier-fed ridge—channeled fresh water into the heart of the keep. Flues and hypocaustic systems vented heat from the forge and hearths below, keeping the baths warm even in the dead of night.

The gatehouse, double-throated, with inner courtyards and murder-holes, was patterned not after Norse design, but Armenian.

Learned from Vetrúlfr’s time as Basil’s sword, and taught to those Norse masons under his tutelage, their stone-carving art carved the keystone arches like braided serpents, their crenellations sharp, not crude.

Two iron portcullises, one of twisted black steel, the other of oak-bound bronze, hung beneath guard towers whose slitted eyes never slept.

The roads that fed into the city were paved in smoothed volcanic stone, embedded with salt to stave off the worst of winter’s bite.

Wayposts marked every league, each etched with runes of Ullr and Brigid, both protector and guide.

Trade caravans moved in rhythm, sledges, carts, reindeer-drawn wagons, bearing furs, seal oil, smoked fish, forged weapons, and strange coins from Vinland and Miklagarðr alike.

Children ran barefoot through the snow-packed lanes, laughing as they darted between armored patrols.

Women in woolen cloaks bartered at the market. A priest of the old gods lit incense beside a bronze statue of Freyja, her feet buried in pelts from the ice bear.

And above it all, from the keep’s high tower, flew the banners of the Great Northern Empire. A symbol no longer of raiders, but of order. Dominion. Civilization in the north.

Inside the stone keep, under vaulted arches and flickering torches, scribes etched records in vellum.

They spoke Norse, Greek, Latin, and even Armenian now. Keeping record in many tongues, so that what was built here would be remembered for eternity. This was not the outpost of a chieftain.

This was the northern shield of a rising empire.

A garrison captain stood watch over the walls, eyes scanning the frozen horizon beyond the fjord.

He did not look for enemies.

Not today.

But all men in this place understood: the White Wolf had built his empire here not to hide from the world; but to meet it, when it finally dared to come.