13: The Fires of the Old Gods 13: The Fires of the Old Gods The Althing’s decision came to a vote.
Whether they would amass the entirety of their forces to storm the Westfjords or split them up to fight the fires where they were lit.
It was a matter that would take hours, perhaps even days, to decide.
And even then, once the matter of how the army would be fielded was settled, a new question would arise: who would lead it?
A brutally inefficient system in a time of war.
But to Ísland’s credit, they had never before borne the brunt of an enemy’s wrath quite like Vetrulfr’s.
Meanwhile, in the Westfjords, where the jarldom knelt and recognized Vetrulfr as their warlord, men and boys most capable of bearing arms continued to be raised, trained, and armed at a rate that vastly outpaced the enemy.
Currently, Vetrulfr was inspecting the latest crop of soldiers.
These were men who had been training since the region bowed to him.
Most were armed as spearmen, but others had been selected for more specialized roles depending on their aptitude.
Some were archers, training with composite bows.
Vetrulfr passed them in silence, walking alongside one of his Varangian officers, who observed their drills with a critical eye.
“Their form is not yet perfect, but they’ve surpassed the capabilities of novices.
When grouped with the older recruits and led by a seasoned archer, they’ll perform well enough for our needs.” Vetrulfr nodded, saying nothing, and continued on.
Next came the engineers, men memorizing siege layouts and studying enemy fortifications.
Others trained in the construction and firing of traction trebuchets.
What caught Vetrulfr’s attention, in particular, was their timing.
The pitch-soaked stones were lit and launched in a single fluid motion, their burning trails arcing downrange toward a mock wooden wall.
“The engineers are adapting well,” the officer remarked.
“If the sappers perform as expected, then all that remains is equipping them.
In another month, perhaps two, we’ll have a force of a thousand, fully armed and drilled.” Vetrulfr’s eyes didn’t leave the flames.
“We just need to keep the Althing out until then.” He turned to the officer, a man by the name of Gorm, and gave the first real order of the day.
“Gather one hundred of our best.
Assign four of our brothers from Constantinople to lead them.
Split them into groups of five.
Tell them to pick a direction, north, east, or south, and set the borders ablaze.” He turned fully now, voice sharpened with intent.
“They may plunder what they will.
It matters little to me.
But the Christians must know the fire is not confined to the south.” Gorm smirked, already understanding the strategy.
“You want to force the Althing to divide their army?
If we strike from all sides, they’ll be trapped in a reactionary posture.
They’ll fight on your terms…
and you’ll buy time to finish building the army.” He chuckled.
I would, if they weren’t Christians.
They’ve no idea who they’re up against.” Gorm paused, then tilted his head.
“But you said four of our brothers to lead five groups.
Who commands the fifth?” Vetrulfr’s grin was sharp enough to bite through steel.
He grabbed the back of Gorm’s head, pressed their brows together with a sudden, thunderous laugh.
Who else?” “You think I’ll hide in the rear like some Christian king?
You think I earned your loyalty by standing behind walls?” “I am salt and steel.
I don’t order, I lead.
And when we strike first blood, I’ll be among the first to taste it.” Gorm let out a bark of laughter, half in jest, half in relief.
“And here I thought our mighty Jarl had grown soft in his hall!
Good to know you’re still the mad bastard I followed east!” With that, the plan took form.
A hundred handpicked warriors.
Five raiding parties.
The Althing would soon learn a terrible truth.
The fire had not come from one front; but all.
— Despite it being the height of summer, the clouds blackened the skies above Ísland.
Just a blanket of darkness draped over the land.
Only the glow of braziers and lanterns illuminated the village below.
The hamlet lay nestled between the Westfjords and the Christian-controlled heartlands.
Too small to warrant a palisade.
Too remote to receive more than a single watchman.
And he, this lone sentry, was nervous.
Word had reached even this far-flung place.
The pagans of the Westfjords had declared war.
Despite his pleas to Reykjavík for reinforcements, none had come.
Tonight, the stillness was thick and wrong.
Even with a lantern in hand, the watchman could barely see beyond a few paces.
“Who goes there?” His free hand moved to his sword, but he never drew it.
The amber glow of his lantern caught on iron.
Mail glinted in the dark.
And then he saw them: warriors in shadow, their helms gleaming.
And at their center, a giant cloaked in frost and bone.
A wolf’s hide crowned his helm.
His lips curled in a snarl.
The steel flashed like moonlight.
The sentry’s head hit the ground.
Vetrulfr paid him no mind.
Instead, he raised his voice to the sky and howled, long and low, a sound that made the village tremble.
Come out and kneel before the gods and their fury!
If you are faithful, you may be spared.
If not… burn in Surtr’s flame!” The village stirred.
Vetrulfr’s snarl deepened.
“Drag out the women and children.
If they would live, they will learn the rites of penance.
As for the men…” He drew his blade again.
“Make an example of them.” His warriors moved like wolves through tall grass; doors kicked in, shrieks rising into the night.
This village, and four others like it, were reduced to smoldering memory.
By dawn, Ullrsfjörðr had new laborers, women and children kneeling in salt, weeping and praying to the gods they had once forsaken.