26: The Signal Fire 26: The Signal Fire Spring came, and with it, the ice that had trapped the ships in harbor broke and melted away, rejuvenating the sea, and the god who ruled its waters and winds.
Vetrulfr knelt in the heart of Ullrsfjörðr, just below the motte where his great hall loomed.
Brynhildr, robed in fur, bronze, and wool, painted a Tiwaz rune on her son’s forehead, eyes closed as she channeled the spirits riding the spring wind.
The paint she used was blood—drawn from a sacrificial bull offered moments earlier to the god of justice, war, and honor.
Behind Vetrulfr knelt a wall of shield-brothers, clad in iron brynja, hardened leather lamellar, and bearing thick, laminated wooden shields.
Iron splinted wrapped their forearms and shinbones alike, providing added protection where the shield would not.
Each man held his spangenhelm beneath one arm, the blade of his sword resting point-down in the earth, as they circled the seiðkona performing the rite.
We grant you this great sacrifice; To bless our warriors with strength, courage, and vigor, As they sail to distant shores to spread your will and burn your enemies.
Be by their side as they stand firm against the tides of Christendom.
Sharpen their blades, that they may pierce the hearts of those who take up the spear against them.
Harden their iron, that their bodies be shielded from wrath.
And should they fall in battle, Bless their souls on the road to Valhǫll, As worthy sons of Æsir and Vanir alike!” When her prayer was done, Vetrulfr rose.
He placed his iron helm upon his head, the padded lining and linen-backed aventail caressing his skull, then pulled the hood of his arctic wolfskin over its crown.
Sheathing his blade, he turned to his men.
“We join our brothers from Reykjavík, Vestmannaeyjar, Hérað, And the far-scattered jarldoms and thanedoms of the North.
Each of whom has pledged their swords and ships to this cause.
Six moons past, they bent the knee.
Now, they raise the sail.
Together, we set our prows for the western shores of Ériu, And strike the green coast of Connacht.
To test our blades, and carve our names into the bones of that land.” The warriors roared in reply.
The winter had been long, but they had tamed their spirits with sweat and steel.
Sword, spear, seax, and axe; they drilled without end.
What Vetrulfr had forged into kingship, he had tempered into warriors.
Six months of nothing but training had produced an army that was, by all accounts, the most elite force in Europe.
Outfitted by the wealth of Vetrulfr’s hoard, and enriched by the trade and reforms that followed in his wake, each man in his personal host was now equipped on par with a veteran Varangian captain.
And all of them stood ready for the war to come.
A war they would begin—not in defense, but in fire.
By striking the nearest Christian realm, and lighting the signal fire for what would follow.
— Róisín had survived the winter solely through Eithne’s kindness and defiance.
Their bond had grown so strong that Eithne had already been caught, and punished twice.
And yet, she still found new ways to smuggle food, water, firewood, and blankets into Róisín’s confinement.
Bruises marked her flesh beneath the veil of her robes, but she endured.
Tonight, something was different.
There was a storm raging outside, but it was not the wind that roused Róisín.
Nor was it lightning that lit the sky.
A different glow danced across her stone walls, brighter and hotter than any hearth.
She rose from bed and approached her window.
What she saw was Revelation: In the distance, the coastal village of Kinvara burned; wreathed in flame, and surrounded by a forest of ships unlike any she’d ever known.
Black silhouettes against the crimson blaze.
And then the screaming began.
They echoed from below, from the halls of the priory.
Barred inside her room.
The very sisters who had punished her so cruelly were now the ones screaming in torment.
She could only sink to her bed, hugging her knees to her chest, whispering desperate prayers for deliverance, for salvation, for protection.
Then came the pounding on her door.
But leave that door shut!
She has suffered enough!” It was Eithne.
Róisín’s blood ran cold.
Eithne, are you all right?!” There was no reply.
Only the crash of the door as it was torn open from the outside.
And in the threshold stood a giant.
He was tall, pale as snow, with eyes the color of the frozen sea.
He wore iron armor, but what crowned him was unmistakable; a wolf’s pelt, its snout split open and fanged, pulled like a hood over his helm.
Over his shoulder lay the unconscious body of Eithne.
But Róisín could tell; she’d been struck down, claimed like spoils.
A howl built in Róisín’s chest.
She did not cower and kneel.
Nor did she cry, and scream in fright like so many others had before her.
No—Róisín surged to her feet, fury erupting from her like wildfire, lighting her emerald eyes aflame with righteous indignation.
And then, she did something unthinkable, Róisín walked straight toward the towering invader, pointed a still finger in his face, and screamed with every ounce of strength she could muster: “You will not take her from me!
She is the only kin I have left!” The man stood in silence.
His expression was indecipherable.
Yet it carried the cold of winter within it.
Even so, Róisín did not waver in her defiance.
And then, to Róisín’s utter disbelief, he answered—in flawless Latin.
So perfect, she may have thought the man to be from Rome itself had he not just sacked a house of god.
“Will you take her place?”