Chapter 48: A Test of Sincerity
Within the span of a fortnight, the Færeyjar were brought to ruin beneath Vetrúlfr’s boot.
All eighteen islands, yes, even the one untouched by man, were claimed for his growing realm.
And yet, the Christian world remained unaware. Whispers drifted on the sea winds; tales of a white wolf who walked the path of the old goðar.
But whispers were not warnings, and no one believed them. This veil of silence was due in no small part to Cnut.
He had worked tirelessly to keep word from reaching the Pope in Rome, lest the fire he had kindled be revealed as heresy.
But Cnut had erred if he thought Vetrúlfr’s hunger would be sated by his homeland alone.
Færeyjar had been the next offering to his blade. And when it fell, it was not merely conquered; it was purified.
Just as with Ísland and the Vestmannaeyjar, the cross-bearers were forced to kneel, to renounce their false religion, and beg forgiveness from the æsir; not with words, but through deeds.
And the isle wept. Not from rain, but from fire. Crosses were torn from churches, their bearers drowned or burned.
A single skald stood among the ruins and sang of the storm-born blood, how the wolf had returned to tear the lamb from the altar.
Children were dragged away from shattered altars, their eyes wide with a grief too young to name. Priests were flung into the sea, crying for a god who would not answer.
In Vetrúlfr’s absence, a new jarl was appointed: Gormr, the shield-brother whose loyalty had yet to be repaid.
He was given dominion over the isles, along with a charge: Raise forts of stone. Build harbors for war and trade. Draft warriors and train them well. Carve ships worthy of the seas.
Gormr wasted no time. In the first moonrise of his rule, he ordered timber stripped from the church at Kirkjubøur, declaring it would serve better as scaffolding for a stone hall raised in the name of Óðinn.
“Let the gods dine where the Christling wept,” he said. The people watched in silence, some trembling, others smiling.
A timeframe was given, and aid could be summoned should hardship arise.
But Vetrúlfr expected his jarlar to be self-sufficient; just as he had been when he carved Ullrsfjǫrðr from stone and sea.
After ensuring enough men and ships to hold the isles and suppress rebellion among those yet unconverted remained behind.
Vetrúlfr bade a solemn farewell before once more turning his fleet northward. He would return to Ísland, to prepare for what was to come.
While Vetrúlfr was gone, a visitor arrived in Ullrsfjǫrðr. An eastman from Dyflin, sent by Máel Sechnaill mac Cathail to deliver a summons.
But no Christian could step within Vetrúlfr’s city without first bleeding for the æsir. The eastman, Domnall, found the gates barred.
None would grant him passage while the King was abroad. So he waited. Drinking, cursing, observing the strange land he found himself in.
And in the skáli, where mead flowed like river water, he voiced his wonder aloud:
“I do not understand… Ale, sure, but mead? I’ve drunk five horns a day for four days and not once has my cup run dry. This is madness.”
The innkeeper laughed, pouring again.
“Ullrsfjǫrðr is blessed. Since the Son of Ullr returned, we want for nothing. The harvests have been kind, the Vanir are pleased, and the granaries overflow. Truth be told, I’m thankful for merchants like you. Else we’d drown in our own bounty before winter.”
Domnall found the thought absurd; waste of ale and food? In all his years, no city nor kingdom he had visited claimed such fortune.
But before he could respond, a horn shook the fjords. It was a deep, haunting blare that rattled the bones. Domnall nearly dropped his drink.
“What in the name of—?”
The innkeeper raised a hand. “One horn is a returning fleet. Two is for unknown sails. Three…”
He paused. “Three is for war. Four has never been sounded…. It would appear our King and his host have finally returned.”
Domnall stood quickly, slamming silver to the table, and made for the harbor, hoping to speak with Vetrúlfr before he vanished again behind the stone walls of his keep.
Vetrúlfr returned as a jarl of jarlar. The harbor swelled with cheers and song as his host entered Ullrsfjǫrðr, and the folk tossed flowers upon the water.
He strode from the prow, casting bits of silver into the air as his warriors followed behind him. Clad in lamellar, helms crested with the hides of wolves.
“Drink deep of our glory!” he cried. “These are your spoils, as they are ours!”
Children stood barefoot on the stone, pressing hands to their chests in salute. Old men wept, and the skáld shouted from the rooftops:
“The wolf returns! The fjord has found its king!” Silver gleamed in the sky like shattered moonlight, caught in the sunlit spray.
And then he saw the foreigner.
“Your highness!” Domnall called. “If I may speak—”
Vetrúlfr’s eye caught the Celtic knotwork on the man’s cloak and torque. Forcing to halt in his march.
“You are no son of Norsemen. What brings an eastman to my hall?”
Domnall caught his breath and extended the sealed parchment.
“King Máel Sechnaill requests an audience with you in Athenry. What shall I tell him?”
Vetrúlfr read it once. Then tore it in two, shoving the pieces back into Domnall’s chest with enough force to stagger the man.
“Tell your king: If he wishes to speak with me, let him cross the sea and bleed as the gods demand. Only then will I listen.”
With that, he turned and walked beneath the gatehouse of his hall. His wife waited. So too did the child within her.
As for Domnall, he stood alone among the echoes of wolf-song and the clang of steel, realizing then and there the price was real.
Not a trap. Not a lie. A test of worth.
One he had already failed.