Hammer clashed against iron as the forge hissed and flared, oil sizzling with the quenching of finely tempered steel. Vetrulfr and his Varangians spared neither moment nor silver in reforging Ullrsfjörðr not as a village, but as the beating heart of a rising Jarldom.
Letters were sent by rider across the Westfjords, summoning craftsmen of worth and ambition. Blacksmiths, stonemasons, carpenters, miners, runecrafters, farmers, and artisans of every trade answered the call, drawn by the promise of a king's ransom. In the days following Alfarr's fall, Ullrsfjörðr became a crucible of smoke, fire, and motion.
Each strike of the hammer rang like thunder, the forge echoing with the might of Thor himself as if the god of war and storm struck in rhythm with the men below.
Sparks flew as eastern technique met northern steel, blades forged with the pattern-welded methods Vetrulfr had learned in Constantinople, Trebizond, Ani, and even as far as Damascus. The water-like ripples now flowed not from imported billets, but from native ore, reborn beneath eastern flame.
Ravens took flight in the skies above, circling the village, as stone walls rose beneath the hands of masons and carpenters.
Their design echoed the fortresses of Rome, Byzantium, Trebizond, Ani, and even the black-blooded keeps of the Abbasid East: from places Vetrulfr had studied with a tactician's eye and a conqueror's resolve.
He had seen them all, and conquered most.
Where their towers had buckled, his would stand firm. Where their gates had fallen to fire and siege, his would endure.
These walls were not built in imitation. Rather, they were built in judgment. Forged from the lessons of fallen cities, and raised with the hands of a man who had once brought empires to their knees.
Far from the wind and salt of the fjords, the bones of Emperor Basil II lay in silence, unaware or perhaps unwilling to watch the son he had forged in iron and fire now turn that legacy against Christendom itself.
Had he lived to see it, perhaps he would have wept. Or perhaps he would have understood.
Regardless, there would be no triple walls to mimic those that protected Constantinople. At least not yet. Vetrulfr's labor was limited, his stone and timber not endless.
But what rose was formidable: a rounded curtain wall encircling the village core, with ramparts tall enough to command the sea and fjord.
A wooden palisade was replaced with quarried basalt. A gatehouse stood like a lion's maw, bristling with arrow slits and crenellations, the roofline high enough to see any ship before it saw them.
Even the sea would be guarded. The wall curved outward into the bay, ending in a fortified sea gate—primitive in design, but brutal in purpose.
At its rear, a moat dug by hand followed a U-shaped curve around the outer wall. Fed by diverted mountain streams and spilling into the fjord on either side.
This formed a watery barrier not just to the north, but flanking both approaches from land. Any enemy seeking to storm Ullrsfjörðr would find themselves wading through freezing currents before even reaching the basalt walls.
Just beyond the curtain wall's seaward edge, rising atop the tallest hill that overlooked the fjord like a sentinel carved from the earth itself, the foundation stones were being laid for a watchtower. A structure that would one day serve both as a beacon and a warning.
Part lighthouse, part fortress, its flame would burn through the mist and nightfall, casting its glow across the water to guide their ships home, and to spot any foreign sails long before they reached the harbor mouth.
At its highest point, a copper brazier would be built, fueled by oil and tended day and night, its fire visible for leagues beyond the fjord's reach.
The tower was Vetrulfr's command, born of bitter memory. He had seen too many cities fall from a failure of forewarning, and too many gates breached before the alarm ever sounded. Not here. Ullrsfjörðr would not sleep blindly.
They named the rising structure "Ullr's Eye", for what else could it be, if not the all-seeing flame of a god who hunted even in the deep frost?
It was not Constantinople. Not yet. But it would be more than Iceland had ever seen.
Not long had passed since construction broke ground, but the progress was worthy of men born from ice and salt, who had been breaking their backs on this inhospitable landscape with the only means they had for too long.
Vetrulfr studied the parchment ledgers, hand-made by local craftsmen under his instruction. The symbols were Norse runes, but the mathematics on them clearly Latin and Eastern in origin.
The numbers reflected the totality of the village's ongoing stockpiles of ore, grain, stone, timber, and any other material worth a damn towards his purposes. These were just the latest updates he had personally observed and written down.
And now he was forced to ask Brynhildr who had appeared at an opportune moment for questioning.
"Mother, how fare the thrice-divided fields? And the terraces along the hill?"
Brynhildr looked at the numbers written on the paper with an inquisitive gaze that was more understanding than curious. Before looking back up at her son and smiling.
"Everything is on track to be completed within the timeframe you have given us. But the ground has only just been broken. It has been a mere fortnight since you seized power, my son. Give us time, and even the world will quake in tremble at your march…."
Vetrulfr nodded in approval at his mother's words as he transcribed a rune onto the parchment which was clearly his seal of approval on the documents before turning around and continuing his inspections.
"Good. Come along, Mother. There are still many things I must show you…"
Brynhildr followed after her son as the two approached the fjord, they noticed a group of adolescent boys and grown men training with swords, seaxes, axes, spears, shields, and strange composite bows fashioned in the style found in the East.
It was clear that Vetrulfr's orders to raise a proper army were not being taken lightly. And when these future warriors were not training with weapons, they were practicing unarmed combat.
Instructed by the Varangian veterans who had followed the son of Ullr home, these aspiring warriors trained in a mixture of traditional Norse Glima grappling and the styles they had learned and mastered in Byzantium, Armenia, Arabia, and Persia.
Combined into a lethal form of unarmed warfare designed for military use when one found themselves disarmed or cornered where a spear or sword was not a viable weapon.
Brynhildr simply nodded in quiet approval as she and her son continued toward the docks, where they found that they had been expanded to accommodate a wide number of ships. Whether a future fleet dedicated to the purpose of war, trade, or perhaps both; it did not matter.
The ongoing efforts of constructing a deeper port, as studied in Constantinople, built from more than just shaky timber, was underway. And among its decks was the construction of a dedicated shipyard.
"The gold I brought back from Constantinople has gone a long way… A decade of service well spent, if you ask me. We aren't just forging a Jarldom, but future prosperity for the people who live in it.
Whether it's these shipyards, or the fishing hatcheries under construction to ensure a ready supply of meat for our people, hunger will soon be a thing of the past. And when that happens, we will have a surplus.
If there's one thing the wars in the East taught me, it's that an army can only last as long as its stomach is fed properly. This is why agriculture, fishing, and shipbuilding are my three largest investments.
Steel can be forged in lesser quantities for now, and the palisade can be replaced at a slower rate. What we need is more food, and that's why the most gold has gone toward that purpose.
So tell me, Mother… What do you see in all this? Are these the marks of exile… or the seeds of something greater?"
Brynhildr gazed upon all that was changing, closing her eyes as she felt the frosty kiss of the wind against her cheeks, lifting her arms in the air as if she were channeling something beyond the natural, taking a deep inhale before finally breathing in deeply and exhaling.
"I see the foundations of a great Empire, whose name will be spoken about with fear until the ends of time…."
---
By the time Alfarr arrived in Reykjavík, the foundation of Iceland's new power in the Westfjords was already being whispered in the halls of the south. Though he did not yet know it, word of a Varangian upstart named Vetrulfr Ullrsson had traveled faster than he had.
He had ridden with caution, avoiding settlements and well-traveled roads, always sleeping with one eye open. Whether it was born of paranoia, shame, or a simple instinct for self-preservation, Alfarr had taken the longer, safer route. Two weeks of careful movement across the island's interior had cost him dearly; not in coin, but in time.
When at last he arrived at the Great Hall of Reykjavík, he was not received as the noble chieftain he still fancied himself, but as a relic. One of the Goði's húskarlar admitted him with stiff formality and only the barest deference. Before long, he stood in the high seat hall, face-to-face with Ívarr, Goði of Reykjavík.
To Alfarr's surprise, and dismay, several representatives of the Althing were already present. He glanced quickly among them. These were not the inattentive scribes and farmers of his past assemblies, but serious men with the weary eyes of decision-makers. They had not come here by chance.
A húskarl gave him introduction in a clipped tone:
"Alfarr Haraldsson. Former Goði of Ullrsfjörðr. He brings a message."
"Former," Alfarr muttered bitterly under his breath.
But bitterness turned to anger. He stepped forward unbidden, raising his voice.
"Not former. My position was stolen! Taken by treachery in the guise of tradition! The man who took it is no true Icelander. He's a Varangian mercenary, recently returned from the east with foreign steel and foreign gods.
He challenged me before the Thing in a duel they had no right to sanction! My son lies dead, cut down by that monster! And now the whole fjord kneels to him as if Odin himself had come ashore!"
Ívarr did not move from his seat. He was younger than Alfarr had expected, perhaps just into his thirties, but his eyes were older: cold, calm, and unreadable. He wore a simple grey tunic and a gilded crucifix that glinted against his chest. One hand rested casually on the armrest of his seat; the other held a rolled parchment. When he finally spoke, it was with measured coolness.
"We've heard of this Varangian already. Word of him reached us well before you did."
Alfarr faltered.
"You've heard of him…?"
Ívarr nodded slowly.
"Some say he brings with him gold from the coffers of the late Emperor Basil. That he's hiring laborers and smiths by the dozen, paying wages most of Reykjavík cannot match. A few of our own artisans have left already. Others are tempted to follow."
He leaned forward.
"Does this sound like a warlord preparing for rebellion? Or a man building something… lasting?"
Alfarr's voice cracked in disbelief.
"You—you cannot be serious! He's a heretic! He brings back blood-duels and seiðr rites. His mother claims he's a god's son; that Ullr begot him in a blizzard like some pagan tale for hearthside children! Are you going to let him revive that madness? This island belongs to Christ now!"
A tense silence filled the hall. The Althingmen exchanged glances, their expressions unreadable. But Ívarr only smiled slightly, though there was no warmth in it.
"You say his mother is mad. You say he's a blasphemer and a killer. And yet, within a fortnight of his return, he is building walls and dockyards, organizing agriculture, training men in the art of war. His village does not burn… it thrives."
Alfarr saw it then: the currents shifting against him. He had come expecting outrage, justice, sympathy. Instead, he found caution, and something far worse; curiosity.
Still, he had one play left.
"I… I know things. About him. About where he came from. What he's done. Let me tell you everything, and in return, I ask that you raise my grievance at the next Althing. Put this man and his claims to judgment before the law."
Ívarr reclined slightly, exchanging a look with the senior Thingmen present. The oldest among them, a grizzled man with carved bone beads in his beard, finally spoke.
"Truth for action, then. If your claims prove false, you'll hang for lying to this hall. But if they hold weight, we swear by the blood of Christ that the Althing will hear your grievance."
Alfarr nodded slowly. He had no better path forward.
As he began to speak, the fire cracked low in the hearth. Outside, the wind howled faintly, as if something old was shifting across the plains of Iceland once more.