Gunnar smelled smoke.
He stood within a siege tower, somewhere in the sun-bleached East. Flames licked the walls around him. Pitch, hurled by defenders, had taken to the tower's hide coverings now blazing, collapsing.
Screams rose behind him. The air thickened with smoke; it choked the lungs, blinded the eyes. The men inside coughed and writhed, some trying to flee, others already aflame.
Then, a hand.
Rough fingers seized Gunnar's shoulder and threw him into the light. He tumbled over the edge of the tower and slammed hard onto the stone ramparts below.
He landed dazed, surrounded by enemy soldiers who turned toward him, raising spears… and then he came.
A shape crashed down like a thunderbolt: iron-shod, wolf-cloaked, blade in one hand and shield in the other. Steel howled. Blood sprayed.
Vetrulfr.
The man behind the iron helm and white wolf pelt roared like a storm unleashed. His laughter echoed madly as he waded into the fray, cutting down men like wheat. He turned and yanked Gunnar to his feet.
"Odin is with us, brother! Fire can do us no harm for we carry the ice of the North in our veins! Let these fools taste our fury!"
Vetrulfr hurled his axe. It spun end over end and cracked through an enemy helm, splitting skull and steel alike. Another foe charged. Vetrulfr met him shield-first, ramming him into the parapet before skewering his belly.
Gunnar barely had time to register the carnage before they were back-to-back, two against many. But together, they broke the enemy, seized the gatehouse, and opened the city to the emperor's host.
And then he woke.
The cold was the first thing he noticed. Sweat had frozen on his back. His furs stuck to his skin. Dawn crept over the Westfjords, pale and sharp.
Gunnar rose from his bedroll and stepped outside.
The day began with pain.
He joined a dozen others for the morning run, led by Vetrulfr himself, fully armored, as always. They moved through snow-dusted paths along the cliffs, lungs burning, calves aching. The cold bit deep, but none complained.
After the run came drills.
They stretched, sparred, and threw each other in the dirt. Grappling matches mixed Norse glíma with joint locks and throws Gunnar had learned in Constantinople, Armenia, and even further east. They trained to break limbs, not rules. Discipline came first. Pain followed.
Then, weapons.
The archers lined up. Gunnar handed out bows. Not simple self-bows of ash or yew, but laminated recurves of horn, sinew, and yew, designed in the eastern style Vetrulfr had brought back from the Byzantine world. He had not imported the bows, but learned their crafting from the master bowyers of Anatolia and the Levant.
Each man received five arrows. Miss with all five, and you drilled under full kit until your arms turned to water.
"Make every shot count," Gunnar growled.
After archery came the weapons of hand and breath: axe, seax, spear, and sword. They rotated through live drills and sparring, striking until wrists burned and breath came ragged.
Only when the sun stood high did training relent. The warriors filed into the mead-hall, red-faced and hungry. There, the women and older girls of the village served a communal meal: fish broth with barley and vegetables. Simple. Filling. Nothing wasted.
Gunnar sat down beside a man he'd come to recognize: Bjǫrn, the village's lone berserker. Once, he'd been Alfarr's most feared húskarl. Now, he trained with the others. Silent. Gruff. Watching.
Gunnar smirked.
"I thought a berserker would be the first to finish drills, not the last to limp off the field. This isn't even harsh by palace standards. In Constantinople, if you fell, you crawled. If you bled, you trained more."
Bjǫrn snorted. His breathing was labored, his limbs sore. But he met Gunnar's gaze.
"I can still stand. My bones aren't so brittle yet that I need pity."
Gunnar's response was short, but honest.
"I didn't say you needed pity. Just said we've all got our limits."
Bjǫrn stirred his soup and muttered.
"I was once the fiercest in this village. Now even your softest Varangian makes me look like a milk-fed whelp."
There was no bitterness in his voice, only frustration. And something else. Hunger.
"But I've learned more in two weeks than I did in twenty years."
Gunnar nodded. Respect was earned, and Bjǫrn was earning his.
Bjǫrn glanced sideways.
"Why did you leave the East? All of you. You had wealth, warmth, comfort. Why come back to this frozen hell?"
Gunnar froze mid-bite. He stared at his spoon, then set it down gently.
"We left more behind than you'll ever understand. And I'd do it again. Every damn one of us would. For him."
He looked at Bjǫrn, eyes like cold iron.
"I followed that man through fire. I watched him bleed for others who never thanked him. He led us when emperors faltered. When Basil died… things changed. Byzantium changed. But Vetrulfr didn't.
And when I saw his mother, the Seiðkona, and understood truly what he was for the first time… I believed."
A pause.
"He is Ullr's son. I have no doubt. And you'd be wise to call him Jarl, because Ullrsfjörðr will be a Jarldom soon enough.
And when that happens… you'll be glad you stood with him early."
Bjǫrn said nothing.
But he did not eat. He simply looked down into his bowl, where the steam swirled like breath on a winter wind.
---
Ívarr, Goði of Reykjavík, awoke well past sunrise. Unlike the grim discipline of Ullrsfjörðr, his morning did not begin with sweat or steel, but with warmth, the scent of fresh bread, the comfort of Frankish linen sheets, and a leisurely breakfast served by his attendants.
He stretched, dressed in soft wool and tailored tunics, and reviewed his day while sipping honeyed mead. Only then did he summon Alfarr.
The deposed Goði entered the hall with nervous energy, wringing his hands, dark circles beneath his eyes. He had waited patiently for three weeks since his arrival, and the weight of uncertainty clearly wore on him.
"Is it true?" Alfarr asked without preamble. "The Althing will not meet until midsummer?"
"At the earliest," Ívarr replied calmly, standing from his seat and motioning for Alfarr to follow him. "Come. Walk with me."
Outside, the spring air was crisp, the streets of Reykjavík bustling. Ívarr led Alfarr through the town's central square, where children darted between stalls, women bartered for cod and barley, and men sharpened tools rather than swords.
In a nearby yard, a few boys practiced spear drills under the eye of an aging veteran. Their stances were stiff, movements tentative.
Most of the adult warriors lounged near the communal fire pit, idle. Spears and axes leaned against walls. Armor, where present, was rusting. Only one in five wore helmets. Fewer still possessed mail.
Across the square, a chapel stood half-finished—stone walls rising slowly around a carved wooden cross. The old runestone it had replaced now lay discarded nearby, its etchings weathered and forgotten.
Ívarr gestured toward the scene.
"What do you see?"
Alfarr hesitated. "They're… at ease."
"They are at peace," Ívarr corrected. "No village in Iceland wages war anymore, not truly. We win through law, through trade, through alliances. This is Christendom now. Our enemies are hunger, winter, and ignorance."
Alfarr frowned. "And what of Vetrulfr? What if he ignores the Althing?"
Ívarr chuckled.
"He has what? Sixty men? Veterans, perhaps, but outnumbered ten to one. Reykjavík alone fields over five hundred spears. Add the levy of every Goði in the south, and Ullrsfjörðr becomes an afterthought."
"And yet," Alfarr murmured, "my son died in seconds. Halfdan was no boy. That man didn't fight like a northerner. He fought like something else."
Ívarr stopped walking and studied Alfarr.
"You fear him."
"I respect what I saw," Alfarr replied. "You should too."
Ívarr turned his gaze to the chapel.
"Let the Althing decide."
A breeze whispered through the streets, cold despite the sun. Somewhere far off, a raven called, the kind the old gods once sent as messengers.
Neither man noticed.